Thursday’s Supreme Court decision in Gutierrez v. Saenz offered a lifeline to Ruben Gutierrez, a man sentenced to death in Texas who has spent nearly 15 years fighting for the right to DNA testing that might exonerate him. The Court’s majority, in a 6–3 ruling, reaffirmed the principle that state procedures must comply with the U.S. Constitution’s guarantee of due process, especially when life is at stake.
But buried in the dissents—amid concerns about delay and redressability—was a far more alarming argument from Justice Clarence Thomas. In a separate opinion, Thomas went further than his colleagues. Much further. He claimed the Constitution does not require states to offer any postconviction relief. Not a right to appeal. Not a right to habeas corpus. Not a right to challenge a conviction based on new evidence. Nothing.
Let that sink in.
According to Thomas, once a conviction is handed down at trial—even if it was marred by false evidence, prosecutorial misconduct, ineffective counsel, or racial bias—the Constitution is silent. The government could execute someone based on a verdict later shown to be flawed, and the person would have no constitutional grounds to reopen the case. For all practical purposes, Thomas’s view would close the courthouse doors once the gavel falls.
His dissent explicitly criticizes the idea that a person has any “liberty interest” in state-created procedures for reviewing convictions after trial. He asserts that the Due Process Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment was never meant to guarantee protections after the initial verdict, no matter how compelling the post-trial evidence might be. In his words, “this Court has no business intervening,” and the majority opinion merely “exacerbate[s] the already egregious delays endemic to capital litigation.”
This is not just a theoretical debate about standing doctrine. It’s a radical reimagining of constitutional law—one that would roll back centuries of evolving legal protections for people convicted of crimes. If Thomas’s reasoning were to become the law of the land, the implications would be chilling.
Under his vision, there would be no constitutional basis for demanding DNA testing, even when new forensic science could prove someone’s innocence. Innocent people already convicted could have no recourse if their state chooses not to offer postconviction remedies. Entire categories of wrongful convictions—those involving false confessions, mistaken identity, or suppressed evidence—could be immune from federal review, even if the evidence is later uncovered.
And while Thomas attempts to ground his argument in a narrow reading of the Due Process Clause, his logic undermines long-established precedent. For decades, the Supreme Court has recognized that liberty and fairness do not vanish the moment a jury issues a verdict. Cases like Herrera v. Collins, Skinner v. Switzer, and Osborne reflect an understanding that the criminal legal system is fallible, and that due process is not a one-time event.
Indeed, the Founders themselves were not so quick to dispense with the idea of review. The writ of habeas corpus, enshrined in Article I of the Constitution, was described by Chief Justice John Marshall as “the great and efficacious writ in all manner of illegal confinement.” The idea that courts should have no authority to revisit a conviction—particularly in the face of new exculpatory evidence—would be unrecognizable to the common law tradition upon which our legal system is built.
What makes Justice Thomas’s dissent even more disturbing is the broader judicial context. Over the past several years, the Supreme Court has narrowed access to federal habeas relief, raised procedural bars for reopening cases, and deferred more power to state prosecutors and courts. But even within that tightening landscape, Thomas’s view is an outlier—one that would eliminate postconviction relief altogether.
To be clear, the majority in Gutierrez did not embrace this view. Chief Justice John Roberts and Justice Brett Kavanaugh joined Justice Sotomayor’s opinion, which rightly reaffirmed that due process means something beyond the initial trial. Justice Amy Coney Barrett, though critical of parts of the reasoning, ultimately agreed that Gutierrez should be able to proceed.
But Thomas’s dissent should not be ignored. It signals a troubling philosophy on the Court—one that would abandon individuals sentenced to death or condemned to die in prison, no matter how compelling their claim of innocence. It is a vision of justice that favors finality over fairness and prioritizes the closure of a case over the truth of what actually happened.
If this perspective were to gain majority support in future cases, it would place countless lives at risk. Innocent people would remain behind bars—or face execution—without any constitutional avenue for relief. Justice, in any meaningful sense, would become a function not of truth, but of timing.
For anyone who believes in the promise of equal justice under law, that is a deeply frightening proposition.
