After a long pause in publishing on Indiana Barrister, it’s worth returning with a column that cuts through recent noise on taxes, tariffs, and the real economic trade-offs facing Hoosiers and all Americans.

In recent public statements and speeches, some national figures have touted the idea of replacing federal income taxes with tariffs on imported goods — suggesting this would lower the burden on everyday taxpayers while simultaneously funding the federal government. At first glance, it sounds almost too good to be true. The reason is simple: it is.

Here’s why:

Tariffs Are Taxes — Just Not the Ones People Think

A tariff is a tax levied on imported goods. That means when a product crosses our border, the importer pays a duty. But there’s one crucial point too many advocates overlook: importers don’t eat the cost. They pass it on to American businesses and consumers through higher prices. Studies have found that U.S. consumers and companies bore the majority of tariff costs in recent years, despite claims to the contrary.

What’s more, reputable national data show that the federal government collected roughly $2.6 trillion in individual income taxes last fiscal year, compared with tariff revenue amounting to only a small fraction of that total. In other words, tariffs currently provide just a sliver of the revenue needed to operate the federal government.

Even proponents of tariff-centric policies admit that to fully replace income tax revenue, tariff rates would have to be implausibly high — high enough that the underlying economic base shrinks as imports fall. At that point, revenues actually decline, creating a sort of “tariff Laffer curve” where more doesn’t mean more.

Tariffs Are Regressive Taxes

Income taxes — at least in principle — scale with ability to pay. Higher earners pay higher tax rates. Tariffs, by contrast, fall as a consumption tax on purchases made by everyone, rich or poor. Multiple economic studies show that tariff burdens are proportionately heavier for lower-income households.

That’s an important distinction: trading the progressivity of the income tax for a system that hits those who spend a greater share of their income the hardest is not a net win for fairness.

Prices Rise, Growth Slows

There’s also persistent evidence that broad tariff increases elevate consumer prices and restrain economic growth. Comprehensive modeling from leading economic research institutions indicates that tariffs enacted in 2025 — even before any hypothetical expansion — could raise the price level and suppress GDP growth.

This manifests in everyday life: clothing becomes more expensive, food costs rise, and households find their purchasing power squeezed.

Even central bankers have tied recent inflation overshoots in part to tariff effects, though some data remain subject to debate.

Tariffs Don’t Automatically Bring Back Jobs

One common argument is that tariffs will “bring manufacturing back to the United States.” But today’s economy is not one of labor-intensive manufacturing like in the mid-20th century. Automation and artificial intelligence play a massive role in production decisions. If a company shifts manufacturing to the U.S., it doesn’t necessarily mean 1950s-style payrolls. Higher productivity often comes with fewer workers per unit produced — and that’s a trend that technology accelerates, tariffs or not.

This mirrors what happened in American agriculture over the past century — tens of millions of farmers now produce vastly more output with a tiny fraction of the workforce. We adapted. We survived. But we didn’t bring all those jobs back thereafter.

A Better Debate Is Possible

There are legitimate policy discussions to be had about strategic reshoring, targeted industrial policy, and how to balance free trade with fair competition. Tariffs can be part of a nuanced toolkit for specific economic sectors. But treating tariffs as a panacea to replace the income tax is economically naive.

Good public policy starts with clear-eyed analysis, not bumper sticker slogans. The stakes are too high — for Hoosier families paying grocery bills, for workers seeking opportunity, and for a federal fiscal system that must balance revenue needs with fairness and growth.

Tariffs can have a role.
But they cannot bear the brunt of what our income tax system currently does.

Let’s be honest about the trade-offs.

By Abdul-Hakim Shabazz

There’s a moment in every legal career when theory meets practice—where you go from quoting the law to using it to defend your name.

For me, that moment came last year, when a former congressional candidate accused me—falsely and publicly—of being a pedophile. I didn’t take to social media. I took him to court. The result? A $400,000 default judgment in my favor. That same individual is now serving time in federal prison for falsifying campaign finance records.

This wasn’t a one-off. As of this writing, I have three active defamation lawsuits pending in Indiana courts. One stems from a false accusation of perjury. Another from claims I committed criminal campaign violations. The third? From the same defendant, who decided—on his way to prison—to repeat the original slander online. So I sued again.

Some people call that petty. I call it precedent.

This isn’t about ego. It’s about the rule of law. Because too many people have come to believe that “free speech” includes the right to defame, harass, and destroy reputations with zero consequence. It doesn’t.

Under Indiana law, defamation—particularly defamation per se—remains a viable tort with teeth. And Indiana Trial Rule 55 allows litigants to seek default judgment when defendants fail to answer. I’ve already used it once, and I’m prepared to use it again.

There’s also the modern wrinkle: Judgment enforcement is evolving. Platforms like Judgment Marketplace now allow plaintiffs to monetize court judgments by selling them to third-party collectors. These firms buy judgments—often for 10 to 15 cents on the dollar—and pursue enforcement through garnishments, liens, and long-term asset monitoring. It’s not personal. It’s procedural.

And it’s working.

There’s a broader point here for the legal community. We cannot allow the boundaries between protected speech and actionable defamation to dissolve in the name of digital convenience or political theater. Lawyers, journalists, public servants—we’re all increasingly vulnerable to targeted misinformation. If we don’t enforce the line, we lose it.

The law is still a shield. But sometimes it needs to be a sword.

This is what accountability looks like.

Whitley County Consolidated Schools may have inadvertently opened themselves up to a civil rights lawsuit—and if they’re not careful, they’ll lose.

After a student reported inappropriate conduct by a bus driver, the district failed to inform her mother. The mother later recorded a meeting with school administrators without their permission. That action was entirely lawful under Indiana’s one-party consent statute (Ind. Code § 35-33.5-1-5), yet the district banned her from school grounds and events.

The Goldwater Institute has alleged a violation of her First Amendment rights, and rightly so. The district’s actions raise several red flags:

? First Amendment Retaliation (42 U.S.C. § 1983)

Recording school officials to raise safety concerns about a child arguably constitutes protected speech or expressive conduct. Retaliating against that activity is actionable if it meets the three-prong test from Mt. Healthy City Sch. Dist. Bd. of Educ. v. Doyle, 429 U.S. 274 (1977):

1. The parent engaged in protected conduct;
2. The school took an adverse action that would deter a person of ordinary firmness; and
3. The conduct was a motivating factor.

That’s textbook retaliation.

? Facial Overbreadth of Policy

Any district policy that prohibits lawful recording risks being declared unconstitutional for overbreadth. If applied to parents who record their own interactions, the district may be suppressing core political speech and expression. Courts have not looked kindly on that, especially post-Packingham v. North Carolina, 137 S. Ct. 1730 (2017).

? Procedural Due Process

Banning a parent from public property or school-sponsored events without a hearing or opportunity to contest the decision raises due process concerns under the Fourteenth Amendment. When coupled with protected conduct, this ban looks less like discipline and more like punishment for speaking up.

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Recommended Reforms:

• Immediately rescind the ban to mitigate exposure and invite resolution.
• Revise internal policies to comply with Indiana’s recording laws and federal constitutional norms.
• Adopt a Parental Rights Charter, informed by recent case law and best practices.
• Mandate reporting protocols for employee misconduct complaints involving minors.
• Train staff annually on First Amendment, civil liability, and Section 1983 jurisprudence.

Public schools are not above the Constitution. They are bound by it. If districts do not modernize their practices, plaintiffs’ attorneys will do it for them—one civil rights complaint at a time.

By Abdul-Hakim Shabazz

Let me introduce you to David Waters—a political activist with a growing track record of failure and a troubling habit of turning public processes into personal crusades.

Waters has run for public office twice. He lost both times. In 2023, he challenged Brian Mowery in the GOP primary for Indianapolis City–County Council District 25. He lost 62% to 38%. In 2024, he ran in the Republican primary for Indiana House District 90 and finished dead last with just 5.8% of the vote. That’s 0–2 at the ballot box.

Undeterred, Waters shifted tactics. Instead of campaigning, he began filing campaign finance complaints—lots of them. At the July 19 Marion County Election Board hearing, 13 complaints were dismissed. Eleven of them were filed by Waters. None had merit. Not a single one led to enforcement or corrective action. The board found his complaints lacking in both legal standing and factual substance.

That brings his current public record to 0–13.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t stop there. Despite his long losing streak, Waters decided to escalate. He filed a Verified Petition for Writ of Mandamus accusing me of campaign finance violations—allegations that had already been reviewed and resolved. This wasn’t just political theater. It crossed the line into defamation.

Accusing someone of criminal wrongdoing in a court filing—especially when those accusations are knowingly false—opens the door to serious legal consequences. That’s why I’ve filed a defamation lawsuit. Because enough is enough.

To be clear, this isn’t about revenge. This is about accountability. If we allow individuals to misuse the legal system to harass and defame others without consequence, we undermine public trust in those institutions.

For context, I’ve been a political commentator and attorney in Indiana for more than two decades. I’ve run for office—once. I lost. I learned from it. And while I’ve been approached about running again due to recent events in Indianapolis, my standard reply is: “Get permission from the Lovely Mrs. Shabazz and find me $5 million.” (Though lately, $3 million might be enough.)

But even if the money showed up, convincing my wife would be the real uphill battle.

Back to Mr. Waters. His campaign complaints weren’t good-faith concerns about transparency or ethics. They were part of a pattern—using public processes to settle personal scores. That strategy failed him at the ballot box, it failed him at the Election Board, and it’s likely to fail him in court.

And let’s not forget, he has also filed legal actions against the Marion County Fair Board. If the pattern holds—and I believe it will—those cases will join the rest in the procedural trash bin.

There comes a point where persistent failure stops being admirable and starts being reckless. We are well past that point.

David Waters isn’t holding power to account. He’s abusing public systems for private feuds. And if no one else is willing to say that plainly, I will.

Accountability is coming. And this time, it won’t be in the form of a hearing or a ballot—it will be a courtroom.

Public safety is the foundational promise of government. And right now, Indianapolis is struggling to deliver.

The recent uptick in juvenile violence — particularly high-profile shootings involving minors — demands more than press conferences and positive vibes. It demands a reset: one that combines judicial discretion, community reinvestment, and family accountability in a unified strategy.

To the city’s credit, some progress is already underway. We’ve seen renewed investment in community-based violence reduction, expanded support for youth programs, and more robust enforcement of the juvenile curfew. These efforts deserve recognition. But…

They’re incomplete. What’s missing is a willingness to confront the harder truths — especially around consequences. Not just for young offenders, but for the adults who’ve abdicated responsibility.

Let’s also not pretend kids are just out wandering the streets at 2 a.m. by accident. They’re out because the parent, or more likely the single parent, isn’t checking in, isn’t present, or is overwhelmed and disconnected.

We also can’t ignore the 3 p.m. to 7 p.m. window. That after-school stretch is prime time for bad decisions — when structure disappears, supervision vanishes, and temptation thrives. That’s where the business, faith-based, and educational communities must step in. Houses of worship can open their doors for programming. College students can serve as mentors. And the business sector? It should underwrite the costs as part of a long-term investment in safer streets and a better workforce pipeline.

Enter the Economic Empowerment Zone.

This approach targets neighborhoods that have suffered from chronic disinvestment and disproportionate violence. Through clear criteria — census data, income levels, crime rates — these areas would be designated zones where judges have the discretion to apply sentencing enhancements for violent crimes. This isn’t about mandatory minimums. It’s about acknowledging the deeper harm done when crime hits already-vulnerable communities.

And yes, this policy framework can withstand constitutional scrutiny. It uses neutral, data-driven criteria to define zones, avoids mandatory sentencing, and maintains full judicial discretion. In other words: it does exactly what sentencing guidelines are meant to do — calibrate justice to context. So to the usual crowd gearing up for some performative legal pearl-clutching, I say: please, cite case law — not cable news.

And yes, we understand why youth carry guns: protection, fear, status, trauma. We’ve heard the stories. We’ve read the social worker reports. But understanding the psychological backstory doesn’t negate the reality of bullets flying through downtown. Compassion doesn’t mean consequences vanish.

This isn’t theoretical — it’s grounded in decades of criminological science. Focused deterrence, reentry programming, place-based sentencing enhancements — all proven tools. Layered with targeted investment and responsible oversight, this is a policy package that works on the street and in the courtroom.

Governor Mike Braun has a moment here. By backing this proposal, he doesn’t just help the capital city — he aligns with his Opportunity Agenda, restores credibility to his party in Marion County, and demonstrates that “law and order” and “economic development” aren’t mutually exclusive. If it succeeds, he looks like a leader. If it draws partisan criticism, he gets to ask a simple question: “What’s your plan?”

And yes — national gun violence is rising. But as I used to tell my son when he bombed a test and said “everyone else failed too”: That’s not an excuse. That’s a problem. If the whole class failed, maybe someone needs to change the lesson plan.

And let’s be blunt: silence in the face of community decay is not compassion. It’s complicity. Refusing to act because it might be politically uncomfortable or ideologically messy is no longer acceptable.

One might even say this has the makings of a serious public safety platform — the kind you’d want from someone ready to step up and offer real solutions at City Hall.

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Abdul-Hakim Shabazz is an attorney, political commentator, and publisher of IndianaBarrister.com. He has covered Indiana politics, law, and public policy for more than two decades. He is available to speak on this or other pressing issues. For media appearances, panels, or events, reach out — and let’s work something out.

We’ve seen this before.

A public tragedy. A downtown shooting. Lives lost, outrage sparked, headlines written. City leaders make statements. Police hold a presser. And then… silence. Shrug. Reset.

Rinse and repeat.

On July 4, chaos erupted downtown. Two teenagers dead. Five others shot. All within blocks of where we roll out the red carpet for tourists, conventions, and college recruiters. It happened near the heart of our city’s brand — and just steps from where we pretend downtown is “back.”

You’d think this would be the moment for the downtown business community to step forward—loudly, clearly, forcefully. But instead? Crickets. You could hear a pin drop on Georgia Street if it weren’t for the sirens.

Let’s be blunt: Downtown Indianapolis is not okay. Between the shootings, the unchecked homelessness, the wave of youth violence, and a sexual harassment scandal at the top levels of city government, we are one bad headline away from turning “Circle City” into “Crisis City.” And no amount of Instagrammable murals or pedestrian plazas is going to change that if people don’t feel safe coming downtown after dark—or even during the day.

But let’s not pretend the business community is powerless here. You’ve stepped up before. Remember RFRA? When the state tried to pass off discrimination as “religious freedom,” it was Indy’s business and civic leadership that stood up, pushed back, and forced change. Remember mass transit? You helped lead the charge. You’ve flexed your voice before when the stakes were high.

So where are you now?

This isn’t just about civic pride or quality of life. This is about the economic health of the city. If downtown dies, the rest of the city doesn’t get to pretend it’s fine. The Circle is still the beating heart of Indy’s brand—and right now, it’s showing symptoms of something serious. And let’s be honest, it’s a hell of a look when two kids get gunned down on Washington Street and the city’s response is… mild discomfort and a curfew.

Meanwhile, the mayor’s office is still dealing with the fallout from a sex scandal involving his former chief of staff—who apparently had a habit of mixing romance with contracts and city money. The young woman at the center of it? Still getting paid by the city. And somehow, there’s no public plan, no internal reckoning, no reform agenda.

Let me be clear: I’m not telling the business community to demand the mayor’s resignation. That’s not the ask. But given everything—the shootings, the scandal, the homelessness, the overall public confidence nosedive—it is more than fair to publicly ask: Is Joe Hogsett still the right person to lead us forward? And if he is, then what’s the plan? Where’s the urgency? Where’s the leadership?

At the very least, he should be asking himself that question. And there’s nothing wrong—nothing radical—about the business community saying out loud what a lot of folks are whispering privately.

And if you’re worried about retaliation for speaking out, here’s my advice: they can’t retaliate against all of you. Especially not if your names are Eli Lilly, Cummins, Salesforce, or Anthem. There is safety in numbers—and power in coordinated pressure.

And while I get that groups like the Indy Chamber, Visit Indy, and Downtown Indy Inc. all receive grant money from the city and don’t want to tick off the wrong person, I’d ask this: imagine being too afraid to take your own family downtown because you fear for their safety. Imagine being the small business owner terrified about what this will do to her bottom line. Or the police officer who has to worry a little more each night because it looks to him like you don’t care—and yet he’ll still put his life on the line to protect people who haven’t even bothered to show up for him.

And while we’re at it—let’s talk about that Downtown Improvement District tax. Is this what you’re paying for? The privilege to sweep up shell casings after a holiday weekend? The honor of worrying if you’ll still be in business next quarter because leadership is allergic to urgency? That’s not improvement. That’s a bad deal.

And allow me to be so bold as to say this on behalf of all rational, law-abiding, hard-working Black folks in Indiana: race has nothing to do with this — it’s about behavior. Accountability isn’t prejudice. Criticism isn’t code for bigotry. If you’re staying silent because you’re afraid someone might think you’re racist, I get it — sort of. But if you’re using that fear as a convenient excuse to avoid confronting real problems — or worse, to hide the fact that you actually do hold some ugly opinions — then that’s not caution, that’s cowardice. And if your real reason for not speaking up is that you’d rather let the city burn than be seen standing alongside young Black kids, struggling families, or police officers trying to hold the line, then just say that. Because we already know.

And honestly, if you’re not smart or decent enough to tell the difference between calling out dangerous behavior and harboring dangerous bias, you were probably destined to go out of business anyway.

And if things happen to look better this weekend because the WNBA All-Star Game is in town? Don’t kid yourself. The best time to fly is right after a plane crash. Don’t mistake a temporary show of order for a lasting fix.

Your silence right now isn’t neutrality—it’s complicity.

This is your moment to do more than cut ribbons and sponsor jazz nights. Lead. Speak up. Demand change—not just on crime, but on homelessness, youth outreach, and good governance. Say publicly that what’s happening downtown is unacceptable. Put your names on a letter. Call a press conference. Call the mayor. Demand a plan. Offer to help. But do something.

Because the city’s elected leaders may not be ready to confront this moment. But if you’re downtown business owners, property developers, restaurateurs, hotel execs, and employers—you have a stake. You have a voice. You have the megaphone. Use it.

If not now—after the shootings, after the scandal, after watching public trust crack like an old sidewalk—then when?

You’ve saved the city’s reputation before. Don’t wait until it’s too late to try again.

Because brunch won’t save downtown. Neither will silence.

By Abdul-Hakim Shabazz | Indiana Barrister

Once upon a time, being out after midnight was a teenage rite of passage.

You grabbed a late-night bite with friends. You hung out at the mall. Maybe you caught a midnight movie. And if you were really pushing it, you’d cruise back into the driveway just before curfew—fueled by adrenaline, Mountain Dew, and the knowledge that your parents might be waiting with porch light justice.

That was then. This is now.

In 2012, Indianapolis followed state law and set curfews at 1 a.m. for youth ages 15 to 17, and 11 p.m. for those 14 and under on Fridays and Saturdays. Back then, that seemed reasonable. Times were different. So was the city.

Fast forward to 2025, and we’re having a very different conversation—one punctuated by police lights, press conferences, and yet another shooting involving teenagers downtown.

Which brings us to the current proposal from City-County Councilor Leroy Robinson. His ordinance would tighten the city’s curfew laws significantly:

• Youth 15–17:
  • Fridays and Saturdays: Home by 11 p.m.
  • Sundays through Thursdays: Home by 9 p.m.
• Youth 14 and under:
  • Home by 9 p.m. every night.

In short, it moves up curfew by two hours on weekends and four hours on school nights for older teens. It’s a bold move. And it’s overdue.

Predictably, some critics are already warning about overreach, government nanny-state overcorrection, and criminalizing Black and brown youth. To be fair, those concerns deserve a real conversation—especially in a city with a documented history of uneven enforcement.

But let’s cut through the static for a moment and talk about reality. Because the question we should be asking isn’t “Is it fair to set an 11 p.m. curfew?” The question is, why should any 15-year-old be downtown at 12:45 a.m. in this environment?

Let’s be clear: this is not about locking up kids for breathing past midnight. Exceptions still exist for work, school activities, emergencies, and being with a parent or guardian. This isn’t zero-tolerance. It’s zero-avoidance.

The curfew is not a silver bullet. But it is a start. It’s a boundary. A bright line that says: you matter, and we’d rather not read about you in the next homicide report. Because right now, what was once innocent late-night freedom has turned into an open-air liability. Downtown isn’t the same place it was 10 years ago, and pretending otherwise is how we end up writing eulogies for kids who should be writing college essays.

Let’s also stop pretending that the current status quo is working. If the curfew as-is were truly enough, we wouldn’t have had to hold press conferences the morning after a teen was shot on Monument Circle. We wouldn’t be scrambling to reassure businesses and residents that downtown is safe. And we wouldn’t be having this conversation yet again.

I understand the instinct to be cautious about new enforcement mechanisms, especially when the city has struggled with transparency and trust. But this isn’t about punishment—it’s about prevention.

And frankly, if your biggest concern is whether a 15-year-old can hit the club district at 1 a.m., your parenting priorities might need a reboot.

Councilor Robinson’s proposal doesn’t solve everything. But it recognizes what the rest of us already see: midnight ain’t what it used to be. And in a city where tragedy is becoming routine, doing nothing is no longer an option.

Let the critics clutch their pearls. The rest of us will settle for getting these kids home alive.

Most people go to law school. I commuted to it. Three to four nights a week, I drove from Springfield to St. Louis to attend classes part-time at Saint Louis University School of Law. By day, I worked full-time for the Illinois Attorney General’s Office. Nights and weekends, I held down two part-time radio DJ jobs. My law lectures? Listened to them on cassette tapes during those long highway drives.

I missed fewer classes than most full-time students, finished law school in 3.5 years instead of the usual 4–5, and even managed to win moot court in 2002. I wasn’t just doing law school. I was grinding through it.

But that was only the beginning.

When I sat for the Illinois bar exam in February 2003, I failed—by five points. Close, but not close enough. Illinois had a policy: if you missed passing by four points or less, you qualified for an automatic regrade. I missed it by one point.

I was disappointed, but not defeated. I was ready to regroup and take the exam again. I even considered filing suit against the Board of Bar Examiners after learning there had been a nationwide scoring error on one of the multiple-choice questions. Over 7,000 test-takers were affected.

I emailed the Board requesting a regrade.

And then I got the call.

A kind woman from the Illinois Board of Admissions to the Bar told me, “We received your request, but you don’t need it. You passed.“

That one-point scoring error? It bumped me from five points out to four points out—just enough to trigger the regrade. And on regrade, I cleared the mark.

No lawsuit necessary. No appeal. Just resilience.

For me, it wasn’t just about passing the bar. It was about proving, yet again, that hard work pays off—even when the odds say otherwise.

Oh, and when I told my best friend from law school? she said, “Maybe this will finally teach you some humility.”

My response? “I was right the first time. Why should I change?”

And my mother, when I told her the news in her most proud Black mama voice?

“I knew they couldn’t keep my baby down.”

I didn’t just earn a law degree. I earned every mile of it. And the license, like the journey, was anything but ordinary.

The moral of the story? Resilience isn’t glamorous. It’s not Instagrammable. It’s showing up, staying the course, and letting your work speak when circumstances try to shout over you. Sometimes the system breaks. Sometimes it gets it wrong. But if you’re prepared, persistent, and principled, even a one-point margin can become a turning point.

You don’t have to be lucky. You just have to be ready when luck decides to show up.

And one more thing—if you’re going to have a huge ego and talk a lot of smack (and I do), you better be able to back it up.

Ten years ago today, something wild happened in Indiana. And no, I’m not talking about the Statehouse Wi-Fi finally working.

I’m talking about the birth of the First Church of Cannabis—an idea so crazy, so thoroughly Hoosier, that naturally… it came from me.

The year was 2015. I was sitting at the bar at Nicky Blaine’s, scotch in one hand, a cigar smoldering in the other, reviewing Indiana’s freshly minted Religious Freedom Restoration Act—RFRA, for those of you just joining the legislative chaos. Supposedly designed to protect religious liberty, the bill was really a reaction to the courts legalizing same-sex marriage, which—fun fact—is also celebrating its 10th anniversary this year. (Happy Anniversary, equality. More on that in a second.)

As I scrolled through the final version of RFRA, I noticed something odd. The original language had included a provision saying RFRA couldn’t be used as a defense in criminal cases. But in the final version? Poof—gone. Lawmakers, in their political haste, had snipped it.

I blinked. Took another sip of scotch. Looked at the cigar like it might be whispering legal theory. Then I had a moment of clarity—what you might call a scotch-fueled epiphany.

“No… that can’t be right,” I muttered to myself. “I think Indiana just accidentally legalized marijuana for religious purposes.”

Naturally, I did what any responsible citizen would do: I emailed Bill Levin—local mischief-maker, musician, political candidate, and agent of creative chaos. Subject line: Good News. Body: “Indiana may have just legalized cannabis… if you start a religion.”

You see, under RFRA, the government isn’t allowed to substantially burden your sincerely held religious beliefs—unless it has a compelling interest and uses the least restrictive means to do so. Without the criminal exemption, someone could plausibly argue that smoking marijuana was part of their religious practice. Cue the theological reefer madness.

To his eternal credit (or blame), Bill didn’t just nod politely and go back to playing guitar. He ran with it.

Within weeks, he launched the First Church of Cannabis, complete with its own doctrine (the Deity Dozen), a congregation, and the most obvious $4.20 monthly tithe in human history. He held the first service on July 1, 2015—the exact day RFRA took effect. There was music, meditation, and love… but no actual marijuana. Even Bill knew better than to light up with IMPD parked outside.

Now here’s your quick law lesson.

To challenge a law in court, you need standing—a real injury or a credible threat of one. You can’t just file a lawsuit because you think a law is dumb (which, to be fair, this one kind of was). Originally, Bill and law enforcement had floated the idea of staging it: he’d light up, get arrested, and then sue. But that’s called manufactured standing, and courts tend to treat it like a fake ID—interesting in theory, but legally useless.

So instead, Bill took a smarter path. He publicly announced his intent to light up during the inaugural service, and IMPD and the Marion County Prosecutor’s Office swiftly made it known that doing so would earn him a trip to the lockup. That threat of arrest? That was enough. The court found it credible and imminent, and just like that—Bill had standing.

Little risk, high reward. And if you know Bill Levin, you know that sounds about right. The man is just one lab accident away from gaining superpowers and using them exclusively to prank the General Assembly.

Bill sued the state, arguing RFRA protected his religious right to toke in peace. The courts disagreed. In 2018, a judge ruled that Indiana’s interest in enforcing drug laws outweighed his religious freedom claim. The appeal went up in smoke.

But culturally? The Church won.

A decade later, the First Church of Cannabis still meets weekly. Still preaches peace, love, and enlightenment by way of leafy greens. Still reminds lawmakers what happens when you write a law without understanding it.

And while Indiana has kept cannabis illegal, the landscape has changed. We are now completely surrounded by states where marijuana is legal in some form: Illinois, Michigan, Ohio, Kentucky, Missouri. You can get stoned on all sides like you’re living in the world’s most mellow siege. And with high-potency CBD and Delta-8 sold openly across Indiana, let’s face it: prohibition is basically performative at this point.

The First Church of Cannabis wasn’t really about getting high. It was about getting real—about exposing legislative hypocrisy and showing what happens when the law’s unintended consequences get passed around like a joint at a Phish concert.

RFRA was pitched as a shield for conservative values. It accidentally became a platform for progressive protest. That’s the thing about laws: once they’re out in the wild, they don’t always behave the way their authors intended.

So today, on this sacred tenth anniversary, let’s light a candle—or whatever’s legal—for the church that dared to ask, “Why not us?”

To Bill Levin, for turning a loophole into a movement—bless you, my brother in burlap.
To the Indiana General Assembly—thanks for giving us the legal equivalent of a Cheech & Chong sketch.
And to myself—next time I have a scotch-fueled legal epiphany at Nicky Blaine’s, cigar in hand, I’ll just keep it to myself.

Probably.

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Abdul-Hakim Shabazz is the editor and publisher of Indy Politics. He’s also an attorney licensed in Illinois (where marijuana is legal) and Indiana (where it still isn’t).

By Abdul-Hakim Shabazz

A funny thing happened on the way to the next Indianapolis mayoral election: a socialist just won in New York City.

Okay — democratic socialist. But still.

Zohran Mamdani, the Kampala-born, Queens-based assemblyman and card-carrying member of the Democratic Socialists of America, just pulled off a political heist that would’ve seemed impossible five years ago. Running a shoestring, grassroots campaign focused on affordability, public housing, and fare-free transit, Mamdani toppled a complacent establishment and became the presumptive next mayor of America’s biggest city.

Cue the panic (or celebration) depending on your political persuasion.

Now, what does any of that have to do with the 2027 mayor’s race in Indianapolis — a city better known for corn-fed pragmatism, potholes, and politicians who think “bold” means using a new font on their campaign yard signs?

Actually — quite a bit.

And yes, before you ask, the title is a nod to that absurd 2008 Adam Sandler movie Don’t Mess with the Zohan, in which Sandler plays an Israeli commando turned NYC hairstylist. But this is real life — and in Mamdani’s case, the weapon isn’t martial arts or mousse. It’s a clear political message, delivered with surgical focus and a whole lot of shoe leather.

Now, let’s be clear: Indianapolis ain’t New York City. We’re 700 miles and a cultural universe apart. What plays in Brooklyn may not land in Broad Ripple. We don’t have bodegas on every corner, the subway doesn’t run all night, and you’re more likely to see a tractor on I-70 than a Tesla with five union stickers on it. But even with all that distance — literal and figurative — Mamdani’s campaign still matters here. Because while the scale is different, the issues aren’t.

Forget the Bernie bro clichés. Mamdani’s campaign wasn’t built on Twitter dunking or revolution cosplay — it was door knocking, food pantry lines, and transit stops. His messaging was blunt: “You shouldn’t have to work three jobs to afford rent.” Turns out, a lot of people agree.

In Indy, we’re dealing with our own affordability crisis. Rent’s up, wages are flat, and too many working families are one missed paycheck away from crisis. So don’t be surprised if a local candidate in 2027 — especially in a crowded Democratic primary — takes a page out of Mamdani’s playbook: call out the establishment, promise rent caps, push public transit, and remind everyone that fixing sidewalks and investing in communities are not mutually exclusive.

If Mamdani can win in a city as cutthroat as New York, what’s stopping someone in Indy from doing the same?

Mamdani’s win isn’t just a victory for the left — it’s a warning shot to moderates and machine Democrats everywhere. For years, the playbook was simple: consolidate donor support, get endorsements from party elders, and coast to victory on name ID. That strategy just got smoked.

In Indy, that means the so-called “next-in-line” candidates — you know the ones, all résumé and no soul — may be in for a rude awakening. Voters are looking for authenticity, not pedigree. Energy, not entitlement.

So if you’re a well-heeled, business-friendly, cocktail-party Democrat eyeing 2027, you’d better come up with something more compelling than “I’ve always loved this city and will work hard.” Because someone hungrier, younger, and bolder may be coming for your base.

Now, granted, 2027 is still a long way off. A lot can happen in two years — and a lot is already happening. The current administration is still reeling from scandal and staff shakeups tied to its handling of workplace misconduct allegations, and voters are paying attention. Whether Joe Hogsett decides to hang it up or go one more round, there’s already a growing list of potential challengers, and it’s shaping up to be a crowded, possibly chaotic field.

Mamdani didn’t win because he had a million TikTok followers or a six-figure ad buy. He won because his team knocked on thousands of doors, organized in multiple languages, and treated communities as more than voting blocs. In a city like Indianapolis, that’s a lesson worth learning.

If you’re a candidate thinking about 2027, ask yourself: Are you really talking to the voters who live outside the usual donor zip codes? Do you know what’s happening in Haughville, Martindale-Brightwood, or Crooked Creek — beyond what your policy white papers say? Because here’s the deal: Mamdani didn’t win by being radical. He won by being present.

Yes, the GOP is already having a field day calling Mamdani a socialist boogeyman who wants to nationalize your backyard grill. That talking point is coming to Indianapolis too — whether it’s relevant or not. Expect local Republicans to say that electing any Democrat, especially one with progressive ideas, will turn Indy into Portland. Never mind that we can’t even keep up with road resurfacing or code enforcement.

But here’s the kicker: if the Democratic nominee embraces working-class issues and runs a clean, competent, values-driven campaign — like Mamdani just did — that red-baiting might fall flat. Voters care less about labels and more about results. Especially when their rent just went up again and the bus is still 30 minutes late.

Zohran Mamdani’s victory wasn’t about a personality cult or ideological purism. It was about relevance. About making the case that government can do something meaningful — and fast — for the people who are usually left out. That’s a message that resonates far beyond New York. Even in a red-leaning state like Indiana. Even in a city like Indianapolis, where the old guard still thinks endorsements are everything and momentum is a rumor.

The 2027 race is wide open. And if the Mamdani Moment teaches us anything, it’s this: you don’t have to be next in line to win. You just have to show up, tell the truth, and fight like hell for people who’ve been told to wait their turn.

And in Indianapolis, that might not just be enough to take City Hall — it might be exactly what it takes to blow the doors off it.