Radical Racism and the Ideology of Bigotry
Weinhaus celebrates Tommy Robinson, the British far-right extremist and cofounder of the English Defence League, whose white-supremacist rhetoric casts white people as natives and non-white people as invaders. A May 2026 Byline Times investigation documents Robinson’s references to “Millions of parasites” and “invaders and their offspring,” alongside his demand for “Remigration and de-islamisation”: a program of racial exclusion that reaches citizens and their descendants.
In a LinkedIn message to someone he had not yet met, under the subject line “Oyyyyy Tommy Tommy,” Weinhaus wrote of “my representation of controversial UK free speech advocate Tommy Robinson” and linked to an online interview whose title billed him as “Tommy Robinson’s US Lawyer.”
“Tommy is often lambasted for his views!” the message continues. “And boy does that cause the meek to back away. But not the patriots!” He signs off as “Coach,” and adds a postscript: “OYYYYY TOMMY TOMMY !”
Weinhaus makes loyalty to Robinson a test of courage. Those who distance themselves are “the meek”; those who remain are “the patriots.” His praise turns rejection of Robinson into a personal failing, and allegiance into something to boast about.
Robinson’s record shows the conduct behind the rhetoric. In August 2025 the office of Cleveland’s Police and Crime Commissioner, the elected official who oversees policing in that part of north-east England, described one case. A Redcar family’s video of a day in the park with their grandchildren had been stolen, altered and spread with fabricated claims of child grooming. Robinson shared the doctored video with his 1.4 million followers despite the family’s appeals and, the commissioner’s office reported, had not taken it down. The family described threats against their lives. The commissioner said the case showed why messages “that seek to demonise minority communities” must be challenged.
“Juicy Stories”
Weinhaus has long worked in the business of turning public records into publications. In February 2026, Columbia Journalism Review identified him as a lawyer for Metric Media, a network of nearly twelve hundred news sites, and as a cofounder of two of its predecessors, Blockshopper and Journatic, later known as LocalLabs. In 2023 he formed Judiciocracy, a Missouri company whose publications include ALABnews. He is Judiciocracy’s chief executive. The same year he founded Children of the Court, a nonprofit that argues parental-rights cases should go to judges who have been parents or foster parents. He is its executive director.
He has described the work in his own words. “I do not care what you’re asking for. I do not care what you’re using the information for,” he told Columbia Journalism Review. “If it’s public, it’s yours and it’s all of ours. Let’s go get it.”
The creed stops at the clerk’s counter. It says nothing about the people the records describe, and nothing about the publisher’s own hand. A file does not choose its headline, its picture or its readers. Someone decides which page matters, whose name goes on top and who should be sent the result. That is where a publication’s power lives, and the creed passes over it in silence.
Those decisions are plain in a piece ALABnews published on November 27, 2023, under the byline “AlabNews Staff Writer.” It concerned a law graduate, and it was illustrated with a cartoon of a beaming figure in cap and gown. No court file contains that drawing. No records request could have produced it. Whatever documents lay behind the story, the smile was the publication’s choice.
His correspondence shows how he speaks of the people on the far side of the records. On June 4, 2026, he wrote of “likely tracking Mr. [redacted] behavior,” and observed that “there do seem to be a lot of juicy stories available.”
The vocabulary is his. A man’s conduct is “behavior,” and behavior is something to track. Stories about people are “juicy,” and there are “a lot” of them “available.” Together the words turn other people’s lives into material: something to watch, to savor and to take.
Material like this does not stay where it is published. A piece that carries a person’s name waits in the search results for whoever types that name next: an employer, a client, an admissions committee, a stranger. Cases close and people move on. The piece does not. It offers every new reader the same moment, as if it were still happening.
That is the first authority the record shows: the power to pick out one moment of another person’s life, dress it in words and a picture, and send it out under that person’s name, sometimes to the person, with sympathy attached. The operation claims a second authority as well, and that one it borrows from the courts.
“Nationwide Enforcer”
The operation’s names reach for institutional weight: Judiciocracy, a coinage that welds the judiciary to rule; Children of the Court; ALABnews. Weinhaus’s own name travels with an escort of titles. On LinkedIn he appears as “(Dr.) Edward ‘Coach’ Weinhaus, Esq.,” above a headline that reads, in full, “Academic, Publisher, International Judicial Reformer, international Envoy, French Student, and Your Favorite Faculty. Also...Crypto.”
The most revealing claim of standing involves a judge’s face. In April 2023, Judge Thaddeus Wilson of the Circuit Court of Cook County signed an agreed order settling a business lawsuit in which Weinhaus was a plaintiff. According to a complaint filed in April 2025 by the Illinois Attorney Registration and Disciplinary Commission, the agency that investigates and prosecutes misconduct by Illinois lawyers, Weinhaus then had the judge’s photograph placed on the “Team” page of Children of the Court’s website, with the words “Nationwide Enforcer” beneath the judge’s name. The biography said that “his order has created a national organization, advocating in every state,” and that “Judge Wilson is responsible for enforcing the funding of Children of the Court.”
The commission charges that the page falsely presented the judge as a member of the organization’s team, with responsibility for its activities and its funding. The case is pending.
A second judge appears in the same complaint, in a very different role. Judge Regina Scannicchio, of the same court, had presided over matters in Weinhaus’s divorce. After the decree, his former wife asked the court to make him pay her legal fees, citing his litigiousness during the proceedings. Judge Scannicchio ordered him to pay $25,000.
In December 2023, ALABnews published an article under a headline calling a firm of Chicago divorce lawyers “dastardly.” According to the commission, the article involved allegations against one of his former wife’s lawyers. It reported that Judge Wilson had “immediately ordered an organization be started to keep judges like [Judge Regina] Scannicchio away from cases involving children.” The commission charges that this, too, was false.
He fought the fee order, and then he sued the judge who entered it. The Illinois Appellate Court dismissed his appeal, and the Illinois Supreme Court declined to hear it. In federal court he sued Judge Scannicchio and the Illinois Judges Association. In June 2025 the Seventh Circuit affirmed the dismissal of that suit, finding a complaint built on “conclusory labels” and “bare assertion[s] of conspiracy.” In February 2026 the Supreme Court declined to hear the case. One $25,000 order had been carried through five more courts.
Side by side, the two judges show how the operation seats its bench. The judge who signed the settlement order was given a title on the “Team” page. The judge who ordered Weinhaus to pay became, in his company’s publication, an example of the judges to be kept “away from cases involving children,” and, in his lawsuit, a conspirator. The caption beneath the first judge’s photograph explains the arrangement. An enforcer carries out what has already been decided. Cast as the organization’s enforcer, a judge becomes its instrument, and the deciding passes to whoever built the page.
The same borrowed voice runs through a notice Weinhaus co-signed on June 5, 2026, with Adam Florek, a lawyer whose letter names Weinhaus as his firm’s “Chief Legal Counsel.” Sent on behalf of Judiciocracy, it demanded the preservation of drafts, the identities of sources, and communications with attorney-discipline agencies in Illinois, California and Missouri. It required written confirmation within five business days and asked that the matter be treated “as if a lawsuit has already been filed and litigation is ongoing.” The notice carried no court order.
The team page and the notice speak in a court’s vocabulary: orders, enforcers, litigation, holds. A private organization addresses the world as though its wishes carried judicial force. And when actual courts rule against him, Weinhaus demands another hearing.
When Someone Else Decides
In October 2025, Weinhaus paid $6 for a ticket to the homecoming football game at Highland Park High School, north of Chicago, where two of his children were students. A student reported him to the dean of students, who asked him to leave. Weinhaus refused.
The dean came back with the school’s head of security and three police officers and told Weinhaus to leave or be arrested for trespassing. A student, the dean said, was uncomfortable because he was “following her.” The dean escorted Weinhaus out and told him he could return for future events.
Weinhaus and his two organizations answered with a federal lawsuit. In June 2026 a federal judge in Chicago dismissed it with prejudice. Members of the public, the judge wrote, have no constitutional right to be on school property, and an escort from a game his children had already left, with an invitation to return, was an injury that was “truly minimal.” Weinhaus has appealed.
Eight months before the game, Weinhaus had told a local newspaper that “accountability at schools is something for parents to take into their own hands.” He claims the authority to hold a school to account. When the school exercised its own authority over him for a single evening, he called it a violation of the Constitution.
The disciplinary case puts the same asymmetry on paper. In his answer to the commission, Weinhaus insists that “the full article needs to be included to understand the context and who the speaker is.” For the two judges the article and the website described, the answer applies a different standard. Neither judge, it says, ever asked for a correction, and “a failure to take steps to correct any false information is a prima facie admission that the information is not a false statement of fact.” For him, the full article and its context. For the judges, a silence entered as an admission.
His organizations also sued the commission in federal court. In December 2025 a federal judge dismissed the suit. The rights at stake belonged to Weinhaus, not to his organizations, she ruled. It was “not a reasonable inference that the non-actions of third parties demonstrate bad faith,” and the claim that the charges were meant to stifle speech was “frankly implausible.” She allowed an amended complaint only if counsel could cure the defects consistent with Rule 11, which makes a lawyer answerable for what he signs. The organizations have appealed.
Courts have spoken to him this way before. In 2019 the Seventh Circuit found one of his appeals frivolous and held that it met the standard for sanctions. The court sent its order to the State Bar of California.
The rule runs in one direction. When a decision concerns Weinhaus, it must be explained, set in context and heard. When his operation’s statements concern someone else, his own filing treats that person’s silence as an admission.
“In My Sleep”
Weinhaus has also written about prison. On May 18, 2026, a criminal case was filed against him in the District Court of Maryland in Montgomery County, charging harassment by electronic communication and harassment by a course of conduct. The court’s record marks probable cause for each charge. Seventeen days later, on June 4, he wrote: “Frankly, I think I could do three years in Maryland state prison in my sleep.”
He makes three years in prison sound like a nap.
Five days after he wrote it came the date of the conduct charged in a second Maryland case. Filed on June 10, that case lists the same two charges, for June 9, again with probable cause marked for each, and a warrant for his arrest was issued the day it was filed. Both cases were open when their records were printed. On September 18, the warrant was still listed as active.
The man Weinhaus cheers has served a prison term. The record of how he got there, and of how it ended, is public.
Tommy Robinson is the name used by Stephen Yaxley-Lennon. In 2018 a video spread of a fifteen-year-old Syrian refugee being forced to the ground by the throat on his school’s playing field in Huddersfield. Robinson answered with two Facebook videos accusing the boy of violence. In 2021 the High Court found that Robinson had failed to prove his allegations. His videos, the judge wrote, were “a deliberate effort to portray the Claimant as being, far from an innocent victim, but in fact a violent aggressor,” in language “calculated to inflame the situation.” The boy became a target of abuse; he and his family were forced from their home, and he had to abandon his education. The court awarded him £100,000 and issued an injunction barring Robinson from repeating the allegations.
Set beside the family in Redcar, the schoolboy’s case shows the same pattern. An accusation is fastened to a particular person and broadcast to strangers who meet the accusation before they meet the person. Race and religion supply suspicion in advance: people are cast as threats before anything has been shown about their conduct.
Robinson did not comply with the injunction. On October 28, 2024, having admitted ten breaches, he was committed to prison for eighteen months, less three days. Four of the breaches involved his film Silenced. The judge divided the term in two: fourteen months, less three days, as punishment, and four months to compel compliance. Robinson could seek to have those four months remitted by purging his contempt, which, the judge said, would likely require at least taking Silenced down and trying to have it removed elsewhere.
In March 2025 the High Court refused him permission to bring a judicial-review challenge to his segregation in prison. In April the Court of Appeal dismissed his appeal against the committal.
In May he took the other course. In witness statements, Robinson said he now understood that if he disagreed with the injunction, the right course had been to appeal against it rather than to breach it. He had deleted the recordings from his X account, asked those who controlled other copies to remove them, and given an assurance that he would comply with the injunction in the future. The High Court remitted the four months. “The intention behind the coercive element of the committal has been achieved,” the judge wrote, noting also that Robinson had expressed no contrition or remorse. The injunction stayed in force. On May 27, 2025, about seven months after he was taken into custody, Robinson was released.
Both challenges failed. The four months fell away only after the material came down and the promise to comply was given. It was compliance, not endurance, that shortened his time in prison.
A little more than a year after Robinson’s release, Weinhaus wrote that he could do three years in his sleep.