A backroom deal for redrawing Michigan's state legislative districts has been rejected by a panel of federal judges, who will instead hear the case as a trial starting Tuesday.
The judges said the Democratic secretary of state had no authority to make the pact with fellow Democrats in the Legislature, who argue the current maps were an unconstitutionally partisan gerrymander at the hand of the majority Republicans in the state House. The Democratic plaintiffs say that about a dozen of the 110 districts ought to be redrawn to give them a fair shot.
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NRF Moves to Defend Utah’s Fair Map Against Gerrymandering Lawsuit
Feb 14, 2026
On Wednesday, February 11, the National Redistricting Foundation (NRF) asked a federal court to join a newly filed lawsuit to protect Utah’s new, fair congressional map and defend our system of checks and balances.
The NRF is a non‑profit foundation whose mission is to dismantle unfair electoral maps and create a redistricting system grounded in democratic values. By helping to create more just and representative electoral districts across the country, the organization aims to restore the public’s faith in a true representative democracy.
The recent filing is a motion to intervene in Powers Gardner v. Henderson, a federal lawsuit brought by a group of Utah elected officials seeking not only to overturn Utah’s fair court‑adopted congressional map, but also to give state legislatures near‑total control over federal election laws. More specifically, the plaintiffs invoke the fringe “independent state legislature theory,” arguing that only the state legislature—not citizen‑led ballot measures, not laws enshrined in the state constitution, and not state courts—can create congressional maps. In its filing, the NRF notes that the U.S. Supreme Court rejected the “independent state legislature theory” in a landmark decision in Moore v. Harper nearly three years ago, and the case should be dismissed.
“After being held to account in state court for drawing an illegal gerrymander, the power‑hungry Utah politicians behind this effort are resorting to a dangerous legal claim that would undermine our system of checks and balances—all in order to cheat the voters,” said Marina Jenkins, Executive Director of the NRF. “Almost three years ago, the U.S. Supreme Court rejected the same fringe legal theory presented by the plaintiffs in this case. To do anything other than dismiss this case outright rights.”
To place the Utah case in broader context, this filing is not occurring in isolation. It is part of a decade‑long pattern in which partisan actors seek to consolidate power by manipulating the rules of representation. At The Fulcrum, we have been tracking these structural threats to fair elections for years, documenting how gerrymandering, whether executed by Republicans or
Democrats, erodes competition, weakens accountability, and distances voters from meaningful choice.
In 2024, our reporting in a writing entitled The Worst Congressional Gerrymanders of the 2000’s highlighted how, after two full post-census election cycles, congressional maps had become so engineered that the outcomes of most House races were effectively predetermined long before voters cast a single ballot. According to a study conducted in 2022, approximately 85% of House seats were considered safe, meaning that the competition was nominal at best and that the elected representatives were virtually guaranteed their positions regardless of shifts in public sentiment. Experts described how cracking and packing techniques allowed state legislatures to lock in partisan advantage for an entire decade, even in states where public opinion shifted. That analysis underscored a troubling reality: when districts are drawn to guarantee outcomes, elections become performative rather than competitive.
To combat these issues and promote fair redistricting, readers can get involved by supporting local organizations that advocate for redistricting reform. Engaging with initiatives to establish independent redistricting commissions or participating in public forums to express concerns about gerrymandering are effective ways to contribute. Additionally, staying informed and voting in state and local elections can help ensure that representatives who favor fair maps are elected. By taking these actions,engaged individuals can help restore the principle that voters, not politicians, choose their leaders.
The Utah lawsuit sits squarely within that ongoing coverage. What makes Powers
Gardner v. Henderson is especially alarming not only because of the attempt to overturn a fair, court-adopted map, but also because of the plaintiffs’ reliance on the discredited “independent state legislature theory.” This theory is widely rejected because it posits that state legislatures have the exclusive authority to regulate federal elections, disregarding other democratic processes and judicial oversight. Critics argue that this undermines the system of checks and balances, which is essential to preventing partisan entrenchment. As we have reported, the theory would strip away the checks and balances that prevent partisan majorities from entrenching themselves. It would sideline citizen-led reforms, nullify state constitutional protections, and weaken federal election rules.
By connecting the Utah case to the national pattern we have documented, the stakes become unmistakably clear: when partisan map‑drawing intersects with efforts to centralize power, the danger extends far beyond any single district. It threatens the foundational principle that voters choose their leaders, not the other way around.
David Nevins is the publisher of The Fulcrum and co-founder and board chairman of the Bridge Alliance Education Fund.
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Maxwell Is the Prosecutable Person
Feb 14, 2026
A story like Jeffrey Epstein’s is easy to treat as an anomaly—one ambitious man, one grotesque circle, one horrific chapter of American life that many would rather seal shut and forget. But I keep coming back to a harder question underneath it: do we actually believe in equal accountability, or only in accountability for the people we can easily punish?
This isn’t a left-right question. It’s a legitimacy question. A democracy can’t function if power purchases are exempted and proximity is treated as guilt. The details change depending on the arena—policing, corruption, finance, exploitation—but a familiar pattern repeats: our institutions tend to prosecute what is simple, visible, and winnable, and struggle to reach what is complex, insulated, and costly.
Which brings me back to a fact that still lands with a thud: only one woman is in prison for a global sex trafficking scandal.
That sentence carries particular weight in the Epstein story—an ecosystem of wealth, access, and exploitation spanning years and crossing borders. Whatever you believe about who knew what, the most visible conviction in that orbit belongs to Ghislaine Maxwell. And it leaves me with a question that won’t let go: is our justice system built to punish the person who can be prosecuted, not the powerful person?
I don’t mean this as a conspiracy. I mean it as mechanics. As incentives. As what’s easiest to prove in court, and what’s hardest.
When crimes happen inside elite networks, the story is rarely a clean “bad guy” with a single set of victims and a neat timeline. It’s a web: intermediaries, gatekeepers, fixers, assistants who keep the machine running. The justice system—especially prosecutors—has limited time, limited staff, and a duty to bring cases that can be proven beyond a reasonable doubt. So when a case is sprawling, ugly, and politically radioactive, the system often moves toward the person it can most clearly see.
The “prosecutable person” is usually the one closest to the victims and logistics. They’re the ones whose actions are most clear to a jury: recruiting, arranging, transporting, communicating, and managing access. Those actions can be profoundly harmful and fully criminal. But they also leave footprints. They can be reconstructed with records, patterns, testimony, and a timeline that holds up under cross-examination. They fit the courtroom’s appetite for a story that can be shown step by step.
The powerful beneficiaries of the system often sit farther back. Their participation may be real, but it is buffered by layers of insulation. They can route through intermediaries. They can avoid direct communication. They can keep payments indirect, meetings private, and accountability diffuse. Even when the social reality is widely suspected, the legal reality requires something narrower: proof beyond a reasonable doubt, tied to specific acts, supported by evidence that survives a defense team built to create doubt.
The higher you go, the more the fog thickens—not because the law can’t reach it in theory, but because proving it in practice is brutal.
And when the harm is sexual exploitation, that fog is reinforced by forces we rarely name directly. Victims are often pushed toward silence through fear, shame, and the expectation they won’t be believed. In the Epstein case, add death threats. Even when they are courageous enough to speak, the defense playbook is predictable: attack memory, motives, credibility. Time becomes an accomplice. Evidence disappears. Witnesses move, recant, or simply cannot keep reliving what happened to them. Statutes of limitations can become trapdoors. The case grows riskier to bring, and the risk is not abstract—it is public, professional, and political.
This is where the system’s incentives quietly shape outcomes. Prosecutors tend to choose cases they can win. That’s not always cowardice; sometimes it’s responsibility. A failed prosecution can harm victims twice—first by what they endured, then by what it costs them to testify with no outcome. So the system often takes the winnable case. It takes the case that can be proven. It takes the prosecutable person.
Here’s the pivot I can’t ignore: this dynamic isn’t unique to one scandal. It’s a recurring feature of how American justice functions under inequality. When power concentrates, accountability often slides downhill. The system becomes excellent at punishing proximity and clumsy at confronting status. Over time, that doesn’t just fail victims—it trains the rest of us to lower our expectations of fairness.
And now we arrive at the part that feels difficult to say out loud without being accused of “making it about gender.” But gender is already in the room. In many exploitation systems—especially those built around men’s demand—women are often positioned in roles that touch the victims directly. Recruiter. Handler. Trusted bridge. The person who makes an introduction feel safe. Those roles can be empowered or coerced, chosen or pressured, or a mix of both. But whatever the origin story, they share a common feature: proximity. Proximity creates evidence. Evidence creates convictions.
Meanwhile, men with money and status who benefit from the system can remain “theoretically reachable” and practically elusive. They don’t need to be saints to avoid accountability. They only need distance—enough insulation that the courtroom story becomes too complex, too uncertain, too expensive, or too risky to pursue.
I’m not claiming that no powerful men ever go to prison. They do, sometimes. But there is a pattern worth naming: our system punishes what it can prove, not necessarily what caused the most harm. Which means the question isn’t only “Who is guilty?” The deeper question is: what kinds of guilt does our system know how to hold accountable?
If we want something closer to justice, we have to design for the hard cases. That means resourcing investigations that follow networks rather than stopping at the most visible node. It means protecting witnesses so the truth can be told without destroying the person telling it. It means reducing the off-ramps that divert accountability into private settlements and reputational containment. And it means having the courage to pursue the demand side, not only the supply side—even when the demand side comes with names that make institutions and corporations flinch.
Because when the system punishes the most prosecutable person in the room and calls it closure, the machine survives. It learns. It adapts. And the next version gets even better at hiding the people at the top.
What we refuse to prosecute becomes an ongoing profitable business model with no accountability to anyone.
Debilyn Molineaux is a storyteller, collaborator & connector. For 20 years, she led cross-partisan organizations. She currently holds several roles, including serving as a catalyst for JEDIFutures.org and as the podcast host of Terrified Nation. She previously co-founded BridgeAlliance, Living Room Conversations, and the National Week of Conversation. You can learn more about her work on LinkedIn.
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We’re Starting Civic Education Way Too Late—and Paying the Price
Feb 14, 2026
Across the country, adults are wringing their hands about young people’s civic disengagement. We worry about declining trust in democratic institutions, rising attraction to political strongmen, and a growing willingness to excuse—or even encourage—leaders to bend constitutional norms in the name of “getting things done.”
But before we indict a generation, we should ask a harder question: When, exactly, did we expect young people to learn how our system works—and what role they have to play?
For many students, the honest answer is: not until it was already too late.
In most American schools, social studies (which includes civics) education does not meaningfully begin until middle or high school. By that point, students are suddenly expected to care deeply about institutions they barely understand, participate in systems they have never seen themselves reflected in, and defend democratic norms they were never given time to practice. The result should not surprise us.
We are living with a civic deficit—and we created it by delaying civic learning until adolescence.
Research has been clear for decades: elementary social studies has been systematically marginalized in favor of tested subjects like math and ELA (Fitchett et al. 2014, VanFossen 2005). National studies consistently show that students in grades K–6 receive as little as 28 minutes per day of social studies instruction (some have shown as little as nine to twelve)—when they receive it at all (Tyner & Kabourek, 2021). In many classrooms, weeks go by without any sustained attention to history, civics, or geography.
This is not because educators believe social studies lacks value. Quite the opposite. Teachers regularly report that civic learning helps students build background knowledge, strengthen literacy, and make sense of the world around them (Tyner & Kabourek, 2021). The problem is structural. When accountability systems assess math and reading every year—but not social studies—schools respond rationally. Instruction follows incentives.
In New York State, this pattern is especially visible. Social studies is the only core subject not assessed at any point during the elementary grades. Math and ELA are tested annually in grades 3–8. Science is assessed in grades 5 and 8. Social studies? Nothing until high school.
That absence matters. Decades of research show that when a subject carries no accountability weight, it is the first to lose instructional time (VanFossen 2005). The message—intended or not—is clear: this content is optional. One elementary teacher I have worked with described it best: “Social studies is the first thing to go.”
And yet, by high school, we suddenly expect students to demonstrate civic competence. In my own state, I am proud that we have New York’s Seal of Civic Readiness, a promising and thoughtful initiative that recognizes civic knowledge, engagement, and action. But there’s a catch: students cannot begin earning points toward the seal until seventh grade.
By then, many students have already formed durable beliefs about school, society, and their own place within it (Hutchins, 2024). If they have spent their elementary years focused almost exclusively on test preparation—without sustained opportunities to study history, examine democratic ideals, or explore how ordinary people shape public life—why would we expect them to suddenly feel connected to civic institutions later on?
This delay has consequences.
When young people express distrust in government, search for political meaning outside democratic structures, or flirt with anti-democratic solutions, it is tempting to view this as a cultural or moral failing. But civic identity does not emerge on command. It develops gradually through repeated exposure to ideas such as shared responsibility, constitutional limits, pluralism, and collective decision-making.
Those habits take time—and elementary school is precisely when that time should begin.
Importantly, this is not an argument for turning second graders into miniature political analysts or flooding classrooms with partisan debates. It is an argument for age-appropriate civic learning that helps students see themselves as members of a community with rules, histories, disagreements, and responsibilities.
Well-designed elementary social studies does exactly that. Research shows that young children are capable of grappling with historical questions, examining evidence, discussing fairness, considering what freedom means to them, and understanding how their decisions affect others. When instruction is intentional and inquiry-driven, students build both knowledge and confidence. They learn that representative government is not something handed down from on high—it is something people participate in. These shifts can also occur beyond social studies time as well. Educators can consider how civic instruction can also fit into ELA time, which primarily focuses on skills-based instruction, and school leaders can consider other avenues, such as recess or other school-wide initiatives.
There is also a powerful equity dimension here. Students from historically marginalized communities are often the most affected by the absence of early civic learning. When curricula fail to reflect diverse experiences or connect civic concepts to students’ lived realities, disengagement deepens. Delaying civic instruction only widens these gaps (Gaby, 2016).
One concrete step in my home state of New York would be to expand the Seal of Civic Readiness so students can begin earning points at the elementary level. This would not require high-stakes testing or punitive accountability. Instead, it would signal that civic learning matters early and often. Schools could document age-appropriate civic projects, inquiry-based units, or community connections that align with the seal’s existing framework. The current New York State Social Studies Framework allows for excellent opportunities in this regard in both second and fourth grade.
Such a shift would do more than recognize student achievement. It would change instructional behavior. When districts know civic learning is valued—and visible—they are far more likely to protect time for social studies in the elementary schedule.
If we want young people to trust democratic systems, we must give them time to understand them. If we want them to operate within constitutional frameworks, we must introduce those frameworks before frustration and alienation take root. And if we want civic participation to feel meaningful, students must first see themselves as part of the story.
Democracy is not learned all at once, and it cannot be backloaded into adolescence. By starting civic education earlier, we are not asking too much of children. We are finally giving them a fair chance.
Nicholas D'Amuro is a Coordinator of School Improvement at Genesee Valley BOCES, supporting curriculum development and professional learning. In 2024, he co-founded the Civi Coalition & Awards, a statewide initiative dedicated to civic education and bridging divides. He also serves as a sector ambassador for the Listen First Project & is a former town councilman.
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A Constitutional Provision We Ignored for 150 Years
Feb 14, 2026
Imagine there was a way to discourage states from passing photo voter ID laws, restricting early voting, purging voter registration rolls, or otherwise suppressing voter turnout. What if any state that did so risked losing seats in the House of Representatives?
Surprisingly, this is not merely an idle fantasy of voting rights activists, but an actual plan envisioned in Section 2 of the 14th Amendment, which was ratified in 1868 – but never enforced.
Constitutional rights often exist without clear enforcement mechanisms, but attorney Jared Pettinato thinks he’s found one. He’s filed a lawsuit against the United States Census Bureau, aiming to require it to enforce Section 2. I follow the case in my documentary, FOURTEEN SECTION TWO, now in post-production. Check out the trailer below.
As you can tell, Pettinato wants to make Section 2 an active part of the Constitution. But why did it become inactive in the first place? To answer that question, we need some additional historical context.
Most of us know about the 14th Amendment because of Section 1, which enshrined birthright citizenship, due process, and equal protection within the Constitution. But for the framers, Section 2 was potentially more important because it aimed to ensure that newly emancipated Black men in the South would be able to vote – and by doing so, keep in power the Republican party that won the Civil War.

Photo of the 14th Amendment.
Section 2 begins by stating, “Representatives shall be apportioned among the several States according to their respective numbers, counting the whole number of persons in each State.” It’s not obvious from the text, but this provision abolished the notorious Three-fifths Compromise from the original Constitution. With the adoption of the 14th Amendment, Black people would be counted in full for the purposes of Congressional apportionment.
The framers had a problem, though. Because the South’s full Black population would now be counted, the Confederate states would re-enter the Union with more representation in the House than they had before the Civil War. If former Confederates remained in power in those states, they would suppress the Black vote and then reassert their dominance over the national government.
The Republicans could not abide this possibility, but at the time, they didn’t have the votes for the obvious solution — prohibiting states from denying citizens the right to vote on the basis of race. That would come later in the 15th Amendment.
Instead, they developed a rather convoluted solution in the rest of Section 2. The states would be allowed to abridge or deny the vote as they wished, but there would be a penalty for doing so. If, say, 10% of potential voters could not vote, then the state’s population would be reduced by that same 10% when seats were apportioned in the House. A state could therefore wind up with fewer seats than it would normally be entitled to.
No state would risk such a penalty, which would make Section 2 a strong safeguard of voting rights. But when Congress attempted to enforce Section 2 in the 1870 census, it quickly became clear that it was nearly impossible to gather reliable data about voter denials and abridgements. As enthusiasm for Reconstruction waned, Congress made even less effort to enforce Section 2. It remained in the Constitution as a dead letter. And it mostly stayed that way until 2022, when Jared Pettinato brought his lawsuit.
The lawsuit and the Section 2 background raise many questions. Most obviously, how does a section of the 14th Amendment, a part of “the highest law in the land,” go unenforced for more than 150 years? Is the strange history of Section 2 a quirk or a canary in a coal mine, warning us that something has gone wrong with our Constitutional order?
This is perhaps a more relevant question than I would like it to be. But there’s no denying that much of what we took for granted in the Constitution is up for debate. Everything from freedom of speech to the right to bear arms to birthright citizenship to due process seems less certain than it was not long ago. Perhaps we’ve believed that the Constitution guaranteed us rights because of the words on the page or the orders of a court. But it’s now clearer than ever that the words and the orders relied on a system that may be breaking down.
With so much at stake, why make a film about a part of the Constitution that everyone had pretty much agreed to forget? I think reviving a debate about Section 2 of the 14th Amendment is good for us. It forces us to think about what rights we really want to have and what we need to do to secure them. Clearly, just writing them down is not enough.
When our current crises pass, we cannot simply return to the status quo ante. There are moments in our history that force a rupture in and reimagination of the Constitution. Reconstruction was one. Now may well be another. I hope that studying the history of Section 2 might help us learn from the past, navigate this moment, and find something better on the other side.
A film is a unique way to make that effort. It takes Constitutional questions out of the abstract and makes them real for a wider audience. If you’d like to be a part of the journey, you can subscribe to my newsletter.
A Constitutional Provision We Ignored for 150 Years was first published on the Substack channel, Expand Democracy and was republished with permission.
Todd Drezner is a documentarian, producer, and writer.
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