Chapter Twelve

The stakes had never been higher. The Supreme Court had agreed to hear Brown v. Colorado, a case that had the potential to upend LGBTQ+ rights nationwide. At its core, the case was a challenge to Obergefell v. Hodges, brought forth by a county clerk from Colorado who argued that her religious freedom was being violated because she was required to issue marriage licenses to same-sex couples.

For Jason, the answer was obvious: Obergefell had already resolved this. The law was settled. Marriage equality was a constitutional right. Any argument against it was nothing more than an attempt to re-litigate a decision conservatives had never accepted.

But the conservative wing of the country wasn’t interested in legal precedent. They wanted a fight.

Jason had barely finished his preliminary review of the case when the attacks started.

A leaked report from a conservative think tank claimed that Jason had privately told clerks he believed the case was frivolous and a waste of the Court’s time. Within hours, Republican lawmakers and far-right media figures seized on it, twisting his words into an assault on religious freedom.

Senator Frank Wallace, never one to miss an opportunity for outrage, went on Fox News that night, shaking his head with theatrical disappointment.

“This is exactly what we warned about,” he fumed. “Justice Simpson is not an impartial jurist—he’s an activist, an ideologue. And let’s be honest here—does anyone really believe he’s unbiased in this case? I mean, we’ve all heard the rumors.”

The host leaned in. “Senator, are you implying something?”

Wallace feigned reluctance. “I’m just saying… people are talking. There’s been speculation about Simpson’s personal life for years. Maybe that explains why he’s so personally invested in this case.”

The message was clear. Wallace had just planted the idea in the public’s mind: Jason Simpson was secretly gay.

And once the right-wing media machine had its hands on a narrative, there was no stopping it.

Within hours, the internet was flooded with speculation. Anonymous sources, unverifiable “leaks,” and outright fabrications circulated freely. Tabloids ran headlines like “What Is Jason Simpson Hiding?” and “The Secret Life of the Radical Justice”. Conservative blogs published grainy, context-free photos of Jason at dinner with male colleagues, adding captions like, “Just friends? Or something more?”

On social media, right-wing influencers ran wild.

“Is Jason Simpson another closet case trying to push his radical agenda?” one viral tweet read. “Would explain a lot.”

Tucker Carlson, never one to miss an opportunity to smear a liberal figure, delivered a monologue dripping with insinuation.

“Listen, I don’t care what Jason Simpson does in his private life. But wouldn’t it be nice if, for once, a Supreme Court justice could be honest with the American people about where their loyalties lie?”

The White House, already battered from its previous missteps regarding Jason, scrambled to respond. At the daily press briefing, Vicki Smith—still recovering from her last public humiliation—tried to get ahead of the story.

“Uh, the White House does not comment on baseless speculation,” she said, clearly flustered. “Justice Simpson’s personal life is, um, irrelevant to his judicial philosophy, and—”

“Then why won’t he just answer the question?” a reporter from a right-wing outlet interrupted. “Why won’t he say if he’s gay or not?”

Vicki blinked. “Because it’s—it’s a completely inappropriate question.”

“But don’t the American people deserve to know if a Supreme Court justice has a personal conflict of interest in a case like Brown v. Colorado?” the reporter pressed.

Vicki stammered. “That’s not—that’s not how the Court works.”

Another hand shot up. “Has the President spoken to Justice Simpson about these allegations?”

Vicki visibly panicked. “I—I—” She shuffled her papers. “Next question.”

The clip of her flustered response went viral before the briefing had even ended.

Jason, of course, had seen this coming.

Sitting in his office, he scrolled through the headlines, unbothered. Grace, on the other hand, was pacing furiously.

“This is disgusting,” she seethed. “They knew they couldn’t attack your argument on legal grounds, so they’re going straight for your personal life.”

Jason smirked. “That’s all they ever do when they have nothing left.”

Grace stopped pacing. “Are you seriously not upset about this?”

Jason exhaled, setting down his phone. “Grace, this is what they do. If I ignore it, they’ll scream that I’m hiding something. If I address it, they’ll move the goalposts and call it ‘damage control.’ Either way, they’re going to say what they want.”

Grace folded her arms. “So what’s the plan?”

Jason leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “We let them talk.”

Grace frowned. “What?”

Jason tapped his fingers against his desk. “They want a scandal. They want me to flinch. But there is no scandal. I’m not ashamed of anything in my life. I’ve never lied about who I am. And I’m certainly not going to start now just because some bigots need a new boogeyman.”

Grace studied him. “So… you’re just going to let the rumors keep flying?”

Jason smirked. “No, I’m going to do what they hate the most.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And what’s that?”

Jason stood, adjusting his tie. “I’m going to keep doing my job.”

The media circus raged for days, but Jason never addressed the speculation. Instead, he continued with his duties, issuing sharp legal critiques of the arguments presented in Brown v. Colorado, dismantling the plaintiff’s claims with surgical precision.

And something unexpected happened.

While conservative circles continued to obsess over his personal life, the rest of the country began to see through the noise. Prominent legal scholars, journalists, and even some moderate politicians pointed out the obvious: the attacks on Jason weren’t about ethics or judicial overreach—they were about fear.

Fear that Jason Simpson was too powerful.

Fear that his voice in the Court was too influential.

Fear that he was winning.

The backlash began to turn. Major news networks, even ones hesitant to defend Jason in the past, aired segments criticizing the absurdity of the right-wing smear campaign. The New York Times ran an editorial titled “Why Are They So Afraid of Jason Simpson?”, calling out the transparent attempt to distract from the real issue—the potential erosion of marriage equality.

As for Jason, he remained unmoved.

And when the oral arguments for Brown v. Colorado finally arrived, he took his seat on the bench, as poised and unshaken as ever.

Because at the end of the day, this fight wasn’t about him.

It was about justice.

###

The chamber was silent as the clerk called the case: Brown v. Colorado.

Jason sat poised, his face unreadable as the attorneys approached the podium to begin their arguments. He had been here before, through countless cases, but this one felt different. The stakes were nothing short of monumental. The Court was poised to decide whether religious freedom could be used as a legal shield to deny same-sex couples the right to marry—a question that had already been answered in Obergefell v. Hodges.

Or so he thought.

The petitioner’s attorney, a smugly confident man named Robert Langford, stepped forward. “May it please the Court,” he began, his voice dripping with rehearsed politeness. “The issue before us today is simple: Does the government have the right to force an individual to act against their deeply held religious beliefs? The Constitution guarantees religious freedom, and yet, my client—a county clerk—has been punished for refusing to issue marriage licenses to same-sex couples, as doing so would violate her faith. This is not only an infringement on her First Amendment rights but a fundamental assault on religious liberty.”

Jason leaned back, fingers steepled under his chin. “Mr. Langford, I assume you are aware that your client is a government employee?”

Langford nodded, cautious. “Yes, Your Honor.”

Jason tilted his head. “And that her job, as a government official, requires her to serve all citizens equally, regardless of her personal beliefs?”

Langford hesitated. “That is—yes, but—”

Jason cut him off. “So by your logic, if she belonged to a religion that prohibited interracial marriage, she could refuse to issue licenses for interracial couples?”

Langford blinked. “That’s not—”

Jason continued, his tone deceptively casual. “Or, let’s say, a county clerk is a devout Muslim and believes women should not be allowed to drive. Should she be allowed to deny driver’s licenses to women?”

Langford’s mouth opened and closed. “Your Honor, I—”

Jason leaned forward. “I just want to be clear, Mr. Langford. You’re asking this Court to establish a precedent that says government employees may refuse services to certain citizens based on religious conviction. If we grant that right here, where does it end?”

A tense silence followed. Langford stammered through a response about “reasonable accommodations” and “sincerely held beliefs,” but the damage was done. The logic of his argument crumbled under Jason’s scrutiny. The liberal side of the courtroom remained stone-faced, but Jason could sense Grace suppressing a satisfied smirk from her seat behind him.

When the respondents took the podium, their argument was strong—logical, rooted in precedent. They referenced Obergefell, pointed to the Fourteenth Amendment, and made the obvious case that a government employee does not have the right to deny services based on personal faith.

Jason took the opportunity to sharpen the knife.

“Counsel,” he said, addressing the respondent’s attorney, “would it be fair to say that the state of Colorado has already established that its officials cannot selectively enforce the law?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“And that Obergefell settled the question of marriage equality?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Jason nodded, his voice taking on a dry edge. “Then why, exactly, are we here?”

A ripple of quiet laughter moved through the gallery. Even a few of the more moderate justices suppressed smiles. But on the other end of the bench, Chief Justice Leonard Reynolds did not look amused.

Jason knew what was coming. The majority of this Court had already decided how they were going to rule. This wasn’t about the law. This was about power. And it was about to be exercised.

The ruling came down swiftly, a 6-3 decision.

Obergefell v. Hodges was overturned.

Marriage equality was no longer the law of the land.

The room was eerily still as Reynolds, ever composed, read the majority opinion. His voice was measured, controlled, even as he declared that states could now determine their own marriage laws. That county clerks could refuse to issue licenses if it conflicted with their religious beliefs. That religious freedom now carried greater weight than equal protection under the law.

Jason sat stone-faced, though inside, a fire raged.

He had known it was coming, but knowing didn’t dull the blow.

He didn’t look at the gallery. He didn’t look at the attorneys, the press, or even Grace, whose hands were clenched so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Instead, he stared ahead, listening as the majority tore apart decades of progress with elegant legal jargon.

When Reynolds finally closed his folder, he glanced toward Jason with a smug satisfaction.

“Justice Simpson,” he said smoothly, “I expect we will receive another sharp dissent memo?”

A quiet, knowing chuckle rippled through the conservative wing of the Court. Even some of the clerks smirked. It was a taunt—an acknowledgment that Jason had lost, that the Court’s right-wing majority had won another battle in their long campaign to reshape the country.

Jason exhaled slowly. He met Reynolds’ gaze, and when he spoke, his voice was calm, but it cut like a blade.

“The Court has just ruled that discrimination is permissible,” he said, his words carrying through the chamber, “as long as it hides behind religion.”

The smirks faded.

Jason continued, his tone steady but filled with quiet fury. “You may dress it up in legal precedent. You may frame it as constitutional interpretation. But what you’ve done today is tell millions of Americans that their rights are conditional. That their marriages, their families, their dignity—can be revoked by the whims of those who claim moral superiority.”

Silence.

He turned slightly, addressing the whole chamber now. “History will remember this decision. It will remember who wrote it. And it will remember the people it harmed.”

Jason rose, adjusting his robe. His colleagues watched him, some with disdain, others with unease. He met Reynolds’ gaze one last time.

“You can justify anything if you try hard enough,” Jason said. “But no matter how many rulings you issue, no matter how many rights you strip away, you will never be on the right side of history.”

And with that, he turned and walked out of the chamber.

Outside, the protests had already begun. The country was erupting.

Inside his office, Jason sat at his desk, staring at the blank page before him.

He picked up his pen.

And he began to write his dissent.