Imagine for a moment a pope making confession at the Vatican. Somehow, the public, having read a scoop imparted to L'Osservatore Romano, The New York Times or even the New York Post, learns of some terrible sin to which he confessed. Was the confessional bugged by a detractor of il Papa? Or, assuming the pope isn't himself to blame for self-revealing to an unreliable confidant, did the confessor priest maliciously shoot his mouth off to a journalist or a scheming acquaintance? If we can't trust the iconic pillar of confidentiality that the confessional has represented since 1563—especially when no lesser figure than the pope is involved—is anything truly "sacred" anymore?

We might wonder the same thing about the internal workings of American courts, which have traditionally embraced a steadfast adherence to the confidentiality of judicial decision-making. There was a time that a draft decision of a court remained securely under wraps until the decision was final and intended for public release. And it used to also be that the oral or written communications among judges on a court likewise would remain "in the vault." Those seemingly inviolable norms bolstered a sense of public trust in the judicial branch, and in particular, in the seriousness and dedication that judges brought to their role as arbiters of justice.