Chief Judge David Newblatt was the featured speaker at the 100th anniversary celebration, a noteworthy event that also included the unveiling of a Scales of Justice artwork created by artist Robert Barnum in the accompanying photo. On each side of Lady Justice are pillars with content selected by the Genesee County Bar Foundation to underscore enduring legal principles, according to Circuit Court Administrator Barbara Menear.
By Tom Kirvan
Legal News
On September 25, downtown Flint buzzed with civic pride as residents, legal leaders, and community officials gathered to celebrate the centennial of the Historic Genesee County Courthouse.
Commemorating 100 years of continuous public service on Courthouse Square, the milestone event featured public tours of the building's historic courtrooms, a community reception, and the unveiling of a striking new lawn installation, “Scales of Justice,” by acclaimed Michigan artist Robert Barnum. The master of ceremonies at the event was attorney Jeremy Piper of the Genesee County Bar Foundation, which spearheaded the fundraising effort for the outside artwork.
The site itself has served as the absolute bedrock of local law since the late 1830s, when early settler Wait Beach deeded the land to the county with the purpose that the land be used for a courthouse and a public square. After successive log and brick structures were destroyed by fires, the county commissioned the current majestic structure, completed between 1925 and 1926 by architect Frederick D. Madison. Over the last century, it has adjudicated history-shaping events ranging from foundational civil rights cases to the complexities of the Flint water crisis.
Listed on the National Register of Historic Places, the courthouse stands as a pristine example of Neo-Classical Revival architecture. Its exterior features a commanding, five-story design faced with gray Indiana limestone across the lower levels. Evenly spaced Ionic columns frame the upper stories, drawing eyes upward toward a grand classical entablature and a monolithic flat-topped parapet, according to court officials.
The interior of the building is equally awe-inspiring, boasting historic marble wainscoting, wrought-iron handrails, and elegant American walnut accents. Most notable are the sweeping courtroom murals that outline the history of the United States, Michigan, and Genesee County. As Chief Judge David Newblatt remarked during the ceremony, these preserved artworks offer a visual "theory of justice for a community"—bridging generations of legal history under one magnificent roof.
The event was followed by a reception at the Greater Flint Arts Council, and featured live music by the Roger Jones Jazz Trio.
Chief Judge Newblatt, a product of Wayne State University Law School who has been a member of the bench since 2004, served as the keynote speaker at the commemoration ceremony. His profound and eloquent remarks are reprinted below.
—————
Good afternoon. My name is David Newblatt. I’m the Chief Judge of the Genesee County Circuit and Probate Courts. Thank you for being here to commemorate the centennial anniversary of our beloved courthouse.
I’m going to begin by maybe doing something a little unconventional. After all, Halloween is upon us.
A haunted house is a house inhabited by a spirit. We picture dark Gothic architecture and creepy interiors. Old portraits. Candelabras. But while those things create a spooky atmosphere, they are not what makes a house haunted. The haunting is done by the ghost who won’t leave. Technically, a ghost doesn’t need Gothic architecture or candelabras in order to haunt a house. But I ask you this: how scary can a haunted house really be if it looks like an Ikea?
A courthouse works the opposite way. It is a building that is supposed to be inhabited—not by a ghost, but by a different presence. Justice. Indeed, that’s what makes it a courthouse. But the fact that justice is supposed to reside here doesn’t mean that it necessarily will. A courthouse can produce justice. Or it can produce injustice. Justice, in other words, is contingent.
And appearances matter. What a courthouse looks like can help create an atmosphere in which justice feels present. If architecture and interiors can help us feel the presence of a ghost in a haunted house, can they also help us feel the presence of justice in a courthouse? Or put another way: how just can a courthouse feel if it looks like an Ikea?
Thankfully, 100 years ago our civic leaders did not build an Ikea. They built something ambitious: a five-story Neo-Classical courthouse, framed in concrete, faced in Indiana limestone, and fronted by Ionic columns. This was not intended to be merely functional. It was designed to command attention and to convey seriousness, permanence and public duty.
And the ambition did not stop with the architecture. The creators of this courthouse did something wonderful. They commissioned murals that covered the walls behind the courtroom benches. The original murals were painted by Edgar Spier Cameron, an accomplished muralist and former art critic for the Chicago Tribune. Our courthouse was his final project. Much later, Flint artist Stefan Davidek restored the surviving murals, recreated one that had been lost, and added a new mural on the fifth floor.
There is something I like about that history. One generation created the artistic vision. Another preserved it and added to it. And now our generation gets to decide what it means. So here is my interpretation: taken together, the murals offer a theory of justice for a community.
In Courtroom No. 3—my courtroom—the mural depicts Flint’s mythical founding, when Jacob Smith met Chief Neome on the banks of what would become the Flint River. It presents the beginning of a community: Flint as a city united for the future.
On the fifth floor, behind Judge Weier’s bench, the mural presents the people of Flint. Famous citizens such as Billy Durant and C.S. Mott appear alongside ordinary, unnamed figures. So the community is represented not only by its celebrated names, but by its people—people like you and me.
In Courtroom No. 1, the mural shows Flint’s history—from trapping, to lumber, to manufacturing, to the automobile industry. Vehicle City in all its glory.
A founding. A people. A history. All are necessary. But a community needs something more.
That brings us to Courtroom No. 2. Its mural contains two Latin words: J-U-S—pronounced yoos— and L-E-X, lex. Justice and law. A city must be oriented toward justice through law. And the courthouse is where that commitment encounters the reality of human conflict—where law must be interpreted, applied and given meaning in the lives of actual people.
Taken together, the murals express a mission for this courthouse: to orient Flint and Genesee County toward justice through the law.
So yes, today we celebrate the architecture and the art of this courthouse—both the original building and its addition. But architecture can only create the mood, and art can only articulate the mission. Neither can guarantee that justice will actually live here. Justice cannot be consecrated once and then preserved forever. It doesn’t work that way.
Whether justice resides here depends on what takes place here—day after day, case after case—by the people who actually occupy these rooms. By judges struggling to get difficult decisions right. By lawyers pouring their blood and sweat into the representation of their clients. By jurors setting aside their own lives to sit in judgment of their fellow citizens. By witnesses taking an oath and telling what they know. By clerks, deputies, probation officers, and court employees doing the daily work necessary to turn the promise of justice into an operating institution. And by the people of this community who, at some of the hardest moments of their lives, walked through these doors and entrusted their problems to the law.
Think of all that has happened within this courthouse over the past century. Some of the most important episodes in our community’s history have been litigated within these walls: the early days of General Motors, the Sit-Down Strike, the Civil Rights struggle, economic hardship, the Flint Water Crisis. And alongside those public events have been countless private ones—criminal cases, civil disputes, custody battles, estate contests—moments of enormous consequence in individual lives.
And for all that has happened, we have to be honest about the fact that we don’t always get it right. How could we? After all, we’re only human. And our system—as great as it is—isn’t perfect. But here’s the thing: perfection isn’t required; orientation is. We must always—always—be oriented toward justice. That is the mission expressed in the murals. And that is how justice resides here. Not because it was guaranteed by the architects or declared at a dedication ceremony. Not because it is perfect. It resides here because generations of people have honestly tried to make it real.
Now, that is something worth commemorating.
And what a commemoration it is. Today—as part of the that commemoration—we are doing something truly exciting. We are dedicating a new piece of art—one that will join the murals and deepen the courthouse’s orientation toward justice.
Many of you know that I walk during my lunch hour. Sometimes, when I come back from those walks, I look up at our courthouse and get goosebumps. Why? Not because ghosts live here.
I get goosebumps because I am reminded of the weight of our mission: to provide justice for our community.
For 100 years, generations of people have tried to fulfill that mission within this courthouse. May we—and those who come after us—continue to do so for another 100 years and beyond.
Legal News
On September 25, downtown Flint buzzed with civic pride as residents, legal leaders, and community officials gathered to celebrate the centennial of the Historic Genesee County Courthouse.
Commemorating 100 years of continuous public service on Courthouse Square, the milestone event featured public tours of the building's historic courtrooms, a community reception, and the unveiling of a striking new lawn installation, “Scales of Justice,” by acclaimed Michigan artist Robert Barnum. The master of ceremonies at the event was attorney Jeremy Piper of the Genesee County Bar Foundation, which spearheaded the fundraising effort for the outside artwork.
The site itself has served as the absolute bedrock of local law since the late 1830s, when early settler Wait Beach deeded the land to the county with the purpose that the land be used for a courthouse and a public square. After successive log and brick structures were destroyed by fires, the county commissioned the current majestic structure, completed between 1925 and 1926 by architect Frederick D. Madison. Over the last century, it has adjudicated history-shaping events ranging from foundational civil rights cases to the complexities of the Flint water crisis.
Listed on the National Register of Historic Places, the courthouse stands as a pristine example of Neo-Classical Revival architecture. Its exterior features a commanding, five-story design faced with gray Indiana limestone across the lower levels. Evenly spaced Ionic columns frame the upper stories, drawing eyes upward toward a grand classical entablature and a monolithic flat-topped parapet, according to court officials.
The interior of the building is equally awe-inspiring, boasting historic marble wainscoting, wrought-iron handrails, and elegant American walnut accents. Most notable are the sweeping courtroom murals that outline the history of the United States, Michigan, and Genesee County. As Chief Judge David Newblatt remarked during the ceremony, these preserved artworks offer a visual "theory of justice for a community"—bridging generations of legal history under one magnificent roof.
The event was followed by a reception at the Greater Flint Arts Council, and featured live music by the Roger Jones Jazz Trio.
Chief Judge Newblatt, a product of Wayne State University Law School who has been a member of the bench since 2004, served as the keynote speaker at the commemoration ceremony. His profound and eloquent remarks are reprinted below.
—————
Good afternoon. My name is David Newblatt. I’m the Chief Judge of the Genesee County Circuit and Probate Courts. Thank you for being here to commemorate the centennial anniversary of our beloved courthouse.
I’m going to begin by maybe doing something a little unconventional. After all, Halloween is upon us.
A haunted house is a house inhabited by a spirit. We picture dark Gothic architecture and creepy interiors. Old portraits. Candelabras. But while those things create a spooky atmosphere, they are not what makes a house haunted. The haunting is done by the ghost who won’t leave. Technically, a ghost doesn’t need Gothic architecture or candelabras in order to haunt a house. But I ask you this: how scary can a haunted house really be if it looks like an Ikea?
A courthouse works the opposite way. It is a building that is supposed to be inhabited—not by a ghost, but by a different presence. Justice. Indeed, that’s what makes it a courthouse. But the fact that justice is supposed to reside here doesn’t mean that it necessarily will. A courthouse can produce justice. Or it can produce injustice. Justice, in other words, is contingent.
And appearances matter. What a courthouse looks like can help create an atmosphere in which justice feels present. If architecture and interiors can help us feel the presence of a ghost in a haunted house, can they also help us feel the presence of justice in a courthouse? Or put another way: how just can a courthouse feel if it looks like an Ikea?
Thankfully, 100 years ago our civic leaders did not build an Ikea. They built something ambitious: a five-story Neo-Classical courthouse, framed in concrete, faced in Indiana limestone, and fronted by Ionic columns. This was not intended to be merely functional. It was designed to command attention and to convey seriousness, permanence and public duty.
And the ambition did not stop with the architecture. The creators of this courthouse did something wonderful. They commissioned murals that covered the walls behind the courtroom benches. The original murals were painted by Edgar Spier Cameron, an accomplished muralist and former art critic for the Chicago Tribune. Our courthouse was his final project. Much later, Flint artist Stefan Davidek restored the surviving murals, recreated one that had been lost, and added a new mural on the fifth floor.
There is something I like about that history. One generation created the artistic vision. Another preserved it and added to it. And now our generation gets to decide what it means. So here is my interpretation: taken together, the murals offer a theory of justice for a community.
In Courtroom No. 3—my courtroom—the mural depicts Flint’s mythical founding, when Jacob Smith met Chief Neome on the banks of what would become the Flint River. It presents the beginning of a community: Flint as a city united for the future.
On the fifth floor, behind Judge Weier’s bench, the mural presents the people of Flint. Famous citizens such as Billy Durant and C.S. Mott appear alongside ordinary, unnamed figures. So the community is represented not only by its celebrated names, but by its people—people like you and me.
In Courtroom No. 1, the mural shows Flint’s history—from trapping, to lumber, to manufacturing, to the automobile industry. Vehicle City in all its glory.
A founding. A people. A history. All are necessary. But a community needs something more.
That brings us to Courtroom No. 2. Its mural contains two Latin words: J-U-S—pronounced yoos— and L-E-X, lex. Justice and law. A city must be oriented toward justice through law. And the courthouse is where that commitment encounters the reality of human conflict—where law must be interpreted, applied and given meaning in the lives of actual people.
Taken together, the murals express a mission for this courthouse: to orient Flint and Genesee County toward justice through the law.
So yes, today we celebrate the architecture and the art of this courthouse—both the original building and its addition. But architecture can only create the mood, and art can only articulate the mission. Neither can guarantee that justice will actually live here. Justice cannot be consecrated once and then preserved forever. It doesn’t work that way.
Whether justice resides here depends on what takes place here—day after day, case after case—by the people who actually occupy these rooms. By judges struggling to get difficult decisions right. By lawyers pouring their blood and sweat into the representation of their clients. By jurors setting aside their own lives to sit in judgment of their fellow citizens. By witnesses taking an oath and telling what they know. By clerks, deputies, probation officers, and court employees doing the daily work necessary to turn the promise of justice into an operating institution. And by the people of this community who, at some of the hardest moments of their lives, walked through these doors and entrusted their problems to the law.
Think of all that has happened within this courthouse over the past century. Some of the most important episodes in our community’s history have been litigated within these walls: the early days of General Motors, the Sit-Down Strike, the Civil Rights struggle, economic hardship, the Flint Water Crisis. And alongside those public events have been countless private ones—criminal cases, civil disputes, custody battles, estate contests—moments of enormous consequence in individual lives.
And for all that has happened, we have to be honest about the fact that we don’t always get it right. How could we? After all, we’re only human. And our system—as great as it is—isn’t perfect. But here’s the thing: perfection isn’t required; orientation is. We must always—always—be oriented toward justice. That is the mission expressed in the murals. And that is how justice resides here. Not because it was guaranteed by the architects or declared at a dedication ceremony. Not because it is perfect. It resides here because generations of people have honestly tried to make it real.
Now, that is something worth commemorating.
And what a commemoration it is. Today—as part of the that commemoration—we are doing something truly exciting. We are dedicating a new piece of art—one that will join the murals and deepen the courthouse’s orientation toward justice.
Many of you know that I walk during my lunch hour. Sometimes, when I come back from those walks, I look up at our courthouse and get goosebumps. Why? Not because ghosts live here.
I get goosebumps because I am reminded of the weight of our mission: to provide justice for our community.
For 100 years, generations of people have tried to fulfill that mission within this courthouse. May we—and those who come after us—continue to do so for another 100 years and beyond.
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