Hijacking Mercy with the Language of Power

14 Feb 2025

I first encountered Bryan Stevenson and his work nine years ago. Google, my employer at the time, invited him to speak about his nonprofit, the Equal Justice Initiative (EJI), which provides legal representation to people who have been subjected to unjust treatment during criminal proceedings or incarceration. His talk, which is posted on YouTube, moved me profoundly, and I went on to read his book, Just Mercy.

A core idea motivating Bryan Stevenson’s work, laid out both in that talk and in Just Mercy, is that “Each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.” In his context, that “worst thing” could be quite terrible. While its work includes representing the falsely accused, EJI often represents people who truly have committed heinous crimes.

It takes a special kind of moral clarity to represent and seek justice for a murderer who has been abused in prison. After reading Just Mercy, I found myself much more attuned to the many ways our society discards those deemed unworthy of fair treatment. We can’t call justice a foundational social value if it is contingent. If there are things we can do to have the protection of the law withdrawn from us, then that protection isn’t really meaningful. Everyone whose work touches criminal investigation, trial, or punishment should be held to the highest standards because of, not despite, their impact on those who may have done horrible things.

Lately, however, I’m troubled to hear this language of mercy and second chances voiced in some unexpected places.

When venture capital firm Andreessen Horowitz (a16z) hired a man freshly acquitted for choking Jordan Neely to death on the New York subway, they told their investors, “We don’t judge people for the worst moment in their life.” Notably, nobody disputes the fact that a16z’s new investment associate killed a man on the floor of a subway car. He was acquitted only because a jury did not deem that act to be a crime.

Similarly, when a 25-year-old staff member of the new “Department” of Government Efficiency resigned over vicious tweets endorsing racism and eugenics, the Vice President of the United States dismissed it as “stupid social media activity” that shouldn’t “ruin a kid’s life.” The staffer was promptly reinstated into his role as a “special government employee.”

These echoes of Stevenson’s words might sound familiar, but they deserve careful scrutiny. Have a16z or the current administration ever invoked mercy as a broader goal? Not so far as I can tell. Beyond a handful of podcast episodes posted five years ago, Andreessen Horowitz’s engagement with criminal justice seems limited to investing in drones and surveillance technology. Their founding partner made such large personal donations to the Las Vegas police that he felt the need to write a petulant response when investigated by journalists. Regardless of how worthwhile it may be to buy drones and cappuccino machines for the police, I think it’s fair to say that these investments do nothing to advance the cause of building a merciful society. As for the administration, its tough-on-crime rhetoric speaks for itself.

So what’s really happening here? One obvious answer is that hiring a killer and refusing to accept the resignation of an unapologetic bigot are ways to sanction their behavior. We like to believe we maintain social norms against killing someone when it could be avoided and against racist public statements. Rejecting these norms requires some affirmative signal, and that’s what a16z and the administration are providing.

This reveals the first crucial distinction: Stevenson calls on society to recognize the rights of those who do wrong. In contrast, these recent cases are declarations that certain acts are not wrong at all, and even more troublingly, they suggest that those who still maintain longstanding social norms are themselves the wrongdoers.

But there is a second important difference, one hidden by rhetorical sleight of hand. When EJI takes a case, they fight for fundamental civil rights: the right to a fair trial, to representation, to be sentenced fairly, and to humane punishment. By contrast, in these other cases, the talk of “ruined lives” is a misdirection disguising what’s really happening: the loss of positions of extraordinary influence and privilege.

When the Vice President claims a racist’s life has been ruined, he’s talking about someone losing a powerful role in the federal government, treating an immense privilege as though it were a basic right. And if we take a16z at their word, they seem to be claiming that it would be unfair not to elevate a killer to the investing team at one of Silicon Valley’s biggest venture firms. They’ll have to forgive my skepticism that you or I would get very far with that approach if we applied for such a coveted role.

I’m reminded of the 2018 Brett Kavanaugh Supreme Court confirmation hearings, when supporters claimed that sexual assault allegations against him were intended to “ruin his life.” Obviously, they didn’t, but even if they had prevented his appointment to the Supreme Court, was that his right? Would his life have been ruined had he instead returned to his previous role as a federal judge on the DC Circuit Court of Appeals? I’d wager many people would gladly accept that kind of “ruined” life.

But of course, this is nothing more than a flimsy, bad faith attempt to cloak approval for violence and eliminationism in lofty language. If you spend your time, like Bryan Stevenson, ensuring that the poor and marginalized are afforded basic rights and dignities, then I believe in your commitment to mercy. If, on the other hand, you spend your time granting vast privileges to people who harm the poor and marginalized, then you’re not showing mercy—you’re showing your hand.