The idea of justice feels abstract, but in the lives of Black Americans it is powerfully tangible. It determines whether a mother in North Minneapolis keeps her home. Whether a teenager in East St. Paul gets a second chance—or a prison number. Whether an immigrant family feels the law is a shield they can reach for, or a weapon pointed at them. Whether our people believe the justice system belongs to them, or only to those who can afford it.

Today, access to justice in America is profoundly conditioned by wealth, race, and geography. And since American poverty has, for generations, been deliberately concentrated in Black neighborhoods, Black communities have long been starved for justice.

In civil cases—housing, debt, family law, employment disputes—most low‑income Black Americans navigate critical legal problems alone. National data shows that the vast majority of serious civil legal needs for low‑income people go unmet or under‑met.

In criminal cases, the right to counsel too often means a public defender drowning in caseloads, meeting a client for the first time in a hallway minutes before a plea.

That is not a gap at the margins; it is a chasm at the center of our legal order.

When we talk about “access to justice,” we are talking about whether the legal system is a functioning public good or a luxury product. Right now, too often, it is the latter for low-income Black Americans.

To understand access to justice, we have to tell the truth about income and wealth inequality in the United States.

For decades, productivity has risen while wages for workers of all races have stagnated. The gains of growth have flowed disproportionately to the top. The racial wealth gap—rooted in slavery, Jim Crow, redlining, and exclusion—remains staggering. In metropolitan areas like Minneapolis–St. Paul and across the country, we see mostly white neighborhoods with gleaming new development a short train ride away from mostly Black neighborhoods with disinvestment, high unemployment, and chronic poverty.

Economic inequality determines who can afford a lawyer, and who is more likely to need one in the first place. The income gap that Black Americans face then becomes a justice gap—more housing instability, more encounters with debt collectors, more contact with over‑policing, more exposure to predatory financial schemes. The law is everywhere, but affordable legal help is nowhere to be found.

In effect, the legal system mediates inequality twice. First, by deciding who gets help and who goes it alone. Second, by deciding who wins and who loses in disputes that directly affect wealth, housing, and family stability. That is how inequality is reproduced through law. The result is a two‑tier system:

• In one tier, the law functions as a dependable tool to structure deals, protect property, and vindicate rights.
• In the other, the law functions as a stream of fines, fees, warrants, and judgments flowing against people who lack the means to defend themselves.

Layered on top of this economic structure is the question of federal power. When federal charges are used in place of local ones, sentences can skyrocket, bargaining power vanishes, and the stakes for defendants become life‑altering. Economic inequality and aggressive state power are two parts of one system. Access to justice is where they meet.

Ensuring access to justice means changing the terrain so that all people—including poor and working‑class Black Americans —have the capacity to push back against unlawful evictions, wage theft, abusive policing, and discriminatory practices. It means making the law something they can use, not just something done to them.

When we expand access to justice—when we fund legal aid, support tenant representation, strengthen public defense, open up data, reform procedures, and listen to those most affected—we do more than help individual clients. We change the distribution of power.

We make it more likely that a low‑wage worker can challenge stolen wages. That a family can fight an unlawful eviction. That a protester can assert First Amendment rights. That a community can contest an unlawful federal action in court and win.

Access to justice is how we translate the Constitution’s promises into lived reality.

First, we must insist that access to justice is as fundamental as access to healthcare or education. That means robust, stable funding for civil legal aid; serious investment in public defense; and support for community‑based legal clinics that meet people where they are.

Second, we must demystify the courts. Clear language, multilingual support, navigators, streamlined forms, remote access where appropriate—these are not luxuries; they are prerequisites for meaningful participation.

Third, we must confront the ways fines, fees, and costs weaponize the legal system against the poor. A justice system that balances its books on the backs of those least able to pay is not a justice system; it is a collection agency with a robe.

Fourth, we must build power with those most impacted. Access to justice requires community organizing, voter engagement, judicial elections, and legislative advocacy. People must see a connection between their ballot, their budget, and their courtroom experience.

Finally, we must recognize that the struggle for access to justice is the struggle for a multiracial democracy worthy of the name. When the law is truly accessible for everyone—not just those with means—then we move closer to a country where equal justice under law is more than a slogan.

I believe that the health of our democracy is measured, in part, by what happens every day in courtrooms across America.

If a single mother can keep her home because she had a lawyer at her side, that is a victory for the rule of law.

If a teenager can resolve a case with restorative justice instead of a lifetime record, that is a victory for the rule of law. 

If an immigrant family can challenge an unlawful act by a federal agent and win, that is a victory for the rule of law.

Our task is to turn those stories from exceptions into expectations.