I’ve never been a fan of the lottery.
In fourth grade, I pooled together my chore money (a grand total of $6), handed it over to my dad, and started coming up with names for the horse I’d buy with my winnings. Of course (and thankfully for my parents, who had no interest in caring for a 900-lb horse in addition to two kids), this didn’t work out. I later learned about my dismal odds from a National Geographic Kids magazine: I was thousands of times more likely to be struck by lightning than win the Powerball.
So, naturally, I was skeptical when Zach, SCOTUSblog’s executive editor, asked me to enter into and write a story on the Supreme Court’s lottery system, which allows members of the public to apply online to receive tickets to oral argument. After all was said and done, I expected to write up a few paragraphs effectively saying that I gave it a go, got denied, and that was that. Thirty-three days after entering my name into the Supreme Court’s surprisingly easy-to-use online lottery system, however, I was walking from the metro at Union Station to the Supreme Court for my first live oral argument. Like the lottery system, it also turned out a bit differently from what I was expecting.
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From time immemorial (or at least it seems like that), public seating to watch the justices in action has only been available on a first-come, first-served basis. This means getting to the court as early as possible, and then waiting on line to enter the hallowed halls of One First Street. But simply being on line is hardly enough to secure entry: Although the courtroom holds 400 people, relatively few of those seats are dedicated to members of the public.
Now this might not be a problem in some run-of-the-mill cases. In blockbusters, however, all bets are off. Some camp out overnight (occasionally in the freezing cold) with hopes of getting into the courtroom, while the less savory among us may even pay someone to hold their place. (The court in 2015 prohibited lawyers from hiring line standers for the Supreme Court bar line, but it is not specifically prohibited for the public line – and starting at $60/hour, hiring someone to do so for a big case can be costly, and by no means guaranteed, since the tickets themselves state that “there will be no substitutions of people.”)
It was thus a big deal when, last December, the court (which is not exactly a fan of change) announced plans for a new, pilot lottery system. In the press release, the court noted that, while some seating would remain for the public the old-fashioned way, “[i]ndividuals who receive tickets through the lottery will be able to come to the Court knowing that they have reserved seating for a particular argument or non-argument session.” The announcement also noted that the lottery closes at 5 p.m. EST four weeks before each argument; applicants are notified by email three weeks before an argument session if they’re a winner.
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But how does it work in practice?
After Zach told me to go through the process, I did what any Zoomer would do – got on TikTok. Just kidding – I googled “sign up for supreme court lottery.” The second link down was a SCOTUSblog article by Amy from last December, which I dutifully read, before going back to Google and clicking the top result: “Supreme Court of the United States (.gov) Online Ticketing – Request – Welcome – Supreme Court.” From there, things went far more smoothly than I expected from a government website – you just click the blue button at the center middle of the page labeled “continue,” and verify that you aren’t a robot (which already feels somewhat dated).
I officially entered the lottery on Oct. 8 for five separate November arguments. One entry applies per individual or per group – meaning if you have a group, it’s (in theory) weighted equally as individual entries. I selected all the dates and sessions I could, clicking on each November sitting date and argument – including Learning Resources, Inc. v. Trump on Nov. 5, Landor v. Louisiana Department of Corrections and Public Safety and The GEO Group, Inc. v. Menocal on Nov. 10, and Fernandez v. United States and Rutherford v. United States on Nov. 12.
After clicking “submit,” I immediately got an email, albeit one asking me to validate the ticket request – it seems the court was prompt about making sure I was sure that I wanted to submit my tickets. Although I was given four hours to validate the request from my email, I did it within the minute out of fear of forgetting.
From there, it was a waiting game.
At 1:08 a.m. on Oct. 15 (I wasn’t awake) I was emailed about the big one: Learning Resources. “Dear Nora [my middle name] Collins, The Court is not able to accommodate your request for ticket(s) for the listed Court session(s). If you are interested in attending other session(s), please click here to begin a new request. If you have entered the lottery for session(s) that are not listed below, you will receive a separate email for that lottery.” No surprise there – this was the tariffs case, after all, which even the president claimed that he might attend. But not all hope was lost – I still had four “tickets” pending.
At 1:03 a.m. on Oct. 20 (after this, I put two and two together that notification emails typically came around 1 a.m.) I received an email saying I had been placed on a waitlist(!) for the Landor case. A minute later, I received an email saying the court was not able to accommodate my request for GEO Group (are folks really that interested in the appealability of derivative sovereign immunity under the collateral-order doctrine?).
Two days later, I received the same news regarding Fernandez and Rutherford – meaning my last chance was with Landor, for which I was still waitlisted.
At 1 a.m. on Oct. 23, an email popped into my inbox with the subject line: “Time sensitive action required for 11/10/25 ticket request.” “Dear Nora [my middle name] Collins, Your request for ticket(s) to the Court session(s) listed below was selected during the lottery process. … Please claim your ticket(s) by clicking the confirm button below. If you do not confirm within 24 hours, the seat(s) will be reassigned.”
I got on my laptop at 9 a.m. the next morning and did as instructed. The email included some more details on the .pdf ticket itself (you can print it or present it on a mobile device), security (bring your ID, don’t bring things on the strictly prohibited items list – including your bag, if it’s larger than 18” wide by 14” high by 8.5” deep), arrive at least an hour before the session at 10 a.m., and perhaps most importantly for anyone who requests a ticket in the future: a warning about cancellation. If you don’t attend, and don’t cancel your ticket beforehand, you can be disqualified from future lotteries.
On Nov. 7, I received a reminder email. “How could I forget?”, I thought.
***
The day of, at approximately 8:15 a.m., I got off at Union Station and walked about 15 minutes to the court, which I approached from First Street NE. The building was larger than I had imagined, although it wasn’t quite the perfect stock photo given the scaffolding and metal fence that now pens everything in. The area was relatively empty – just a few guards inside the perimeter. I waited for a few seconds by the edge of the fence before showing one of the security personnel my ticket QR code and explaining that I had received a ticket through the public lottery. He then told me to go to either the left or right side of the court (or as I would learn later, the Northwest or Southwest doors).
As I walked to the left side, an officer stopped me: I was still carrying my coffee (food and drink are absolutely prohibited in the building, at least for the hoi polloi). Even though it was partly cloudy, the white marble of the outside of the court was striking – I hadn’t been able to appreciate it given the scaffolding from the front.
After walking through the glass-paneled double doors, I went through metal detectors almost immediately – putting my jacket, metal hair clip, bag, and phone (noting the time: it was 8:38 a.m.) through the machine, before I walked through the magnetometer. Since there was only one person in front of me, I got through quickly and eventually found a desk with the person processing the tickets, who handed me a wristband, marked what I assume was my name on a piece of paper, and told me to go left. I headed down the hallway and was told to wait in a line held by a belt stanchion.
As I took a breath, I saw that I was standing in a hallway lined with even more marble. In front of me, eight people stood in line to the right of a sign commemorating the White and Taft courts (1910-1930). Portraits of 20th-century justices were also spaced every few feet. To my back was Justice Joseph Lamar, and across from me were Justices William Day, Willis Devanter, and Pierce Butler (legends all).
By 9 a.m., the line steadily grew longer, to about 60 people. Although I had assumed everyone in the line had gotten in via the lottery, I soon learned the individual behind me had done it the old-fashioned way: Beginning at around 4:30 a.m., he had stood in line holding a colored numbered card (today’s being purple) which marked his line position (handed out and assigned sequentially based on order of arrival) – he said security had let the first eight or so people from the line in along with the lottery ticket holders. Behind him, I was heartened to see two people scrolling SCOTUSblog’s case page for Landor.
Around 9:10 a.m., a security officer shushed the line – with the marble floors, sound was echoing and the line had gotten relatively talkative. Seven minutes later, when I was reading about the Judiciary Act of 1925 on the White and Taft sign, another officer announced that everyone in the line should “have either a blue wristband or a ticket from an officer. If you have a silver wristband, you’re in the wrong place.” (I still do not know what a silver wristband signifies, but my guess is it was for people with lottery tickets for the second argument.) At 9:21 a.m., a security guard gave additional instructions and led the line to a small room of square metal lockers to store our belongings. On the way there, we passed by the “19th century Justices” hallway and exhibits, as well as the visitor’s desk – all of which were roped off. The line, at this point, had conglomerated into a mass, with some individuals pushing ahead to get to the lockers first – so my spot was suddenly lost.
After jamming my bag into the locker, I ended up being one of the last ones to walk up the marble stairs. But my tardiness was fortuitous – as I was waiting in line to go through a second metal detector, U.S. Solicitor General D. John Sauer walked within five feet of me. I smiled at him, and he smiled back.
Upon arriving at the courtroom, I was placed in the center aisle, behind one chair and with a clear view of all nine justices. Having familiarized myself with the courtroom via Amy’s “nuts and bolts” piece from 2020, I recognized this as an “overflow seat,” but a good one.
***
My first impression of the courtroom was that it was surprisingly intimate for such a grand institution – akin to a large, very serious living room. The room seemed like it was built to hold history, from the tan and brown marbled columns to the ceiling’s red squares with floral motifs. I had a perfect sightline down the center aisle: six short rows of benches for the bar, then one row of wooden chairs, then a single chair, then me, pressed up against a left-hand pole.
The room filled quickly. Clerks in dark suits darted around with their small circular pins; a few others wore silver pins with the court’s façade on them. Above the bench, more clerks stood watch, one occasionally shushing the gallery like a librarian would in a room of children. The two giant flags flanked the justices’ chairs. The large clock read 10 minutes to 10 a.m., its hand frozen at 45 degrees up and to the left.
Close to 10 a.m. (I couldn’t wear a smart watch), the heavy wooden doors thudded shut. Red curtains held back with thick gold cords framed the bench. Then the crier cried “Oyez [hear ye]! Oyez [hear ye]! Oyez [hear ye]!” and all rose. The justices entered through the center curtain, and they quickly took their chairs.
Overall, the justices looked as experienced and intelligent as in their portraits and pictures, but also (disappointingly? comfortingly?) normal. Justices Elena Kagan and Brett Kavanaugh shared a quick laugh as they settled in. Justice Samuel Alito immediately propped his head on his left hand, looking faintly bored. Justice Amy Coney Barrett sipped from a white mug and looked forward, on alert. Justice Neil Gorsuch put on reading glasses, rested both elbows on the bench, and cradled his cheeks like he was watching a movie he’d already seen twice. Justice Clarence Thomas leaned far back in his chair with his arms folded (as arguments commenced, he leaned further and further back). Justice Ketanji Brown Jackson’s necklace caught the light every time she turned. Justice Sonia Sotomayor’s head barely cleared the top of her microphone – or as I wrote in my notes, “[Kagan] is a neck above [Sotomayor].”
Before argument began, a handful of lawyers were admitted to the bar. The motions were granted perfunctorily, but there was a ceremonial feel to it nonetheless. Then the chief recognized the first advocate in Landor, and arguments began.
What followed was almost two hours of sharp legal questions around the Religious Land Use and Institutionalized Persons Act, appropriate relief, and liability. Thomas asked the first question, followed by Sotomayor who asked a hypothetical. Gorsuch attempted to get a yes-or-no answer (unsuccessfully), which led Barrett to remind Zachary Tripp, representing Damon Landor, “You never gave Justice Gorsuch a yes-or-no, counsel.” Justice Felix Frankfurter once complained that the acoustics in the court were so muffled they should be declared unconstitutional, and I’d have to agree. It was hard for me to hear at times, especially Jackson, who at the far right end of the bench was furthest from my seat.
When it ended, the justices exited using the same red curtains. We shuffled out, and that was that.
***
So what did I learn?
One, despite the cynical age in which we live, attending a Supreme Court oral argument remains a powerful civic ritual, which anyone willing to wake up (at times, very) early to stand in line or enter their name into the lottery can theoretically make happen. Although much can be gained from listening to oral argument on the court’s website or reading through the oral argument transcripts after the fact, being there really is a difference in kind: only in person can you watch some of the country’s most talented advocates appear at the federal judiciary’s highest level, dueling over competing statutory interpretations, century-old precedents, and creative hypotheticals. As for the justices themselves, sitting 20 or so feet away from the highest bench in the land made them seem much more, well, normal, turning the justices from abstractions into real human beings – something it’s quite healthy to be reminded of.
Two, the court’s pilot lottery system is surprisingly easy to use, and sure beats waiting in line for hours. The email updates clearly outlined the process as it was happening (i.e., that I was waitlisted, then granted a ticket), so it felt surprisingly transparent, especially for a branch of government which isn’t known as such. Beginner’s luck or not, I submitted seven new requests on Nov. 18 – so we’ll see if lightning strikes twice.
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