the lamest renegade ever
Free Speech
The Honorable Oliver Reyes had seen stranger cases in his seventeen years on the Delaware Chancery Court. He’d adjudicated disputes over digital horse racing NFTs, ruled on whether a DAO could legally own a Picasso, and once spent three weeks untangling a mess involving a billionaire’s cryogenically preserved head and its voting rights on a corporate board. But the woman standing before him now, clutching a manila folder like it contained the nuclear codes, was presenting him with something genuinely novel.
“Let me make sure I understand,” he said, removing his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “You want to sue the publishing industry.”
“Correct, Your Honor.”
“All of it.”
Sarah Chen didn’t flinch. “Every major publisher, every literary magazine, every online platform that accepts fiction submissions, every writer’s workshop, every subreddit with a submissions policy. Yes.”
Oliver replaced his glasses and studied the plaintiff. Mid-forties, wearing a blazer that suggested she’d dressed up for the occasion but wasn’t entirely comfortable doing so. Her laptop bag bore stickers from three different AI conferences. She’d filed pro se, which either meant she couldn’t afford an attorney or didn’t trust one to argue her position correctly. Given the nature of her complaint, he suspected the latter.
“Ms. Chen, I’ve read your filing. You’re alleging antitrust violations under the Sherman Act, combined with constitutional claims regarding the First Amendment.”
“Freedom of speech and freedom of the press, specifically.”
“Walk me through it.”
Sarah opened her folder. “In 2027, the Authors Guild issued its Barcelona Declaration, calling for a complete ban on AI-assisted fiction in all publishing venues. Within eighteen months, every major publisher, every literary journal, and every significant online community had adopted policies requiring authors to certify their work was produced without any large language model assistance. The policies are nearly identical in language. They were coordinated.”
“Coordinated isn’t necessarily illegal.”
“No, but the effect is. A writer today cannot publish fiction that was created with AI assistance anywhere. Not through traditional publishers. Not through indie presses. Not through online magazines. Not even through amateur communities that exist purely for feedback and workshopping. The industry has achieved what no single monopolist ever could: total market exclusion of a category of creative work. They’ve done collectively what would be illegal for any one of them to do alone.”
Oliver leaned back in his chair. The courtroom was empty except for the two of them and his clerk, a young woman named Devi who was typing notes with the focused intensity of someone who knew she was witnessing something she’d tell her grandchildren about.
“The antitrust argument is creative,” he admitted. “But the First Amendment angle troubles me. Private publishers have their own speech rights. They can choose what to publish.”
“They can,” Sarah agreed. “But can they collude to ensure that no one publishes? Your Honor, I’m not arguing that Penguin Random House must accept my novel. I’m arguing that when every venue in existence agrees, in concert, to exclude an entire category of expression from public discourse, that’s not editorial discretion anymore. That’s prior restraint achieved through private conspiracy.”
Oliver considered this. It was, he had to admit, a genuinely interesting legal theory. The Supreme Court had never addressed whether coordinated private action could constitute a de facto speech restriction of constitutional concern. The question assumed particular weight when the coordination was total.
“Ms. Chen,” he said, “help me understand something. You filed pro se. You’re not a lawyer.”
“No.”
“What are you?”
Sarah was quiet for a moment. “I’m a writer, Your Honor. I’ve been writing fiction for twenty-three years. I’ve published in journals you’ve never heard of, for audiences that numbered in the dozens. Three years ago, I started collaborating with language models. Not to replace my voice, but to find it. The work I’ve produced since then is the best I’ve ever done.” She paused. “And no one will read it. Not because it isn’t good. Because of how it was made.”
The courtroom was silent. Devi’s typing had stopped.
“Let’s say I find your argument compelling in principle,” Oliver said slowly. “We still have a practical problem. You’ve named, by my count, over four thousand defendants in your complaint. Literary magazines in twelve countries. Online communities that may not even have legal representation. Subreddits moderated by anonymous volunteers. I can’t very well send a summons to every writing community in existence. It’s impractical. It might be impossible.”
“Why not?”
“I just explained why not. The logistics alone would require coordinating service of process across dozens of jurisdictions, tracking down moderators who use pseudonyms, translating legal documents into languages I can’t even identify.”
“Your Honor,” Sarah said, setting her folder down on the plaintiff’s table, “have you tried using the newest AI models? I understand they have some very impressive agentic features.”
Oliver stared at her. For a long moment, the only sound was the building’s climate system humming through the vents.
“You’re asking me,” he said finally, “to use the very technology at the center of this dispute to enable the dispute itself.”
“I’m asking you to recognize that a tool is just a tool. That it can serve justice as easily as it can serve commerce. That banning it from one domain while using it in another is exactly the kind of arbitrary line-drawing that the First Amendment exists to prevent.”
Oliver removed his glasses again. He cleaned them with a cloth from his pocket, a habit Devi had learned meant he was genuinely thinking rather than performing deliberation.
“Ms. Chen,” he said, “I’m not going to rule on your motion today.”
“I didn’t expect you to.”
“But I’m also not going to dismiss it.” He looked at her, and something in his expression shifted. “This court will take a brief recess. When we reconvene, I’m going to ask my clerk to research the procedural questions you’ve raised. All of them.”
He reached for his gavel, then paused.
“Devi,” he said, “pull up whatever model the Administrative Office is currently licensing. I want to see what it can do.”