The walls of the U.S. Justice Department are starting to echo with a new refrain: “weaponization.” Not just from political firebrands or cable news rants—but from defense teams, internal memos, and even whispers inside the DOJ itself.
Take Glen Casada, once the Tennessee House Speaker, now a convicted felon. As his corruption trial loomed earlier this year, his attorneys made a bold, eleventh-hour move. They took their complaints straight to the top, arguing that his prosecution wasn’t about justice, but politics—that shadowy forces within the DOJ had targeted him for partisan reasons. They even invoked the “Deep State.” For a moment, it nearly worked.
Behind closed doors, senior officials briefly considered killing the case. But prosecutors—specifically those in the Public Integrity Section—fought back, laying out the evidence again, and gaining support from the Nashville U.S. Attorney and DOJ’s Criminal Division. Casada went to trial. He lost.
His case is just one of several now under a strange kind of review—not legal appeals in court, but pressure campaigns and internal evaluations sparked by a newly minted unit inside the DOJ: the Weaponization Working Group. Born from the grievances of Donald Trump, the group was created in February to investigate claims that federal prosecutorial powers have been twisted for political gain. Its reach is wide, its mission vague, and its presence has created both confusion and fear across federal courtrooms.
The impact? A growing list of defense attorneys attempting to derail prosecutions by invoking “weaponization”—some aligning their arguments with Trump’s own rhetoric. At least seven cases have been flagged internally or lobbied externally, each echoing the same tune: “This isn’t justice. This is revenge.”
The DOJ has pushed back—so far. But signs of strain are showing.
Acting Assistant Attorney General Matthew Galeotti recently gave a rare public warning, cautioning defense attorneys against manipulating the system with premature and exaggerated accusations. “Mischaracterizing prosecutorial conduct,” he said, “undermines the very foundation of justice.”
Still, the wave of lobbying only intensified after one notable success: the dismissal of corruption charges against New York City Mayor Eric Adams. DOJ sources say it’s the only case to date where “weaponization” arguments led to a formal withdrawal—but it cracked open the floodgates.
Meanwhile, major structural shifts are underway. The Public Integrity Section has been trimmed down. The foreign bribery unit shrank. Tax enforcement? Labeled “not a priority” in internal briefings. One DOJ official described it as “hollowing out by design.”
Former President Trump has openly cheered the changes, framing them as a purge of biased prosecutors—“hacks and radicals,” in his words—who targeted him and his allies. And he’s not just making speeches; he’s also pardoning.
When former Navy Admiral Robert Burke was convicted of bribery, his lawyer—a familiar name from Trump’s defense bench—floated the idea of a pardon before sentencing. “I’d be crazy not to,” he said. For others like billionaire Julio Herrera-Velutini, awaiting trial in Puerto Rico on corruption charges, the defense is already maneuvering for a DOJ retreat—led once again by a Trump-aligned attorney.
In some instances, even DOJ insiders are being forced to justify their prosecutions. In February, federal prosecutors handling the sentencing of Paul Walczak, a Florida man who failed to pay taxes, were asked to prove their case wasn’t politically motivated. The connection? Walczak’s mother, a Trump donor, had hosted a fundraiser where Ashley Biden’s private diary allegedly surfaced. Walczak was eventually sentenced to 18 months. Then, Trump pardoned him in April—just after his mother attended a million-dollar dinner for Trump.
The DOJ insists its work continues as usual. But behind the curtain, a new figure has emerged to formalize the shifting winds: Ed Martin, election denier, pardon strategist, and now head of the Weaponization Working Group. He’s already boasting that more people—inside and outside the government—are lining up with complaints.
Casada, now convicted, is expected to seek a pardon too.
“We’re seeing more and more requests,” Martin recently said. “It’s like trying to catch water with a sieve.”
For a Justice Department once known for its sharp lines between law and politics, the distinction is starting to blur. And in that gray zone, a new kind of power play is unfolding—one case, one pardon, one pressure campaign at a time.
