Special Inquiry Judges

I recently learned Washington has a confidential legal tool that lets a prosecutor gather evidence under a judge’s supervision without doing it in public view: the Special Inquiry Judge process under RCW 10.27. Think of it less as a “trial” and more as a judge-supervised, subpoena-driven fact-finding proceeding. The SIJ doesn’t decide guilt, doesn’t hand down a verdict, and—by statute—can’t later preside over the criminal case that grows out of the inquiry.

Washington law requires every county to have a Superior Court judge available to serve in this role, designated by a majority of the judges. So this isn’t a conspiracy theory “black site.” It’s a lawful mechanism—quiet, formal, and mostly invisible unless you’re pulled into it.

Here’s the basic structure as I understand it:

• Police investigate first, then the case may be referred to the prosecutor.
• The prosecutor (called the “public attorney” in the statute) can initiate an SIJ proceeding.
• Once it exists, the prosecutor can subpoena records and compel witness testimony, under judicial supervision.
• When testimony is taken, the room is kept tight: the witness (and counsel), the prosecutor, the court reporter, and a few limited necessary roles. The point is confidentiality.

And yes—this is where the whole thing gets queasy.

People hear “you can plead the Fifth” and assume that ends the conversation. In an SIJ setting, the privilege against self-incrimination still exists, but the prosecutor can ask the judge to order the witness to answer anyway, and the statute provides immunity-type protection for compelled testimony while still allowing punishment for perjury or refusal to comply. Translation: the system has a built-in way to trade your silence for compelled answers.

What’s even more unsettling is the secrecy. The subject of an investigation might not be told it’s happening. Friends, coworkers, or family can be questioned under strict confidentiality rules. That’s not automatically evil—it’s how investigations work—but it’s also how false narratives can metastasize in the dark. When questions are asked in secret, the way they’re phrased matters. A leading question doesn’t just “gather facts”—it plants an idea.

“Have you ever seen Shannon do anything that might be considered terrorism?”

That question is a stink bomb. Even if the answer is “absolutely not,” you’ve still put the word terrorism in someone’s head next to my name. And if the person you’re asking has a grudge, an axe to grind, or just enjoys being important for five minutes, the incentive to embellish is obvious.

And then there’s the human factor nobody wants to talk about: what happens when the prosecutor gets emotionally invested? What happens when the narrative becomes the goal? Who checks the instinct to ignore exculpatory facts because they’re inconvenient? Who stops the “we didn’t prove that, but we noticed this” drift—where the original suspicion collapses and the fallback plan becomes scraping for unrelated offenses?

At what point does the system admit it has spent enough time and resources grinding a private citizen into dust—isolating them, destabilizing their work and relationships, and wrecking their health—without producing the supposed monster it went hunting for?

Great question. If I ever get a straight answer, I’ll publish it. Until then, I’ll be over here living in the kind of atmosphere where privacy is treated like a privilege, suspicion is treated like proof, and indignation is treated like guilt—especially once you stop using polite words when addressing your watchers.