The Volokh Conspiracy

Co-blogger Dale Carpenter argues that Judge Stephen Reinhardt’s recent decision striking down the California gay marriage ban is an attempt at “judicial minimalism” intended to make the outcome acceptable to a Supreme Court that is unlikely to rule that the Constitution requires nation-wide recognition of same-sex marriage. By “lowering the stakes,” Dale argues, Reinhardt gives the Court a way to affirm his ruling.

This may well be Reinhardt’s intention. But I am skeptical that it will work. Whatever one thinks of judicial minimalism generally, there is no minimalist way to strike down Proposition 8. Even if the impact of such a decision were limited to California, that in itself is a huge step. California is a state with some 37 million people. Moreover, the logic of Reinhardt’s decision is that there is no “rational basis” for denying same-sex marriage in a state that already permits same-sex civil unions that give couples the same substantive rights as marriage would. In addition to California, there are seven other states that permit civil unions without legalizing same-sex marriage, including major states such as Hawaii, Illinois, and New Jersey. Many other states are likely to enact civil unions over the next few years, because the idea is very popular, with even a plurality of Republicans supporting it, as of 2010. If the Supreme Court embraces Reinhardt’s reasoning, a state that enacts a civil union law would have to embrace gay marriage as well. That’s not a minimalist result confined to one or a few states, and the Supreme Court justices are likely to realize that.

On the other hand, Dale is probably right to argue that the Supreme Court is not going to rule that the Constitution requires recognition of same-sex marriage at a time when 44 states still forbid it. This suggests that the anti-Prop 8 suit was premature. It would have stood a better chance a decade or two from now, since public and elite opinion are both moving strongly in favor of gay marriage. In the meantime, however, the current lawsuit is likely to fail.

Given this reality, gay marriage advocates might be best served by making the strongest possible constitutional argument for gay marriage rather than trying to engage in “minimalist” hair-splitting that makes them look as if they are trying to evade the real issue, and is unlikely to persuade anyone who isn’t already committed to the cause. The Court might well still uphold Proposition 8. But such a defeat could lay the groundwork for a later reversal, much as Bowers v. Hardwick helped set the stage for Lawrence v. Texas.

In my view, the strongest available argument is that a ban on same-sex marriage qualifies as sex discrimination. Obviously, others will disagree, preferring to base their case on privacy arguments or on claims that discrimination against gays is unconstitutional. Regardless, this is the kind of argument that gay marriage supporters will have to make.

UPDATE: I am, of course, well aware that the anti-Prop 8 plaintiffs have made a variety of broader arguments during the course of the litigation. I do not mean to suggest that they are relying solely on “minimalist” claims. I just wanted to explain why a minimalist victory in this case is unlikely.

This month’s Cato Unbound is devoted to the propriety of judicial enforcement of substantive rights through the Due Process Clause.  Tim Sandefur of the Pacific Legal Foundation gets things rolling with a rousing defense of SDP. Responses have been posted or are due from Professor Larry Rosenthal of Chapman Law School, attorney Ryan Williams (the author of an important recent article on the origins of substantive due process that I blogged about here), and B.U. Law School’s Gary Lawson.  It should be a very enlightening and engaging debate.

For what it’s worth, I’d like to see Sandefur address the following issue as the debat goes on: if we were to agree arguendo that the Due Process Clause protects unenumerated substantive rights, how aggressive should the judiciary be in identifying and enforcing those rights?  Are there, for example, instances in a which a judge could rightfully conclude that if he were a state legislature he would find a particular piece of legislation an undue interference with individual rights, and therefore vote against it as contrary to substantive due process, but as a judge he should defer to the contrary views of the legislature?

Conservative columnist Jeff Jacoby has a good article today on the somewhat overwrought criticism of Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg for saying, in Cairo, that the US Constitution is not a good model for other countries in 2012. As Jacoby points out, conservative Justice Antonin Scalia recently actually said that “[t]he bill of rights of the former ‘evil empire,’ the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, was much better than ours,” without raising any such hackles. Scalia avoided criticism in large part because he quickly added that a good constitutional text has little value if isn’t enforced. But, as Jacoby notes, Ginsburg added much the same qualification in Cairo.

Generally speaking, Ginsburg is absolutely right to suggest that the US Constitution is not an ideal model for every foreign nation. There are lots of ways in which our institutions might be inappropriate for other nations in different circumstances. For example, the US presidency concentrates enormous power in the hands of one person. That might be very dangerous in a society that has only recently emerged from dictatorship. Countries such as Switzerland have done fairly well with a plural executive. A small country that wages few wars has less need of a powerful, unitary executive than a global superpower. Similarly, the US system of federalism might not be the best model for the many societies where the main purpose of federalism is to mitigate ethnic conflict by giving minority groups subnational governments that they control. And a few provisions of the US Constitution are simply outright mistakes by the Founding Fathers that no one would want to imitate.

That said, I am much less sympathetic to Ginsburg’s specific reasons for preferring other models over the US Constitution. She would “look at the constitution of South Africa,” because it “was a deliberate attempt to have a fundamental instrument of government that embraced basic human rights.” Obviously the US Constitution embraces many “basic human rights” as well. The rights present in the South African Constitution that are absent from ours are mostly “positive” rights to welfare state services, such as government guarantees of housing and employment. In many countries that have constitutions with such positive rights, the rights in question are not legally enforceable, so they have little actual impact. Where they do have an effect, the result is usually to increase government control over the economy and society, an outcome that I deplore for reasons I summarized here. In theory, of course, these positive rights provisions could be used to strike down harmful government actions, such as restrictive zoning laws that price the poor out of urban housing markets, and labor regulations that increase unemployment among unskilled workers. In practice, however, positive rights guarantees are rarely applied in ways that constrain government power rather than expand it.

As for Scalia’s statement, if he really believes that that Soviet Constitution’s individual rights provisions are “much better” than ours, he may not have read the former very carefully. Chapter 7 of the 1977 Soviet Constitution did indeed guarantee numerous individual rights. But many of them are socialist “positive rights” that I doubt Scalia would approve of. In addition, Article 52 gives, atheists, but not theists the right to engage in “propaganda” on behalf of their views on religion. Religious believers were (at least on paper) guaranteed freedom of worship, but, unlike atheists, could be banned from proselytizing. I doubt that Scalia would approve of this double standard.

More importantly, Article 59 emphasizes that “Citizens’ exercise of their rights and freedoms is inseparable from the performance of their duties and obligations,” and those duties include “comply[ing] with standards of socialist conduct” (Article 59) and “safeguard[ing] the interests of the Soviet state, and …. enhanc[ing] its power and prestige” (Article 62). Thus, the individual rights in the Soviet Constitution could be overriden in any cases where they conflict with “standards of socialist conduct” or somehow threaten the interests of the Soviet state or its “power and prestige.” All of this should also be read in light of Article 6, which guaranteed the Communist Party a monopoly of political power. That, presumably, is one of the “interests of the Soviet state” that can be used to limit individual rights. A careful reading of the Soviet Constitution – or even just the individual rights sections – leaves little doubt that it was written for a totalitarian communist state.

Obviously, Scalia was absolutely right to note that the Soviet government was perfectly capable of ignoring its own laws whenever it suited them to do so. At the same time, they did try to maintain a veneer of legality when possible and the Soviet Constitution was designed to help them do that. There is often a closer connection between the text of a constitution and the true nature of a nation’s political system than Scalia implies.

Today’s Ninth Circuit decision striking down California’s Proposition 8 banning same-sex marriage is unpersuasive because it claims that the law fails to meet even minimal “rational basis” scrutiny. Eugene Volokh does a good job of explaining why. But there is an alternative constitutional rationale for striking down same-sex marriage bans that avoids this problem. Proposition 8 is an example of sex discrimination, and must be evaluated under the higher standards of scrutiny applied to gender discrimination by the Supreme Court.

Although the sex discrimination argument has been advanced by several academic advocates of gay marriage, nonacademics tend to be skeptical because the same-sex marriage bans seem to be targeted against gays, not men or women. Hostility towards gays is certainly part of the motivation for bans on same-sex marriage. But that does not prevent these laws from qualifying as sex discrimination. In terms of the way the law is actually structured, a same-sex marriage ban in fact discriminates on the basis of gender rather than orientation. And it is perfectly possible to discriminate on the basis of sex even if the motivation for doing so is something other than sexism.

Consider the hypothetical case of Anne, Bob, and Colin. If same-sex marriage is forbidden, Anne is allowed to marry Colin, but Bob cannot do so. This is so even if Anne and Bob are identical in every respect other than gender. Bob is denied the legal right to marry Colin (and all other men) solely because he is a man. Denial of a legal right solely on the basis of gender is the very essence of sex discrimination.

By contrast, sexual orientation actually has no effect on the way the law operates. Anne is still allowed to marry Colin, even if one of them happens to be gay or lesbian. Bob is denied that right regardless of his sexual orientation. There are actually lots of real world cases where gays or lesbians have entered into opposite-sex marriages, such as the famous example of former New Jersey Governor James McGreevey, a closeted gay man who was married to a woman for many years. McGreevey’s marriage was not illegal, even if his actions were morally dubious.

All of this simply underscores the reality that a ban on same-sex marriage discriminates on the basis of gender rather than orientation – even if the motivation for the discrimination is hostility towards gays and lesbians. Under the Supreme Court’s approach to sex discrimination, any “statutory classifications that distinguish between males and females” are subject to heightened judicial scrutiny. A ban on same-sex marriage pretty obviously “distinguish[es] between males and females.”

Although a ban on same-sex marriage qualifies as sex discrimination, it is not automatically unconstitutional. Since the 1970s, the Supreme Court has taken the view that laws that discriminate on the basis of sex do not violate the Constitution if they can pass “intermediate scrutiny,” which requires them to be “substantially related” to an “important state interest.” If opponents of same-sex marriage are right to claim that Western civilization will fall into deep decline if the practice is allowed, that would be enough to pass the test. Ditto if they can show that same-sex marriage somehow inflicts severe harm on children. But any such arguments would be subject to detailed judicial scrutiny. They would have to be backed by real evidence, and could not pass muster just by being minimally plausible, as under the “rational basis” test.

Some originalists might reject my argument on the grounds that sex discrimination itself is not really banned by the original meaning of the Fourteenth Amendment. I criticized such arguments in this post. For a much more comprehensive rebuttal, see this important recent article by Steven Calabresi and Julia Rickert.

A more moderate originalist critique of my position might hinge on the idea that the framers of the Amendment would not have thought of a same-sex marriage ban as sex discrimination. But it is not hard to figure out that a law under which a legal right is dependent on gender discriminates on the basis of sex. The Framers surely thought that this was justifiable sex discrimination. But that does not mean that it isn’t sex discrimination at all. If asked whether marriage laws circa 1868 limited the right to marry on the basis of gender, most people at the time would surely have said yes. And, as in the case of occupational discrimination against women, the Framers’ view that this form of sex discrimination is constitutionally permissible hinged on dubious factual assumptions that we are not bound by today.

In sum, a ban on same-sex marriage easily qualifies as sex discrimination and is therefore subject to heightened judicial scrutiny. Whether it could withstand such scrutiny is a question I leave to others, though I am skeptical about its chances.

UPDATE: Many commenters seem to be assuming that, in order for a law to qualify as sex discrimination, it has to be motivated by hostility to men or women. Not so. As the Supreme Court puts it, a law can qualify as unconstitutional sex discrimination so long as it is a”statutory classification… that distinguish between males and females.” Similarly, a racial classification counts as racial discrimination for constitutional purposes even if the motives behind it are benign.

It is also not true that a ban on same-sex marriage avoids qualifying as sex discrimination because it affects members of both genders. It still denies rights to both men and women solely on account of their sex. The fact that Bob cannot marry Colin solely on account of gender is not somehow “balanced” by the fact that Anne is similarly forbidden to marry Carol. Similarly, a law banning interracial marriage still qualifies as race discrimination even though both blacks and whites are barred from marrying members of the other racial group.

This semester, I am once again teaching Constitutional Law II: The Fourteenth Amendment. I often tell my students in this class that there are three issues on which most people are particularly resistant to rational persuasion: abortion, the death penalty, and affirmative action. And it so happens that the course covers all three.

Actually, there is a general tendency of to discount opposing arguments on a wide range of political issues, not just these ones. It’s a consequence of our general lack of incentive to think rationally about politics. But the problem is worse on some issues than others, and these three strike me as among the worst offenders.

Why are people more close-minded on some issues than others? One factor is intensity of commitment. Obviously, these are issues on which many people have strongly held views. But that doesn’t differentiate them from a lot of other policy disputes. Think of the many people who have intensely held views on health care, taxation, gun rights, and so on. More important, I think, is that these are issues where most people believe that your stance derives directly from your fundamental values, rather than disagreements about empirics. Either you believe that abortion is like murder or you don’t; either it’s inherently wrong for the state to execute people or it’s not; affirmative action is either overdue compensation for historic injustices or it’s a form of invidious racial discrimination. By contrast, most people recognize that disputes over issues like taxes or health care are at least in part driven by differences over empirical questions rather than values. In reality, of course, empirical questions do matter to disputes over affirmative action and the death penalty. How effective are affirmative action programs? How much does the death penalty deter murder? How many innocent people are likely to be executed? But most people don’t think about these issues in such terms. They assume that the real source of disagreement is values rather than facts.

Finally, these three issues are ones on which it’s hard to find a coherent compromise position. You can tell a persuasive story about why tax rates should be higher than conservatives say, yet lower than what liberals want. But it’s hard to explain why we should adopt a policy that’s somehow in between a strong pro-life position and a strong prochoice view. The same goes for affirmative action and the death penalty.

I have not seen any systematic research comparing the degree of close-mindedness on these issues relative to others. So it’s possible that attitudes on these three issues are not as hidebound as I think, or that things are worse on other issues than I imagine. For what it’s worth, I myself have changed my views on two of these three over the years (less pro-choice than I used to be, and less hostile to affirmative action). But I think those changes happened at least in part because I don’t care about these two issues as much as many other people do, and therefore was less emotionally invested in my views about them.

My final post about my book, Constitutional Cliffhangers, will deal with fixing and preventing constitutional cliffhangers.

One of my pet peeves is when an article identifies a potential constitutional problem and then concludes blithely that the best solution is just to amend the Constitution. Even passing a statute is tough. Heck, just getting Congress’s attention is hard. A few years ago, I wrote an article about a 50-square-mile swath of Idaho where (according to my theory) people can commit crimes with impunity. Orin posted something about it here and it went viral. A bestselling novel was even written about it. And yet, of the scores of members of Congress I wrote to trying to get them to close the loophole, only a couple even acknowledged my letters.

My book thus wrestles with the very real barriers to fixing the traps I identify, either before or after the nation steps in them. The final chapter of my book offers a lengthy analysis along these lines. I’m not going to say much about that in this post, other than to talk a bit about my conclusion that some cliffhangers are not really worth trying to fix in advance.

There are two kinds of cliffhangers: those in which the main problem is a bad result, and those in which the main problem is uncertainty. An example of the former is Chapter 1, where a sitting president might get prosecuted (with the attendant disruption) or might not (with the attendant injustice). The fact that, in the meantime, presidents and prosecutors go about their days unsure of the answer is much less of a problem. The chapters on self-pardons and late impeachment fit in this category as well. Legislation requires energized consensus, and there wouldn’t be one. Best, then, to just wait for an actual case to deliver a final resolution: either an acceptable result or an unacceptable one that motivates Congress to act.

When the problem is uncertainty, by contrast, the case for proactivity is stronger. In Chapters 3 and 4, constitutional uncertainty could rip the country in half, with two people claiming presidential power, issuing contradictory orders to the military, and purporting to fire cabinet members. The cost of resolving such cliffhangers “the hard way” is so high that it should soften opposition and make it easier — albeit still not easy — to reach a consensus and fix things ahead of time.

The main thing I want to talk about in this last post, though, is better drafting. There is no way to go back in time to 1787 and help the Framers write a better Succession Clause, or to 1947 to help the Twenty-Second Amendment’s drafters tighten up their wording, but Congress will probably draft procedural constitutional amendments in the future. I have some modest suggestions for drafting them better.

The rules and procedures surrounding the presidency are no place to be casual. These provisions should be hyper-precise, even if it means losing some of the public accessibility that is otherwise ideal for the Constitution’s language. Yesterday’s sad tale of the attempt to simplify the Twenty-Second Amendment showed that sacrificing exactitude for punchiness can cost you both.

The process of drafting technical amendments is an odd combination of painful slowness and reckless speed. It typically has taken years and multiple attempts to get a proposed constitutional amendment introduced, through committee in one house of Congress, onto the floor, approved by two-thirds, through committee in the other house, onto the floor there, and approved by two-thirds there. Each step presents an opportunity to change the text.

Especially at the final stages, though, there is a strong sense of impatience and urgency. Having gotten as far as they have, proponents are reluctant to allow anything that might stop the proposal’s forward progress. Moreover, having fought so much and for so long over the details, they distrust any attempt to unravel their craftsmanship.

To a large extent, they are right. Often, proposed last-minute changes represent arguments that were already considered at the committee level and either were shot down there or were the subject of a carefully wrought compromise. Even to the extent that some changes are new, any proposal that stops long enough to get pecked at by hundreds of individual members of Congress will have a hard time ever getting through. If the proposed change is picky and it concerns an unlikely series of events — the stuff of constitutional cliffhangers — it will be hard to defeat the floor leaders’ powerful natural desire to ignore it.

But once there is a consensus on an amendment’s concept, execution, and details, an argument that is solely about the text should not be so disfavored. To be sure, when somebody on the floor of the Senate identifies a phrase that could be drafted better and proposes redrafting it, that is inimical to the goal of final passage. Sending the language back through committee could take weeks or months — an unavailable luxury near the end of a congressional term. Drafting by the full Senate on the spot doesn’t work very well either. Still, sometimes a late change really is called for. Realistically, it’s the last chance; once Congress has approved a proposed amendment, it has no real opportunity to do any redrafting.

Congress thus needs a way to identify mistakes earlier in the process, and to fix late-discovered mistakes in a way that doesn’t unravel years of careful work. The key is to separate the process for agreeing on an amendment’s purpose from the process for finalizing the text. I have a modest suggestion: add two steps to the process, drawing upon wisdom in the general public and using modern collaborative technology to perform a sort of wiki government.

When people or committees have been working with a text for too long, it becomes difficult for them to see the problems with it. A fresh pair of eyes — or better yet, millions of fresh pairs — can be very valuable. Consider the analogy of the very successful use of open-source collaboration to write and debug software. Constitutional amendments can be complicated, but they are less so than software (or than statutes, where this technique has been tried in some places, with mixed results). Thus, there is good reason to think that with the right collaborative technology, interested members of the public would be very helpful at “debugging” and optimizing proposed constitutional amendments.

Once a congressional committee has reached a final, clear consensus on the concept, execution, and details of an amendment, it should give the text one more run-through, to make any improvements to the text that better vindicate that consensus. The committee could take, say, five days to optimize the text with the help of an online process through which interested members of the public could propose, discuss, and rate alternative phrasings.

Working together, the interested public would quickly discover previously unnoticed loopholes and pitfalls, identify the best ways to prevent them, and generally optimize the text. Textual optimization is not easy, but that’s precisely the point. Members of Congress and their staffs, even at their most able, intelligent, and hardworking, cannot match the “wisdom of crowds.”

The “crowd” might find bugs that affect the details in ways the committee had not clearly addressed, but the collaborative process could provide multiple optimized texts, each one reflecting a different set of substantive choices. The committee would still vote on the substantive choices; the public process would just flag issues and offer good language to deal with them. (The committee could get public input at an earlier stage, when it is discussing concept, execution, and details, but there is reason to doubt that this would work nearly as well.)

Once the proposal moves from committee to the full House or Senate, there might be new debate about the concept, execution, and details. Changes at this stage would require changes to the text that the first round of public input might not have covered. But at that point, a similar (and shorter) public process could help to smooth the text over again. Because the textual changes would be working toward a common goal, and because it would not entail rejecting, or tabling, or sending the item back to committee, the public process would not need to slow things down much at all.

Congress would still maintain its voting power, of course. The public would have influence, not direct authority. But public influence would be a welcome addition to the process, even aside from its effectiveness. The Constitution represents the voice of the People with a capital P, not just that of their representatives, in a way that is not the case in the less concise, less accessible world of statutes. When it comes to writing new words into the Constitution, this sort of public participation would have a nice symbolic value as well.

I promised to offer today some of the “general lessons” from my new book, Constitutional Cliffhangers. I will divide them into two posts that excerpt and paraphrase the final chapter of the book. This one will deal with the way that law and politics interact when constitutional cliffhangers play out.

For the cliffhangers that would play out entirely in court (presidential prosecutions and self-pardons), one would hope that judges would base their decisions on law, not politics. When Clinton claimed he was immune from Paula Jones’s civil suit, all nine justices disagreed, including the four liberals. Similarly, when President Nixon refused to turn over the Watergate tapes, the justices — many of whom Nixon had appointed — were unanimous in ordering him to.

But the starting point for most cliffhangers is that the law is unclear. When the law is in equipoise but the politics are screamingly unbalanced, the court’s decision will be inextricably linked with its political context. Here, the example is not Clinton or Nixon, but Bush v. Gore.

The Bush v. Gore litigation was, on its face, all about the complicated legal issues; no lawyers said in court, “My client should win because he belongs to your favorite political party, your honor.” But it was evident that if Bush won the case, he would win the presidency. That political ramification overwhelmed the legal issues. Few believe that all nine justices would have voted the same way if the parties had been reversed. When politics infuse the courts like that, the moral authority of the judicial system necessarily suffers. There is an added incentive, then, to prevent constitutional cliffhangers if we think that they would play out in court in such a politicized manner.

Several of my cliffhangers also implicate the political-question doctrine, through which courts leave decisions to the political branches. Alas, the political-question doctrine is not overly clear. Moreover, the doctrine seems to have been weakened lately as federal courts have grown more assertive about inserting themselves into conflicts like these. Compare the disputed 1876 presidential election, in which Congress’s ad hoc resolution carried the day with nary a peep from the Supreme Court, to the disputed 2000 presidential election, in which the Supreme Court’s ad hoc resolution carried the day with barely a peep from Congress.

For most of our cliffhangers, letting the courts get involved would be perceived as a good thing. In many instances, the courts can provide faster and more decisive action than Congress. The Court is, justifiably or not, currently exalted as the nation’s ultimate authority over the Constitution. Moreover, some cliffhangers involve Congress as one of the combatants, and some arise because of congressional carelessness or ineptness. For cliffhangers like those, the courts have much less incentive, and much less basis, to give Congress the last word in resolving them.

Some constitutional cliffhangers surely would play out in Congress, though, and the presence of politics there seems less controversial. Congress is full of politicians — politics clearly “belong” there. To return to Bush v. Gore, if a dispute is going to be resolved by a party-line vote, isn’t it better to have that vote in Congress than in the Supreme Court? Even a seemingly objective issue like presidential disability will be infused with politics, as both sides carefully weigh the political ramifications of their choices and ponder who might deserve the benefit of the doubt.

The Constitution assigns lots of tasks to Congress, from the mundane (passing laws, confirming presidential nominees) to the exceptional (impeachment, presidential disability disputes, winner-less presidential elections). The Constitution’s Framers opted for flexibility, painstakingly creating a structure through which these matters — often matters of great constitutional import — can be settled by ordinary political actors being ordinary and political. This system works well and would work even better if we gave it more of a chance.

But if matters are assigned to Congress because it is representative and accountable, this presents a problem when Congress falls short on either score. An imperfect Congress cannot resolve constitutional cliffhangers with the same legitimacy as a “better” Congress. And there are plenty of imperfections in Congress’s representativeness and accountability. We have corruption, our questionable campaign-finance system, gerrymandered House districts, the disproportionateness that is the Senate, the continued toleration of filibusters, sheer inefficiency, and so on.

There are too many opportunities for Congress to get things wrong. When it comes to situations like deciding which of two contenders is the rightful acting president, there is a dangerous possibility that Congress would thwart the will of the people rather than promote it. In ordinary times, the people can reassert their control in an orderly manner every two years when they vote in congressional elections. But in the middle of a struggle over control of the White House, waiting for the next election would be insufficient and courts seem like the better venue if the Constitution allows it.

Finally, there are presidential politics. In each chapter, the more popular the president (or would-be president) is, the more likely he or she is to emerge victorious, or to not get in trouble in the first place. It’s worth considering two other facets here: the president’s commander-in-chief power, and his populist power to mobilize the public.

In my Tuesday and Wednesday posts, when two people claimed the presidency, it mattered whose side the military took. This is troubling. Our norm of civilian control of the military is threatened if the military starts choosing presidents. On the flip side, though, civilian control could paralyze the military if there were two people claiming to be commander in chief, with two putative secretaries of defense. It would be intolerable for the military to choose sides, but also for it not to choose sides. Perhaps worst of all is a third possibility: the military could be divided and choose both sides. There is no good answer here, just more incentive to prevent the cliffhangers.

Also potentially decisive is the relationship between the president and the public. In yesterday’s post, for instance, the president could not even think about evading term limits unless he had very strong popular support. If that support translated into an electoral victory in November, it would confer a unique legitimacy on him. It is unclear how well suited “populist constitutional law” is for interpreting narrow procedural provisions, but Congress and the courts would resist the people at their peril.

Less comforting is the possible role of the people “out of doors.” Citizen-mobs who take to the streets can be decisive, whether because they galvanize opinion, frighten opponents, or provoke a reaction from the state. We are in the midst of a relatively quiet period in American history, mob-wise, but this potential is never far from the surface, and angry assemblages have played an important part in American constitutional history.

The more credible the courts and Congress are, the longer the mobs would hold off, and the more likely a formal decision would be to quiet things down. Conversely, if Congress and the courts are delegitimized, public demonstrations might actually be the most legitimate way to resolve the conflict. Looking back into our history, and thinking about possible futures, we should not dismiss out of hand the potential contributions of an American public that is mobilized (the etymological source of the word “mob”) and exercising its First Amendment right to assemble.

On the other hand, nobody is in a better position to whip the public into a frenzy — to inspire mobs to form, and to move them to action all over the country — than the president. The problem is that in many constitutional cliffhangers, nobody will have a better incentive to do so than the president. In calmer times, the political cost of being a shameless demagogue is high enough to keep these pressures contained. But when a cliffhanger occurs, that balance could change and those pressures could explode.

As with the military, to the extent that the role of mobs is troubling to us, it provides yet another incentive to fix and avoid these cliffhangers. Fixing and avoiding cliffhangers will be the subject of my next, and final, post.

I have had a lot of fun this week blogging about my new book, Constitutional Cliffhangers. I’d like to thank Eugene again for inviting me, and to the readers and commenters, especially for their kind words. This week has been even better than my last appearance here, when Eugene unveiled Kalt’s Law of Presidential Facial Hair to the world.

This post is devoted to answering some of the more challenging comments my threads got — or more precisely, ones to which the answer is something other than “I address that at length in the book, actually.” There were about thirty where I wanted to just paraphrase long passages from the book (and I do it one time below).

arch1 asked what I meant when I referred to “fixing” presidential constitutional cliffhangers. It’s important to distinguish first between cliffhangers in which the danger is a bad result, and cliffhangers in which the danger is uncertainty.

The latter are much more perilous. The most harrowing scenarios are ones where two people are claiming control of the presidency, as in my posts on Wednesday (on the succession law) and Thursday (on presidential disability). In those cases, a “fix” would be adding certainty and clarity. In the case of the succession law, that means passing a new statute. For the disability procedure, presidents and their legal staffs need to take some simple, precautionary steps.

There’s more difficulty fixing cliffhangers in which the problem is a bad result. Take Chapter 1, on prosecuting sitting presidents. There would be some uncertainty, but the courts could resolve it quickly enough. The bigger problem would be that the presidency might be derailed by a single, unaccountable prosecutor — or, if you take the other side, the problem would be that the president would potentially get away with a crime. A fix is harder here, because it would require consensus on which outcome would be the bad one. It’s hard enough to get Congress to act when the public agrees on something, let alone when there is no consensus at all.

Fixes are even harder when the only way to achieve them is by amending the Constitution. That’s the case in Chapters 2 and 5, on self-pardons and late impeachments. Uncertainty would be resolved fairly quickly. If people were upset at the result — that the president successfully pardoned himself (or couldn’t), or that an ex-president was impeached (or couldn’t be) — they would need to amend the Constitution to change that result, but amendments are pretty unlikely. I argue in the book that, for these cliffhangers, we’re best off just sitting back, doing nothing, and hoping for the best.

Don C and Malvolio commented, with regard to the Wednesday post on the succession struggle, that the Secret Service would follow the succession law and escort the secretary of state from the White House. The Secret Service might be receptive to a court order voiding the succession law, but until and unless that happened, these commenters made a strong case that the Speaker would have the guns on her side.

I think that their points are well taken. There would be limits to the Secret Service’s loyalty to the Succession Act of 1947, though. Secret Service agents and their superiors are human beings, after all. In the hypothetical, the president — and presumably her Secret Service detail — has just been blown to smithereens. The Speaker was complicit in preserving the vacancy in the vice presidency, and fueled the murderous rhetoric that led to the assassination. Indeed, the assassin specified that the purpose of the bomb was to install the Speaker of the House as president. Couple that with the strong constitutional arguments, and a preliminary injunction or two, and who knows what would happen?

For the most part, I am content to defer to my lengthier discussions of answers in the book, but I did want to respond to Brett Bellmore’s comment about Thursday’s third-term scenario. He wrote:

Come on, now, you might not want to “get into” the 12th amendment, but that doesn’t make it unclear.
Granted, with enough bad faith, you can ‘interpret’ anything to mean anything, but a two term President running for VP takes stratospheric levels of bad faith.
Hm, come to think of it, that doesn’t actually rule it out, in today’s Washington…

Of course, I do “get into” it in the book. I’m not afraid of the Twelfth Amendment, folks, I’m just not interested in making my blog posts even longer than they are, so I necessarily have to leave out a lot. But I’ll allow this comment (and this one from B.D.) to goad me into getting into it more here.

The Twelfth Amendment says that “no person constitutionally ineligible to the office of President shall be eligible to that of Vice-President of the United States.” The question here is what “eligible” means.

Early drafts of the Twenty-Second Amendment talked about two-termers being “eligible to the office,” a phrasing that would have avoided any confusion, but the final version speaks instead of being “elected to the office.” The question is whether that makes two-termers “constitutionally ineligible” to be president — and thus ineligible to be a vice president under the Twelfth Amendment.

If you think that the Twenty-Second Amendment bars two-termers from any service as president, then there’s nothing to talk about. To you, two-termers are completely ineligible to be president, and so completely ineligible to be vice president either. But if you think that the Twenty-Second Amendment allows two-termers to serve as president through succession, things are not as clear cut.

Some people argue that electability and eligibility are synonymous. This would mean that when the Twenty-Second Amendment makes two-termers presidentially unelectable, it also makes them “ineligible” to be president, and thus ineligible to be vice president, under the Twelfth Amendment.

Others say that eligibility is broader, with electability as only one of its parts: because the Twenty-Second Amendment stops short of making two-termers totally ineligible to serve as president, the Twelfth Amendment does not restrict them in any way from becoming vice president either.

The most subtle interpretation is that, by precluding their election, the Twenty-Second Amendment makes two-termers partially ineligible to be president. The Twelfth Amendment defines vice-presidential eligibility as identical to presidential eligibility. Now that the Twenty-Fifth Amendment provides for vice-presidential vacancies to be filled by appointment rather than election, the vice-presidential door is open, partially, for two-termers under this interpretation.

Brett and B.D., I hope that’s a good-enough-faith effort at showing the range of potential Twelfth Amendment arguments for you.

Finally, I wanted to respond to the many commenters who said that they’d like to buy my book, but balked at the price. I wish there was something I could do about that. I tried. Academic publishing is a tricky business, though. Print runs are small and fixed costs are high. More to the point, mass-market appeal is tough to gauge. I’m sure that I’m not the only author who thinks that the publisher underestimated the mass appeal of his own case, but I’m equally sure that most of us are wrong. All I can say is that Constitutional Cliffhangers is worth every penny :)

The last chapter that I will preview from my new book, Constitutional Cliffhangers, is Chapter 6. It deals with a potential loophole in the Twenty-Second Amendment’s term limits for presidents. It’s also the only chapter that cites a commenter from the Volokh Conspiracy.

The term-limit loophole has been noted and discussed a fair amount, dating back to the first president to be constrained by the Twenty-Second Amendment (Eisenhower). There have been robust discussions in newspapers, law-review articles, and blogs. Smart people on both sides have gotten surprisingly vehement about the question.

No president has attempted to exploit the loophole, and President Clinton spoke against it. Still, in the long term, the fates of term-limit provisions around the world suggest that we should not be too complacent over the long term.

Here is the chapter’s opening:

President Frederick is three years into his second term. He remains so popular that some pundits have floated the idea of repealing the Twenty-Second Amendment and letting him run for a third term. Frederick laughs off such talk, and a national opinion poll shows that only 12 percent of voters support repeal. Still, Frederick casts a large shadow; on the eve of primary season, his Democrats have no clear front-runner for the nomination to replace him.

Then disaster strikes: a treacherous terrorist attack kills tens of thousands of Americans. The country rallies behind President Frederick as he leads a strong offensive against the terrorists and their sponsors. His approval rating shoots into the nineties. While the country is badly rattled by the attack, people feel safer with Frederick in charge.

Frederick feels pretty good being in charge too. Now, when the Twenty-Second Amendment comes up, he sounds increasingly coy. Support for repeal rises to almost 50 percent in the polls. But Republicans — and several prominent Democrats — argue against amending the Constitution in the heat of the moment, so the congressional and state supermajorities needed for an amendment are well out of reach.

At this point, a startling idea gains traction among Democrats: President Frederick can run for vice president. Many people would find Frederick’s mere presence reassuring. Others envision a figurehead president who would leave VP Frederick in charge or perhaps even resign and let Frederick become president again. This last maneuver would be constitutional, they say, because the Twenty-Second Amendment only says that no one “shall be elected to the office of the President more than twice,” and Frederick would not be “elected” president. The amendment says nothing about a two-term president “succeeding” to the presidency, or “serving” as president. Buoyed by Frederick’s stratospheric popularity and the atmosphere of crisis, the plan steadily gains support, and Frederick’s anointed surrogate, Representative Stevens, sweeps the Democratic presidential primaries.

The Republicans object forcefully. As one senator puts it on a Sunday morning talk show, “We’re all grateful to President Frederick for his leadership during these difficult months, but everybody knows we have a two-term limit. We shouldn’t let the Constitution be a casualty of this war.” Frederick is officially nominated for vice president at the Democratic convention, and the litigation floodgates open.

Later on in the chapter, we get this exchange on a cable news show:

Professor Scott: Look, I can’t tell you why the drafters of the Twenty-Second Amendment limited it this way. But they did. When they wrote the first draft of the amendment, they said two-termers couldn’t “hold the office.” But then, they changed it from “hold the office” to “be elected.” You see? They initially banned what President Frederick is trying to do, but then they changed the language until it didn’t say that anymore. They said “elected” only, they said it on purpose, and that’s that.

Professor McCulloch: The Twenty-Second Amendment was written to keep two-termers out. The Twelfth Amendment says two-termers can’t run for vice president either. Frederick is a two-termer. It’s not that complicated, and people know it. Professor Scott likes talking about the “plain meaning of the text” here, but that just means he wants to ignore the context and ignore the clear purpose of the amendment and ignore the way people have understood this language for generations. If the Twenty-Second Amendment is this easy to avoid, then it means nothing, and judges don’t like to interpret the Constitution as an exercise in futility. I think Professor Scott and I agree on one thing, though: if the courts don’t prevent this, the people will still get to decide. Lots of voters who would otherwise vote for President Frederick are going to vote against him, because they recognize how inappropriate this is.

I don’t want to get into the legal arguments about the Twelfth and Twenty-Second Amendments here, because so many people have written so much about them already, including on this blog. Briefly, the question for the Twenty-Second Amendment is whether it bars two-termers only from being elected again (as the text says) or from serving anymore at all (as the spirit and the popular understanding of the amendment suggest). For the Twelfth Amendment, the issue is whether “eligible” (in the phrase “no person constitutionally ineligible to the office of President shall be eligible to that of Vice-President of the United States”) means eligible to be elected or eligible to serve at all.

Instead of wading into these questions here (I don’t want to just reproduce my whole book, after all), I want to focus on the cautionary tale this represents about constitutional drafting.

An earlier draft of the Twenty-Second Amendment would have avoided this problem, just as Professor McCulloch suggests in the last block quote above. That language was changed in a bold move to “simplify” the language down to 13 words, thus opening the loophole. This was foolish. First of all, the language quickly got re-complicated anyway back up to 121 words (though not in a way that noticed, let alone closed, the loophole). Second, it is more important that technical “nuts and bolts” constitutional language be precise than that it be elegant.

The other side of the argument is that the risks are too low to worry about. And it is truly hard to imagine any president trying to pull this trick; the president would need to have enough support to win even after subtracting out all the would-be supporters who (1) think he is constitutionally ineligible to serve or (2) think that term limits should be observed even if they are not technically required. As Dean Acheson put it back in the Eisenhower days, a two-term president running for vice president would be “more unlikely than unconstitutional.”

But low risk is no reason to let our guards down. What is gained by having a more elegantly phrased amendment that leaves even the slightest potential loophole open? Whatever you think of the possibility of this cliffhanger occurring, it’s hard to argue that we wouldn’t be better off with an amendment that was a few words longer but covered all the bases.

I have some ideas about ways to improve the constitutional drafting process, which I will discuss tomorrow. For now, the point is that we can and should do a better job when dealing with issues like these. For every expert adamant that two-termers cannot serve again (my favorite line from one professor, responding to his opponent: “The contention is so preposterous, and so obviously wrong, that one wonders how a nationally renowned law professor at one of the top law schools in the nation could make such a mistake. . . . [He] quite obviously knows little about the Constitution.”), there is an expert adamant that they can. While shoddy drafting makes it easier for people like me to have their fun writing about hypothetical craziness, it would be better for everyone to keep doubt and uncertainty about presidential power at a minimum

With all due respect to Dean Acheson (and to the commenters here at VC who will say that this chapter is stupid because it simply could never happen), I will just close with the words I use to end Chapter 6: “Constitutional disputes do not arise in a vacuum, and our democracy has had its weak moments. It would be foolish to assume that the United States will never have a president who is more popular than the Constitution — or, more to the point, more popular than one disputable interpretation of it.”

The next chapter of Constitutional Cliffhangers I’d like to present is Chapter 3, on the presidential disability provisions in the Twenty-Fifth Amendment. This is an unusual candidate for a cliffhanger for two reasons. First, one side of the constitutional debate seems to me to be clearly wrong, with no chance of prevailing in court. Second, the “repair” here is rather easier than in other chapters, requiring no legislation.

Here’s the scenario. See how many Caine Mutiny references/analogies you can spot:

Frances Philips is halfway through her second term as president. Her management style, which was always “hands off,” has become downright lax. She skips meetings, neglects decisions that need to be made, and shows little interest in being president. Some members of her cabinet and staff worry that she is clinically depressed, but — swayed by the increased power that comes with having a figurehead for a boss — none of them does anything about it.

Then President Philips starts alternating her periods of utter inertness with bursts of aggressive and arbitrary micromanagement. At a cabinet meeting, she rants for ten minutes about the use of blue pens instead of black ones. Next, without explanation, she announces that she is killing a carefully developed policy initiative in which she had previously taken no interest.

Several cabinet secretaries become convinced that the president is unable to perform her job. They start to discuss Section 4 of the Twenty-Fifth Amendment, which allows the vice president and a majority of the cabinet to declare the president “unable to discharge the powers and duties of [her] office,” and transfer power to the vice president. Crucially, though, Vice President Merrick opposes the effort. Although he worries that President Philips’s mental condition is deteriorating, he is reluctant to lead what could be perceived as a coup.

Things come to a head when war unexpectedly breaks out in the Middle East. After hearing the initial reports, President Philips paces in the Oval Office, muttering to herself but issuing no orders and taking no action. After several excruciating hours pass like this, Vice President Merrick has had enough, and he gathers the cabinet to file a Section 4 declaration. He is joined by a solid majority: eleven out of fifteen cabinet members.

President Philips is blindsided, but her chief of staff Tom Cooper (who Merrick erroneously thought would support the Section 4 declaration) is not. When Philips asks what her options are, Cooper reads to her from Section 4: if the president sends a counter-declaration to Congress that “no inability exists,” she can “resume the powers and duties of [her] office.” Cooper notes, however, that Section 4 allows the vice president and cabinet to reassert the president’s unfitness within four days, sending the matter to Congress for a final decision, and giving power to the vice president in the meantime.

With renewed focus, Philips executes Cooper’s plan. First, she signs a letter declaring herself fit and transmits it to Congress. Next, she summons the cabinet and addresses the eleven mutinous members: “If you don’t think I can discharge the powers and duties of my office, watch this. You’re fired.” Finally, she replaces them, naming eleven of her most trusted subordinates as acting cabinet secretaries.

In response, Vice President Merrick rallies the old cabinet, and he and the original eleven challengers sign a second declaration of Philips’s disability. Merrick claims that Philips has misread Section 4: Philips never retook power, her firings are invalid, the second disability declaration is valid, Merrick is the acting president, and Congress must now step in. Unfortunately, as advised by Chief of Staff Cooper, Philips refuses to back down. She says that she is in control, with the unanimous support of the “legitimate” cabinet, and that Congress has no basis to act.

The nation is in crisis. There are two presidents and two cabinets. The situation in the Middle East is spinning out of control, and nobody knows for sure who the rightful commander in chief, secretary of state, and secretary of defense are. Congress assembles while dueling sheaves of legal pleadings and memoranda flood the federal courts.

President Phillips and her chief of staff are clearly in the wrong here. The problem is that Section 4 is written in a way that allows them — in the heat of this tense situation — to misread it. In the chapter, I talk more about how their misreading could happen, including instances of smart people making the same mistake.

Part of the problem is that the main source of clarity is the legislative history: a statement in response to one of those smart people making the same mistake. Later in the chapter, it leads to this exchange:

White House Counsel Keith: Madame President, the legislative history of Section 4 is clear as a bell. You do not get to come back until this goes through Congress, unless the cabinet went four days without re-challenging you. But the cabinet did re-challenge you. I’m sorry, Ma’am, but Vice President Merrick is in charge and you cannot fire anybody.

President Philips: [Expletive] the legislative [expletive] history, [expletive] Merrick, and [expletive] you, you [expletive] traitor [expletive]!

The drafters of the Amendment operated in an era in which legislative history was assumed almost to be part of the text. There is a striking (unrelated) passage in the legislative history in which Senator Bayh states that the legislative intent is that the amendment be construed as if a passage that had appeared in an earlier draft was still there! But mistakes are most likely to be made in precisely this sort of situation, in which tensions and stakes are extraordinarily high, and there are powerful incentives pushing the president and some of her staff in this direction.

Consider the immediate aftermath of the shooting of President Reagan in 1981. The administration was unprepared to discuss transferring power, and “the men gathered in the Situation Room [did not] know what action they were authorized to take or expected to take.” Away from the White House (and to no effect), lawyers in the Justice Department studied the legislative history of the Twenty-Fifth Amendment as President Reagan was in surgery.

Largely as a result of that episode, presidents have much better contingency planning. Still, nothing is guaranteed. This cliffhanger is a good example of the importance of careful, clear constitutional drafting. Presidential disability and succession rules are no places for the slightest uncertainty. They should be certain and swift — there should never be doubt about who the president is at any given moment.

This cliffhanger exposes flaws in the drafting process, because earlier drafts of the amendment were written in a way that would have prevented the Phillips scenario from ever occurring. The book offers some thoughts about improving the amendment-drafting process to prevent these sorts of things from happening. (The Twenty-Fifth Amendment is also the only one I am aware of with a typo in it. Ten points to the first commenter to find it.)

In the meantime, as I said at the outset, the fix here is relatively easy. Presidents and their legal staff need to make it clear — right now, when there is no crisis — that they understand that the vice president is in charge during the four-day waiting period.

As mentioned above, contingency plans aren’t always followed. Nevertheless, if the proper interpretation of Section 4 gets engrained regularly enough, the chances of someone getting in wrong in a crisis will fade away.

In my first post I said that my “cliffhangers” range from the merely interesting all the way up to full-blown constitutional crises. My favorite chapter in Constitutional Cliffhangers, Chapter 4, definitely qualifies as a crisis. Here is the opening:

The United States is deeply divided over the war. Everyone agreed that we needed to fight back when Ruritania attacked our bases, but after two years of intensive combat, things are not going well. Addressing the nation, President Joanna Lewis announces her intention to seek a negotiated settlement. The half of the country that agrees with her breathes a sigh of relief.

The other half boils with rage. Responding to the president, Speaker of the House Peg Wilton says, “We are losing this war — not because our cause is hopeless, but because we have a cowardly commander in chief. We should never surrender to fascist aggression.” “Coward” is a mild epithet compared to what other hawks call President Lewis.

Complicating matters is that a few weeks ago, the vice president suffered a fatal heart attack. President Lewis nominated a candidate to fill the vacancy, but the hawks in Congress have stalled the vote. They are motivated by their distaste for the nominee’s unsurprisingly dovish position on the war, but everyone notices that while the vice presidency is vacant, Speaker Wilton is next in line for the presidency (followed by the president pro tempore of the Senate, and then members of the cabinet, starting with the secretary of state).

As President Lewis arrives at a public event one morning, an assassin detonates a huge bomb, killing the president and dozens of others. In a homemade video produced before the assassination, the bomber decries “the coward Lewis” and announces his intention to kill Lewis so that the stalwart Wilton will become president and continue the war. Within two hours of the assassination, the video has saturated television and the Internet.

The assassin seemingly gets his wish. Wilton condemns the assassination in the most strident terms, obviously, but she takes an oath of office that morning as acting president. Her political position is tenuous. Supporters of the martyred President Lewis blame Speaker Wilton for fueling the rhetoric that led to Lewis’s assassination, and for her role in stalling to keep the vice presidency vacant. In other words, they feel as though the country has just suffered a coup d’état. They latch onto a legal argument that, just hours earlier, had been an academic one: that it is unconstitutional for the succession law to include members of Congress. Wilton’s opponents argue — with the support of several prominent legal experts — that the dovish secretary of state, John Allen, is the legitimate acting president.

Secretary Allen decides to contest Wilton’s claim to the presidency. He too takes an oath of office as acting president and, without using force, he assumes physical control of the White House. “The struggle over our war policy has been ugly, but it’s a political struggle,” he says in a national address from the Oval Office. “In America, we don’t settle political questions by mass murder.”

It has only been ten hours since the assassination — a shocking and surreal day. No violence has broken out yet, but it feels like only a matter of time before it does. No one is in the mood to compromise, and control of the government and the military hangs in the balance as Allen and Wilton vie for control.

This is my favorite chapter for many reasons. The first is that I can’t resist the potential drama of the story (a novel is in the works). The second (and my main focus in this post) is that it highlights the interaction between law and politics.

The legal issue here is complicated, but to summarize briefly: The Constitution’s Succession Clause empowers Congress only to place “officers” in the line of succession, and the Speaker of the House and the President Pro Tem of the Senate (whom the statute places second and third in line, respectively) are arguably not “officers” as the Constitution uses the term. The secretary of state clearly is an officer. (I am guessing the commenters might get into the details more…)

The role of politics here is key. Even though the weight of scholarly opinion is (by my measurement) on the secretary of state’s side here, I concede that the Speaker could assume office without controversy in most cases. The general public would accept the result. Those that did not would either lack standing to challenge the succession law, or (like the secretary of state, who would have standing) would lack the political and personal will to do so.

But in a situation like the one in my opening scenario — in which the Speaker is of a different party, had a hand in maintaining the vacancy in the vice presidency, and arguably incited the vacancy in the presidency — the secretary of state might make a play for control and the country could be in real trouble.

We cannot be sure that the winner of this struggle would be the side with the stronger constitutional arguments. We can be sure that the struggle itself would shake the foundations of our government.

This odds of this happening might be long, but the stakes are incalculable. On the other side, the benefits of the status quo are minimal. The justification usually offered for Speaker succession (that the Speaker is a top elected official, representing the whole country, while cabinet members are mere appointees) doesn’t amount to much when compared to the potential peril it represents.

Even though this makes it a good candidate for reform from a cost-benefit standpoint, politics again make it hard to see this getting fixed. For various reasons, Congress is better at addressing problems that have already occurred than it is at preventing future ones. Congress is also driven by interests and the “cliffhanger-reform” movement is politically weak, while the “preserve the prestige of the Speaker” movement has a natural constituency at the Capitol.

Law, politics, and the Speaker and secretary of state trying to strangle each other. All of this and more in Constitutional Cliffhangers.

Hello Volokh Conspiracy readers! I’d like to thank Eugene for this opportunity to guest blog here about my new book, Constitutional Cliffhangers: A Legal Guide for Presidents and Their Enemies.

Today I’ll have one post with a brief introduction, and another with an excerpt/discussion from one chapter. I’ll discuss a couple more chapters tomorrow and Thursday, and conclude with some general lessons on Friday. I look forward to your comments, and I’ll try to post some responses to them too.

My book is about what I call constitutional cliffhangers, all of them of the presidential variety. I define these cliffhangers as “scenarios in which the fate of the president or presidency is in doubt as politicians, courts, and the people argue over the proper interpretation of the Constitution.” They range from the merely interesting all the way up to full-blown constitutional crises.

In the middle six chapters, I sketch out hypothetical situations in which (1) a president is criminally prosecuted; (2) a president pardons himself; (3) cabinet members try to oust an allegedly disabled president, who in turn tries to oust them; (4) the secretary of state and the Speaker of the House fight for control of the presidency after the president and vice president are killed; (5) an ex-president is impeached; and (6) a two-term president attempts to stay in power.

In each case there are legal arguments on both sides, complicated by intense politics. The politics are often decisive in cases like these, so it might seem pointless to spend too much time debating the legal niceties. I’ll address that important issue on Friday.

In the remainder of this introductory post, I’ll address a common question that topics like mine evoke: “Why worry about a bunch of crazy stuff that will never happen?”

The short answer is that crazy stuff like this happens quite often. The scenarios in my book were chosen because they haven’t happened yet, but some of them have come close. More to the point, other examples abound in American history: The Jefferson-Burr tie in the Election of 1800 is probably the first; the Harrison-Tyler “acting president” question from 1841 is probably the most significant; and the Paula Jones case is probably the most recent. The Constitution has too many wrinkles and slick spots in it for us to avoid tripping or slipping on them once in a while.

It’s worthwhile to try to identify problems before they happen, and to discuss and possibly fix them. Indeed, some of them are too obvious to ignore, yet we still manage to do so until it’s too late. Consider this passage from my introductory chapter about the lessons we can learn from our most contentious presidential election:

The whole election turned on a few hundred disputed votes in Florida. There had been ultra-close presidential elections before, and there had been ambiguous results in individual states before; it was only a matter of time before both happened at the same time. Unfortunately, no steps had been taken to prevent it.

The problem was that there were no rules for resolving a dispute like this. The quintessential American mixture of politics and litigation filled the void. The Republicans fought to defend their initial lead; the Democrats fought to open things back up and recount the votes. The Republicans controlled key posts in the state government; the Democrats won key victories in Florida state court. The Republicans took their case to Washington, D.C., where Republican-appointed Supreme Court justices declared that there was no time for recounts, handing the election to the Republicans. And so, in 1877, Rutherford B. Hayes became our nineteenth president.

You might recall some similar things that happened in 2000. The underlying quandary — an electoral system in which it is easy for the margin of error to greatly exceed the margin of victory — was no secret before 1876, let alone in 2000. And yet it dangled out there unsolved, waiting to snag both elections. For the most part, it dangles still.

That’s the spirit of Constitutional Cliffhangers.

I’ll be posting again later today with a look at my favorite cliffhanger (Chapter 4 in the book), a succession crisis in which the secretary of state and the Speaker of the House wrestle, figuratively, for control of the White House.

The Occupy Wall Street movement is often seen as a left-wing counterpart to the Tea Party movement. Until recently, however, OWS has differed from the Tea Party in so far as it paid little attention to constitutional issues. By contrast, constitutional issues are a central focus of the Tea Party, which claims that the courts have departed from the original meaning and have allowed the federal government to seize too much power. As I explained in this article, the Tea Party fits the classic model of “popular constitutionalism” – a popular movement that makes constitutional issues a central focus of its agenda. Until now, such issues have been mostly peripheral for OWS.

Today, however, a group inspired by OWS is holding a series of “Occupy the Courts” protests, which do focus on constitutional issues, mostly attacking the Supreme Court’s campaign finance decisions:

The “Occupy” movement will turn its focus on the nation’s highest court Friday as organizers plan to gather around the Supreme Court building dressed like justices and singing songs of the Motown group, The Supremes.

The event is being held around the two-year anniversary of the Supreme Court decision in the case of Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission, which removed many limits to corporate spending in federal political campaigns, organizers say….

The one-day event dubbed “Occupy the Courts” is organized by the grassroots group called Move to Amend and was inspired by the Occupy Wall Street participants, organizers said.

“Move to Amend volunteers across the USA will lead the charge on the judiciary which created — and continues to expand — corporate personhood rights,” the Occupy the Courts website states.

There is some irony in the OWS protestors campaign against “corporate personhood.” OWS gets a great deal of financial and organizational support from labor unions and other left-wing organizations that are, legally speaking, organized as corporations. Labor unions were, in fact, among the biggest beneficiaries of the Supreme Court’s Citizens United decision, which the OWS protesters revile. Do the protesters believe that labor unions and left-wing nonprofits have First Amendment rights? Should the government have unconstrained authority to forbid unions and other corporate entities from spending money on OWS protests and other forms of political speech? If not, then the OWS protesters cannot categorically reject the idea that people organized as corporations have constitutional rights too.

Perhaps the real argument is that only profit-making corporations should be denied constitutional rights, while unions and nonprofits fall in a different category. But there is nothing in the text, structure, or history of the Constitution to support any such distinction. Freedom of speech applies just as readily to speakers motivated by economic self-interest as those with more altruistic motives. Moreover, economic self-interest is a big part of the motivation of labor unions too. One of the main purposes of unions is to increase the incomes of their members. OWS itself often appeals to economic self-interest. After all, one of their central demands is the redistribution of wealth from “the 1%” to “the 99%,” including OWS activists themselves.

Such contradictions are not unusual in popular constitutionalist movements. Many Tea Party supporters, for example, continue to back the federal War on Drugs, despite the fact that much of it is unconstitutional under a limited, originalist interpretation of congressional power.

Whether OWS addresses the contradiction in their position, and, more generally, tries to develop a coherent constitutional vision remains to be seen. It’s possible that OWS will, over time, make constitutional issues a major part of their agenda, thereby becoming a full-blown popular constitutional movement. It is also possible that they will quickly move back to focusing on other matters. If I had to guess, I would predict that constitutional concerns are unlikely to become a central focus of OWS. They have too many other issues that interest them more. However, the movement is still relatively new and could easily develop in unexpected directions.

UPDATE: Lest there be any doubt, Move to Amend, the OWS offshoot that organized the “Occupy the Courts” protests states on their website that their position is that “human beings, not corporations, are the persons entitled to constitutional rights.” They don’t just think that Citizens United was wrongly decided. They believe that corporate entities should not be able to claim any constitutional rights at all. That, of course, includes not only free speech rights for unions and nonprofit corporations, but also numerous other rights.

On behalf of the Independence Institute, Rob Natelson and I wrote an amicus brief on the Medicaid mandate currently before the Supreme Court. (The ACA requirement that states must drastically expand Medicaid eligibility, or lose all their federal matching funds for Medicaid.) Here’s the Summary of Argument:

By imposing the Medicaid mandates in the Affordable Care Act (“ACA”), Congress exceeded the scope of its enumerated powers. If allowed to stand, those mandates could be the death-knell for the Constitution’s finely calibrated system of federalism. The states truly would be little more than agencies for Congress to “commandeer” at will.

The Founders created and the People ratified a Constitution protecting the States’ role as limited “sovereigns.” As this Court has ruled repeatedly, the states’ sovereign “independence” entitles them to make decisions within their sphere based on their own policy judgments, free of federal coercion. As explained below, this rule and the closely-related principle of federal non-coercion is of particular constitutional importance in financing health and social services.

In sustaining the Medicaid mandates, the United States Court of Appeals for the Eleventh Circuit overlooked both Founding-Era constitutional principle and modern Supreme Court doctrine. It also overlooked aspects of the Medicaid mandates that particularly aggravate their coercive qualities. Insofar as the ACA authorizes withdrawal of all Medicaid funds from States that choose not to submit to the Medicaid mandates, that statute slashes at the heart of American federalism. It is unconstitutional and void.

Intelligent comments are welcome, although experience suggests that there will also be plenty of comments from twits who have not read the brief, yet proclaim their absolute certainty about supposedly fatal errors in its legal reasoning. Rob’s summary of brief is available on his blog.

I was thinking of writing a post on Newt Gingrich’s ill-advised attack on the judiciary. However, most of what I would have wanted to say is covered in this George Will column:

When discussing his amazingness, Newt Gingrich sometimes exaggerates somewhat, as when…. he said, “People like me are what stand between us and Auschwitz”…… What primarily stands between us and misrule, however, is the Constitution, buttressed by an independent judiciary.

But Gingrich’s hunger for distinction has surely been slaked by his full-throated attack on such a judiciary. He is the first presidential candidate to propose a thorough assault on the rule of law. That is the meaning of his vow to break courts to the saddle of politicians, particularly to members of Congress, who rarely even read the laws they pass.

Gingrich’s most lurid evidence that courts are “grotesquely dictatorial” is a Texas judge’s aggressive decision concerning religious observances at high school functions, a decision a higher court promptly (and dictatorially?) overturned….

So, Gingrich is happy? Not exactly. He warns that calling the Supreme Court supreme amounts to embracing “oligarchy.”

He says that the Founders considered the judiciary the “weakest” branch. Not exactly. Alexander Hamilton called the judiciary the “least dangerous” branch (Federalist 78) because, since it wields neither the sword nor the purse, its power resides solely in persuasive “judgment.” That, however, is not weakness but strength based on the public’s respect for public reasoning. Gingrich yearns to shatter that respect and trump such reasoning with raw political power, in the name of majoritarianism.

Judicial deference to majorities can, however, be a dereliction of the judicial duty to oppose actions irreconcilable with constitutional limits on what majorities may do. Gingrich’s campaign against courts repudiates contemporary conservatism’s core commitment to limited government….

To teach courts the virtue of modesty, President Gingrich would attempt to abolish some courts and impeach judges whose decisions annoy him — decisions he says he might ignore while urging Congress to do likewise. He favors compelling judges to appear before Congress to justify decisions “out of sync” with majorities, and he would sic police or marshals on judges who resist congressional coercion. Never mind that judges always explain themselves in written opinions, concurrences and dissents….

[Gingrich] disdains the central conservative virtue, prudence, and exemplifies progressivism’s defining attribute — impatience with impediments to the political branches’ wielding of untrammeled power. He exalts the will of the majority of the moment, at least as he, tribune of the vox populi, interprets it.

I would add that Gingrich conveniently ignores the fact that there are already many constraints on judicial power. Judges are nominated by presidents and confirmed by the Senate, which makes it difficult to push through nominees who deviate greatly from the political mainstream. Once appointed, they cannot easily enforce decisions in the face of strong opposition from public opinion and/or the other branches of government. Congress can impose additional restraints by deciding which courts have jurisdiction over what issues.

Historically, federal courts have erred at least as much by failing to strike down unconstitutional laws and policies as by overruling laws that they should have upheld. Many of the most notorious Supreme Court decisions – Plessy v. Ferguson, Korematsu, Buck v. Bell, Kelo v. City of New London (which, as Will notes, Gingrich has harshly criticized), fall into the former category.

Jed Purdy has posted an interesting (and extremely polite) response to my critique of his article on the Roberts Court and Lochner here.

Before we dive deeper into the federal cases I blogged about this morning, I thought it would be helpful to clarify a point featured in several comments. Namely, isn’t the Full Faith and Credit Clause involved here somewhere? The answer is: not very much, and certainly not enough to make the problem go away.

The Constitution provides that “Full faith and credit shall be given in each state to the public acts, records, and judicial proceedings of every other state. And the Congress may by general laws prescribe the manner in which such acts, records, and proceedings shall be proved, and the effect thereof.” The clause has some application in this area, but it doesn’t force states to recognize marriages from other states for several reasons.

First of all, even though the Clause mentions “public acts,” it has not been interpreted to apply to statutes (like a law stating which marriages are valid) or marriage licenses with the same force it has for judicial proceedings. Relatedly, states have traditionally refused to give effect to another state’s statute if they think doing so is against their “public policy,” and this has been thought to be okay under the Full Faith and Credit Clause.

Moreover, even if the clause did normally require states to give effect to foreign legislation (or if the parties somehow get a judicial judgment based on their same-sex marriage), the clause delegates substantial power to Congress to decide what “effect” those acts, records, and proceedings have. And Congress has explicitly provided (in that other section of DOMA that I said wasn’t very important) that “No State . . . shall be required to give effect to any public act, record, or judicial proceeding of any other State . . . respecting a relationship between persons of the same sex that is treated as a marriage under the laws of such other State . . . or a right or claim arising from such relationship.” (For lots of fascinating history demonstrating Congress’s power under the Full Faith and Credit Clause, I recommend Steve Sachs’s Full Faith and Credit in the Early Congress.)

Now, some of these points are controversial. There are scholars (like my own law school’s dean, Larry Kramer) who argue that Section 2 of DOMA is unconstitutional and that the Full Faith and Credit Clause requires greater interstate recognition of marriage. Steve Sanders has made a similar argument under the Due Process Clause. But that’s not the state of judicial doctrine today, so the interstate disagreement about same-sex marriage is still something that courts have to deal with unless and until that doctrine is radically changed.

To sum up: Yes, there are some federal rules about interstate recognition of marriages. But those rules give states enough leeway that there’s still a great deal of state disagreement, which is all that matters for purposes of my argument. If you want to know more about this, there is a ton of recent scholarship on Full Faith and Credit, some of it cited in the paper.

A number of commenters have asked about the relationship between law and marriage. Some, for example, have taken issue with the statement in my paper’s abstract that “marriage is primarily a creature of state law.” So I thought it was worth explaining a little but more about the relationship between state law and marriage.

Obviously, marriage is partly a private, non-governmental act. You can “marry” in the eyes of your religion or your community without ever marrying in the eyes of your state. Or you can have two separate marriage ceremonies — one religious and another one designed to satisfy the state’s requirements — which is what I did when I got married. In that sense, marriage is not just something the government makes up.

But the government also has a lot of rules which depend on whether or not you are married — being married affects your taxes, your health benefits as a federal employee, rights under an ERISA plan, child custody, your right not to testify, and so on. So even if you think the private, non-governmental part of marriage is more important than the government-recognized ceremony, the government still needs a way to figure out who is married and who isn’t. It generally uses state marriage ceremonies (or common-law marriage, now mostly of historical interest) to do so. Of course, you could also try to get rid of all laws that treat married couples differently from unmarried couples, but I no longer think that’s wise, and it’s certainly not going to happen any time soon.

So when I say that “marriage is primarily a creature of state law,” I really mean: “when the law deals with marriage, it’s mostly state law, not federal law, that determines marital validity.” You get a marriage license from the state where you’re getting married, not the federal government, and the state determines who can officiate, how old you have to be, whether you have adequately terminated any previous marriages you had, and so on. In that sense marital status is somewhat like property: federal law frequently turns on whether you have it, but it often uses state law to figure that out.

Finally, for purposes of this paper it doesn’t actually matter whether the federal government has the constitutional power choose to create its own independent marriage regime — with its own federal officiants, federal marriage licenses, etc. The main point is that it hasn’t created one. But I’ll also add that I think it would be impractical and unwise for the federal government to try to create such an independent marriage regime.

Thanks to Eugene and the conspiracy for having me here. In my first post I thought I’d explain what the Defense of Marriage Act does and the circumstances under which it may be held unconstitutional. We can get into the choice-of-law stuff later. (The act, by the way, is known as “DOMA,” which gives rise to lots of great puns, from Andrew Koppelman’s Dumb and DOMA, to the title a colleague suggested for my paper: Beyond ThunderDOMA.)

Section Three of DOMA defines marriage for purposes of the thousand-some federal statutes that deal with marriage. It says that for purposes of federal law, “the word ‘marriage’ means only a legal union between one man and one woman as husband and wife.” This is an exception to the usual federal practice, which is to look at state law to decide whether a couple is married. (Another part of the statute deals with states’ refusing to give “full faith and credit” to marriages from other states, but for present purposes, it is mostly unimportant.)

DOMA has become very controversial. A number of trial courts (and at least one appellate judge, acting in his administrative capacity) have held it unconstitutional. Last February, the Obama Administration joined in, and began arguing to the courts that it is unconstitutional.

On what basis? Here is where it gets interesting. The courts and the challengers have not really argued that states must recognize same-sex marriages (as the district court in Perry v. Schwarzenegger held). Instead, they’ve argued that even if states can make their own decision about same-sex marriage, the federal government is constitutionally required to respect the state’s choice.

Doctrinally, these challenges turn on levels of scrutiny and government interests, but the closest analogy might actually be the Supreme Court’s confusing opinion in Romer v. Evans. In Romer, the Court struck down a state constitutional amendment that repealed local and state laws that protected against sexual-orientation discrimination, and thereby “impose[d] a special disability upon [gay people] alone.” In almost every other respect, the federal government looks to state law to decide whether a couple is married — age, consanguinity, officiant, previous divorce, etc. — except for same-sex marriages, on which, “alone,” DOMA “imposes a special disability.”

Anyway, you may or may not buy that constitutional argument, but a lot of courts are buying it and the President is selling it. And if that argument wins out, federal law will have to rely on state law to determine whether a same-sex couple is married. (The same thing happens if DOMA is repealed.) But relying on state law, it turns out, is much more complicated than it seems. (That’s where the choice-of-law stuff comes in. We’ll get to it today or tomorrow.)

Over at Balkinization, Andrew Koppelman (Northwestern) has an interesting and thoughtful post on the state of originalism. Synthesizing analysis by Jamal Greene and Jack Balkin, Koppelman writes, “Originalism is fundamentally about a narrative of rhetorical self-identification with the achievements of a founding historical moment. That is the real basis of its power. An originalist argument will be powerful to the extent that can persuade its audience that it can keep faith with that identification.”

Thus, “Originalist argument is an artifact designed to recall the Constitution’s origin and connect what we are doing now with that origin. Once this functional definition of originalism is understood, it follows that the range of possible original arguments is quite broad. It is not, however, infinite.” So, argues Koppelman, the fact that originalists differ among themselves in many important details about what “originalism” really is, is not a fatal flaw. Simiilarly, there are many different things called “aspirin” (e.g., Excedrin, generic products, St. Joseph’s children’s aspirin, etc.), but they all contain acetylsalicylic acid, and they all have a generally similar function. Which particular one you use at a given time will depend on the particular purposes for which it is needed.

I do want to quibble, though, with one particular legal history claim that Koppelman makes: “Thus originalists struggle with the problem whether the general purpose of the Fourteenth Amendment, to mandate the legal equality of blacks, should trump the framers’ specific intention to permit school segregation and miscegenation laws.”  Michael McConnell and Randy Barnett have written on the school segregation issue, but I’d like to add something on miscegenation. I don’t think that the historical record unambiguously supports the claim of a specific intent in the 14th Amendment to allow the continuation of laws against interracial marriage.

We do know for certain that one very specific intention of the 14th Amendment framers was to provide a solid constitutional foundation for the Civil Rights Act of 1866. According to the Act: “All persons within the jurisdiction of the United States shall have the same right in every State and Territory to make and enforce contracts, . . . as is enjoyed by white citizens. . .”

Early exposition by courts is one source of original public meaning. (Although this source is not always guaranteed to be reliable. See, e.g., the Slaughter-House majority’s dicta). In 1872, the Alabama Supreme Court ruled that the state’s 1866 constitutional ban on miscegenation  violated the “cardinal principle” of the Civil Rights Act and of the Equal Protection clause. Burns v. State, 48 Ala. 195 (1872). According to the unanimous Burns court, the idea that contracts could be limited to members of the same race was absurd: “Marriage is a civil contract, and in that character alone is dealt with by the municipal law. The same right to make a contract as is enjoyed by white citizens, means the right to make any contract which a white citizen may make. The law intended to destroy the distinctions of race and color in respect to the rights secured by it. It did not aim to create merely an equality of the races in reference to each other. If so, laws prohibiting the races from suing each other, giving evidence for or against, or dealing with one another, would be permissible. The very excess to which such a construction would lead is conclusive against it.”

That same year, the Texas Supreme Court unanimously ruled that  the “the law prohibiting such a [common law] marriage [between a white and a black] had been abrogated by the 14th Amendment to the Constitution of the United States.” Bonds v. Foster, 36 Tex. 68 (1872) (inheritance case). As detailed in Peggy Pascoe’s book, What Comes Naturally: Miscegenation Law and the Making of Race in America (2010), in the years after the Civil War, eleven states repealed their bans on interracial marriage.

It was the Indiana Supreme Court  that figured out the way to evade the clear statutory language about the equal right of contract. According to the court, marriage is  ”more than a mere civil contract”; it is an institution fundamental to society. The Indiana court insisted at length that the 14th Amendment had not limited the traditional police power of the states. If Congress could ban states from imposing a racial  mandate on the right to enter a marriage contract, then Congress would (supposedly) have the power to legislate on all aspects of marriage. State v. Gibson, 36 Ind. 389 (1871).

I don’t find the Indiana court’s 1871 reasoning persuasive, and, apparently, neither did the Alabama and Texas Supreme Courts in 1872. But courts cannot stand forever against the sustained will of the electorate. After four losses, the proponents of anti-miscegenation won on their fifth try in the Alabama Supreme Court. When the courts in the various states finally acquiesced to anti-miscegenation laws, Gibson was the essential citation, because it came from a state where slavery had never legally existed. The Texas intermediate Court of Appeals provided the legal reformulation that marriage was “status” and not “contract,” and was therefore not covered by the Civil Rights Act: “Marriage is not a contract protected by the Constitution of the United States, or within the meaning of the Civil Rights Bill. Marriage is more than a contract within the meaning of the act. It is a civil status, left solely by the Federal Constitution and the laws to the discretion of the states, under their general power to regulate their domestic affairs.” Frasher v. State, 3 Tex. App. 263 (Tex. Ct. App. 1877). (The regressive Frasher decision is one more data point in support of the observation in Henry Sumner Maine’s great 1861 book Ancient Law: “we may say that the movement of the progressive societies has hitherto been a movement from Status to Contract.” Maine’s book elaborates in great detail why marriage law fits this paradigm.)

By the time that Plessy v. Ferguson was decided in 1896, the Supreme Court majority, which was willfully oblivious to contemporary social reality (e.g., if blacks consider a segregation mandate to be a “a badge of inferiority,” that is “solely because the colored race chooses to put that construction upon it”) , was also lazily ignorant of legal history: “Laws forbidding the intermarriage of the two races may be said in a technical sense to interfere with the freedom of contact, and yet have been universally recognized as within the police power of the state.” The sole citation for this allegedly “universal” recognition was State v. Gibson. The Court was right that as of 1895, miscegenation laws were constitutionally safe, but the Court seemed quite unaware that during the first years when the 14th Amendment and the Civil Rights Act were the law of the land, the issue was in dispute.

Although the late Professor Pascoe’s book is suffused with critical race/gender theory, readers who find such theories useless will still find Pascoe’s book enormously useful. It is an excellent legal history of anti-miscegenation laws and cases, and not just during Reconstruction. You will learn about the national panic to spread such laws during the early 20th century because the black boxer Jack Johnson (who defeated a string of opponents who were billed as “the Great White Hope”) notoriously consorted with white women; how courts struggled with interpreting miscegenation laws in the West (which were mainly aimed at Asians, and which raised questions such as whether a ban on white marriage to “the Mongolian or Malay races” applied to Filipinos); the NAACP’s political opposition to new miscegenation laws coupled with its great reluctance to mount legal challenges to existing ones; and the extremely risky litigation (not endorsed by NAACP) which led to the landmark 1948 California Supreme Court Perez v. Lippold decision (won mainly on void for vagueness, the fundamental unenumerated right to marry, and First Amendment  free exercise of religion, rather than a categorical attack on all racial discrimination).

Justice Carter’s concurrence in Perez is a good illustration of the main thesis of Koppelman’s post, and of the point made by the second Justice Harlan (and also by Jack Balkin) that our “tradition is a living thing,” in which our national understanding of the original meaning can be deepened by new experiences. Rebutting respondent’s collection of social scientists who contended that race-mixing was destructive to the health of the white race, Justice Carter quoted some essentially similar claims from Hitler’s Mein Kampf. Justice Carter continued: “To bring into issue the correctness of the writings of a madman, a rabble-rouser, a mass-murderer, would be to clothe his utterances with an undeserved aura of respectability and authoritativeness. Let us not forget that this was the man who plunged the world into a war in which, for the third time, Americans fought, bled, and died for the truth of the proposition that all men are created equal.” And so, “In my opinion, the statutes here involved violate the very premise on which this country and its Constitution were built, the very ideas embodied in the Declaration of Independence, the very issue over which the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, and the Second World War were fought, and the spirit in which the Constitution must be interpreted in order that the interpretations will appear as ‘Reason in any part of the World besides.’”

So said the unanimous Supreme Court in United States v. Linder, 268 U.S. 5 (1925). The opinion was written by McReynolds, and joined by the progressive Justices Brandeis and Holmes, along with the rest of the Court.

At issue was the federal Harrison Anti-Narcotic Law, which taxed opium and coca leaves, and their derivatives. Ostensibly as part of the tax scheme, the Act also required registration of those drugs. A physician lawfully dispensed one tablet of morphine and three tablets of cocaine to a female patient who was an addict. The trial court instructed the jury that Dr. Linder’s actions would be lawful if the drugs were dispensed as painkillers for stomach cancer or an ulcer, but not simply because the patient was an addict. As the Supreme Court observed, the indictment “does not question the doctor’s good faith nor the wisdom or propriety of his action according to medical standards. It does not allege that he dispensed the drugs otherwise than to a patient in the course of his professional practice or for other than medical purposes. The facts disclosed indicate no conscious design to violate the law, no cause to suspect that the recipient intended to sell or otherwise dispose of the drugs, and no real probability that she would not consume them.”

The Court pointed out that “Congress cannot, under the pretext of executing delegated power [here, the Tax Power], pass laws for the accomplishment of objects not intrusted to the federal government. And we accept as established doctrine that any provision of an act of Congress ostensibly enacted under power granted by the Constitution, not naturally and reasonably adapted to the effective exercise of such power, but solely to the achievement of something plainly within power reserved to the states, is invalid and cannot be enforced.” This was supported by a string cite starting with McCulloch v. Maryland.

In the instant case, the power to tax cocaine and morphine carried with it incidental powers to effectuate that tax, and the effectuation of the tax was the sole legitimate use of incidental powers. Incidental powers could not be construed to control a physician’s decision about properly taxed and registered products:

“Obviously, direct control of medical practice in the states is beyond the power of the federal government. Incidental regulation of such practice by Congress through a taxing act cannot extend to matters plainly inappropriate and unnecessary to reasonable enforcement of a revenue measure. The enactment under consideration levies a tax, upheld by this court, upon every person who imports, manufactures, produces, compounds, sells, deals in, dispenses or gives away opium or coca leaves or derivatives therefrom, and may regulate medical practice in the states only so far as reasonably appropriate for or merely incidental to its enforcement. It says nothing of ‘addicts’ and does not undertake to prescribe methods for their medical treatment. They are diseased and proper subjects for such treatment, and we cannot possibly conclude that a physician acted improperly or unwisely or for other than medical purposes solely because he has dispensed to one of them in the ordinary course and in good faith, four small tablets of morphine or cocaine for relief of conditions incident to addiction. What constitutes bona fide medical practice must be determined upon consideration of evidence and attending circumstances. Mere pretense of such practice, of course, cannot legalize forbidden sales, or otherwise nullify valid provisions of the statute, or defeat such regulations as may be fairly appropriate to its enforcement within the proper limitations of a revenue measure.”

Thus, said the Court, Linder was different from previous cases in which the Court had upheld the prosecution of physicians whose prescription of large quantities of drugs was obviously a sham, for no medical purpose, and simply to serve as a conduit for drugs to the general public.

It is not surprising that Linder was relied in several cases finding that Congress had exceeded tax power. U.S. v. Butler (1936); Hopkins Federal Savings & Loan Ass’n v. Cleary (1935); U.S. v. Constantine (1935); Trusler v. Crooks (1926).

Significantly, after 1937, the Court continued to rely on Linder, and in upholding other statutes, to distinguish them from the mis-application of the statute in Linder. “While there has long been recognition of the authority of Congress to obtain incidental social, health or economic advantages from the exercise of constitutional powers, it has been said that such collateral results must be obtained from statutory provisions reasonably adapted to the constitutional objects of the legislation. Linder v. United States.” Cloverleaf Butter v. Patterson (1942).

Linder appears the very first paragraph of a case familiar to many VC readers, United States v. Miller (1939). Citing, inter alia, Linder, the Miller opinion says that the federal tax and tax registration system for certain firearms does not “usurp[] police power reserved to the States.”

In U.S. v. Kahriger (1953), Linder is a “But see” footnote for this sentence: “Unless there are provisions, extraneous to any tax need, courts are without authority to limit the exercise of the taxing power.” I think that’s a misreading of Linder. The Court’s point in Linder was that micro-managing a physician’s decision about when to write a prescription was in fact “extraneous to any tax need.” So Linder and Kahriger are not inconsistent.

In a case decided after Kahriger, the Court upheld a gambling device tax, expressly distinguishing it from Linder, because the gambling tax is “certainly not a mere ruse designed to invade areas of control reserved to the states.” U.S. v. Five Gambling Devices (1953).

The most important case which relies on Linder is Ashwander v. Tennessee Valley Authority (1936) (upholding the TVA). There, the majority opinion by Chief Justice Hughes affirms that “The Congress may not, ‘under the pretext of executing its powers, pass laws for the accomplishment of objects not intrusted to the government.’ Chief Justice Marshall, in McCulloch v. Maryland, 4 Wheat. 316, 423; Linder v. United States, 268 U.S. 5, 15, 17.”

Justice Brandeis’s concurrence in Ashwander is, to this day, regarded as the most important guidance for the judicial principles of abstention. Number 7 of the “Ashwander principles” is that a court should attempt to construe a statute so as to avoid a constitutional problem, and for this proposition, Justice Brandeis cited Linder, among other cases.

In short, even if one takes the view that cases upholding certain aspects of the New Deal and the Fair Deal enjoy some sort of supra-precedential status that earlier cases do not, Linder is part of the fabric of those privileged cases.

Next semester I will teaching the Constitutional Law I class at Denver University. It’s the standard class that almost all 2d or 3d semester law students must take at all law schools:

This required introductory course examines the role of the United States Supreme Court and, in particular, the Court’s power in exercising judicial review in cases interpreting the U.S. Constitution. The course focuses primarily on two topics. First is the doctrine of Separation of Powers: examining the structure and interrelationship of the three branches of the federal government, Congress, the Executive Branch, and the federal judiciary. Second is the doctrine of Federalism: the relationship and power distribution between the federal government and state governments. In addition, all sections will devote part of the course to an introduction to at least one aspect of the large field of individual constitutional rights. The specific rights covered will vary by instructor. . . .  Students who wish to gain a deeper understanding of these topics are strongly encouraged to take Constitutional Law (Advanced): Individual Rights.

My particular class will pay special attention to some topics of great modern relevance: the interstate commerce power and the N&P clause, since the Supreme Court will be hearing the most important case in decades on those topics. We will also get into some depth on the President’s war powers under Article II, since those were the subject of much debate under Bush, and remain so under the current administration–including the war with Libya.

I’ll be using Randy Barnett’s textbook, which is mostly chronological. One of the main purposes of the class is for students to learn how to practice constitutional law using originalism AND using living constitutionalism. The latter necessitates a chronological approach, since to counsel clients on how the Constitution might change in the future (or might change now), one must understand how the application of the Constitution has varied during different periods in American history.

In the class, I will explain some key facts in American history, for the benefit of students who may not have much history background. Some students, though, might want to do some additional reading to deepen their knowledge. So what American history survey book would commenters recommend for such students? I’d strongly prefer that the book be available in paperback, and not tremendously long, since first-year students have plenty of reading to do already.

FOLLOW-UP: Things are worse than I had feared. Several commenters mentioned some great books (e.g., Gordon Wood), but I want a survey that goes from no later than 1776 through most of American history. No textbooks for AP or college US History, although I wish my students had the time and the money for the Schlesinger textbook. No books that focus on a particular issue, even if it’s a broad one (e.g., Eric Foner’s book). I’m certainly not going to inflict Howard Zinn on my students. I read the 1st edition of People’s History almost as soon as it came out, and enjoyed it. But that’s definitely not the starting point for someone to learn the actual history of the United States; it’s a book for someone who already knows a lot of American history, and can discern the difference between some neglected stories that Zinn tells, and the incredible amount of chaff. Bill Bennett did so much damage to the Constitution during the Bush administration that I recoil from using his book in a constitutional law class. So in the realm of affordable survey paperbacks, we’re down to Brogan’s Penguin History and Paul Johnson’s A History of the American People. Based on Amazon reviews, each book is way too didactic for my purposes. Not that the distinguished authors are not entitled to their points of view; I just want something without such a heavy hand. At this point, I’m leaning towards telling students to buy Samuel Eliot Morrison’s Oxford History, which ends in 1963, but is available used for almost nothing, plus shipping. Or his more recent Concise History of the American Republic, also available used for very good prices.

Gary Lawson and I explain why, in an article published last week by Yale Law Journal Online.

In short, the Necessary and Proper Clause expressed the well-known agency law doctrine of principals and incidents. That is, the grant of power to an agent (and the federal government was an agent of the people, to exercise certain delegated powers) was considered to include incidental powers. (Unless the parties specified to the contrary.) To be an incidental power, a power had to be subsidiary to, inferior to, and “less worthy” (in the language of the time) than the principal power. So if A delegates to B the power to manage A’s farm for five years, B could lease part of the farm to C for a few years, but B could not sell the farm. The power to sell the farm is not an “incident” of the power to manage a farm. It is a power that is as great as the power to manage the farm.

Thus, the first half of Chief Justice Marshall’s opinion in McCulloch wrestles with the question of whether the power to establish a corporation (here, the 2d Bank of the United States) can be considered an “incident” of the enumerated congressional powers. This portion of the opinion is often expurgated from constitutional law textbooks. But not from Randy Barnett’s Constitutional Law: Cases in Context.

So is the power to order people to engage in commerce with certain corporations “incidental” to the enumerated power “to regulate Commerce . . .  among the several States”? Lawson and I argue that the power to compel intrastate commerce is of at least equal “dignity” as the power to regulate voluntary interstate commerce. Thus, the individual mandate cannot be justified a “necessary and proper” to the exercise of the power to regulate interstate commerce.

Further, the word “proper” affirms the agency/fiduciary law rule that an agent  must act reasonably, and when he is acting on behalf of several principals must treat the principals equally. So in Rooke’s Case, it was unreasonable that the entire costs of a water control project were imposed on a single landowner, when other landowners also benefited from the project. In Leader v. Moxon (1773) paving commissioners were unreasonable when they ordered a road repair that effectively buried the doors and windows of the plaintiff’s house, making plaintiff bear the entire burden of a project that was supposedly for the benefit of him and others. In the Founding era, government creation of a monopoly was the paradigm example of a government act that was not “proper,” because the monopolist was benefited to the detriment of everyone else.

In 1787, a consumer could at least choose not to buy the monopolist’s product.  ”The conclusion is clear: if a commercial monopoly—which citizens may avoid by not purchasing the product monopolized—is constitutionally void as ‘improper,’ then far more ‘improper’ is a mandate for the benefit of political favorites, which none but other political favorites may avoid. . . . [C]oerced commerce with congressionally favored oligopolists is constitutionally improper and void.”

Thus, if the Supreme Court follows the original meaning of the Necessary and Proper clause, and McCulloch v. Maryland‘s accurate exposition of that meaning, the Court will not rule in favor of the individual mandate as a necessary and proper exercise of the power to regulate interstate commerce.

I’m delighted to report that Clark Neily of the Institute for Justice will be guest-blogging this week, about IJ’s “judicial engagement” project. IJ is one of the leading libertarian public interest law firms in the country, and I’ve always much respected their work.

As readers of this blog doubtless know, both conservatives and libertarians are split on the degree to which courts should act aggressively in reviewing legislation for constitutionality, as opposed to deferring to legislative action, especially in the area of so-called “substantive due process.” My sense is that different bloggers on this blog themselves disagree on this subject; and I suspect that I wouldn’t always agree with IJ’s broadest positions on this. But I much look forward to Clark’s explanation of IJ’s views, and I think our readers will find them interesting as well.

That’s the question posed today over at Scotusblog. It’s the premiere of the Scotusblog Community, which aims to encourage discussions by Scotusblog readers. To start the ball rolling, Scotusblog solicited short comments (up to 2 paragraphs) from Erwin Chemerinsky, Dawn Johnsen, Ilya Shapiro, Stephen Presser, Adam Winkler, and me, among others.

My answer to what the Supreme Court should do is:

The Court should re-affirm Gibbons v. Ogden, which followed the original understanding of the interstate commerce clause: “commerce” means mercantile exchange, plus some closely-related subjects, such as navigation. Among the subjects which are not interstate commerce, according to Gibbons, are “health laws of every description.” The Court should then over-rule South-Eastern Underwriters (1944), which broke from long-established precedent, and declared that even purely intrastate insurance was interstate commerce. Because South-Eastern claimed to be following original meaning, the modern Court should simply point out that none of the original sources cited by the South-Eastern opinion remotely support the contention that all forms of insurance are “commerce.”
 
Finally, Congress should explain that the Necessary and Proper clause underscores the unconstitutionality of the mandate. As McCulloch v. Maryland demonstrated, the original meaning of the clause affirms the Congress may exercise powers which are incidental to an enumerated power. The power to compel a private person to engage in commerce with a private company is not an incident of, or lesser than, the power to regulate voluntary interstate commerce. Further, government-created monopolies were, in the Founding Era, a paradigmatic example of improper government action. Therefore, it is not constitutionally “proper” to force citizens to spend their money on a government-favored Big Insurance oligopoly.

The rationale for the above can be found in my articles Bad News for Professor Koppelman: The Incidental Unconstitutionality of the Individual Mandate, 121 Yale Law Journal Online (forthcoming 2011)(with Gary Lawson); “Health Laws of Every Description”: John Marshall’s Ruling on a Federal Health Care Law, 12 Engage 49 (June 2011) (with Robert G. Natelson); Commerce in the Commerce Clause: A Response to Jack Balkin, 109 Michigan Law Review First Impressions 55 (2010) (with Natelson); and Health insurance is not ‘commerce’: A single erroneous Supreme Court precedent from 1944, South-Eastern Underwriters, should be overturned, National Law Journal, March 28, 2011 (with Natelson) (available on Lexix/Nexis).

Since Scotusblog is trying to get people to comment on its own website, I’m not opening comments on this post, and I encourage you to share you thoughts over at Scotusblug.