Lesley Wilson, a 54-year-old domestic violence survivor in southern Louisiana, called 911 on her abusive partner, obtained a protective order, and was rewarded with an eviction notice. The stated reason: "disturbing the neighbors + fighting." Louisiana's Violence Against Women Act, passed in 2015, explicitly limits landlords' ability to evict domestic violence victims. It did not matter. Her landlord told her he knew the justice of the peace and could dictate the outcome. The hearing took place in the backroom of a public library. Justice Patrick Broussard presided behind a gray library table near a US flag. He announced his intention to "wrap this up quick" — it was his birthday. He remarked it was the first time a tenant had ever appeared before him with a lawyer. Wilson's ex-partner, against whom she held a full restraining order, was called as a witness for the landlord by phone. His testimony was not sworn. Wilson's attorney, Donald Hodge, described the proceeding: "There was no order. No rules. No procedure. No law." Wilson has filed a federal lawsuit alleging due process violations, claiming the compromise judgment was "extracted by duress" through threats of an unpayable appeal bond, admission of ex parte hearsay from her abuser, and the stripping of every procedural safeguard. Broussard, represented by Louisiana's attorney general's office, has asserted judicial immunity and denied unlawful conduct. The landlord denies violating any state or federal law. Wilson's case is not an outlier — it is the system working as designed. Louisiana's justice of the peace courts operate in every parish except New Orleans, presided over by elected officials who need only a high school diploma and "good moral character." They are required to complete 16 hours of training every two years. A Guardian investigation found that dozens fail to meet even this minimal threshold. Hearings are held in living rooms, spare bedrooms, old jailhouses, cellphone repair stores, and offices next to daiquiri bars — any venue that does not sell alcohol. The structural conflict of interest is the fee model. Operating expenses for these courts are paid from court filing fees, meaning the more evictions landlords file, the more money flows directly into the justice's pocket. A handful of justices earn hundreds of thousands of dollars annually. Even low-volume courts — 52% of Louisiana's 390 justices declared less than $10,000 in fee revenue over the past decade — operate under the same incentive: the neutral arbiter profits from one side's filings. Louisiana is among 17 states that allow judges with no law license to preside over eviction hearings. The combination of no legal training, fee-funded revenue, unconventional venues, and minimal oversight creates what housing attorneys call a holdover from the feudal era. Hannah Adams of the National Housing Law Project, who has litigated evictions at a kitchen table and in a pool house, argues the venues themselves signal that these proceedings are "unimportant and uncomplicated" — when in reality they determine whether families keep their homes. The pattern is clear: landlords control access to the court through filing fees that fund the judge, tenants rarely have counsel, hearings are conducted without procedural safeguards, and the architecture makes accountability nearly impossible. Wilson's case reached federal court only because she found a pro-bono attorney. For most tenants across rural Louisiana, the library backroom is where their housing rights end.
