The Volokh Conspiracy

Today the Supreme Court takes on the scope of the Commerce Clause in the historic healthcare cases. The case raises the question of whether there are any substantive limits to the federal government’s domestic regulatory power. But another case soon to be (re)argued before the Court, Kiobel v. Royal Dutch Shell, manages to raise an even broader question: Are there any substantive limits to the federal government’s power to regulate matters occurring outside and having nothing do with the United States? Surprisingly, the latter question has not been generally regarded as a constitutional one.

The Supreme Court has expanded the issues under consideration in Kiobel, originally about corporate liability under the Alien Tort Statute, to include the extraterritorial application of the law. Like corporate liability, extraterritoriality had for decades just been assumed by the lower courts hearing ATS cases: now it will be fully explored.

This series of posts, also cross-posted on OpinioJuris, will focus on the constitutional/federal courts issues involved, and of course explore the early piracy precedents of the Supreme Court to get traction on the issues. In short: before thinking about the ATS, one must consider the constitutional basis for universal jurisdiction – which is quite narrow. Furthermore, there a some good reasons derived both from the constitution and precedent for interpreting the ATS narrowly, as not exercising whatever UJ power the federal government does have.

Before turning to the merits, it is amusing to note the strange bedfellows ATS doctrine makes. The litigation and accompanying academic debate over the meaning and scope of the Alien Tort Statute has been a marvel of surprising ideological transpositions, and more reversals of traditional roles than All’s Well That Ends Well. On the issue of corporate liability, liberals (crudely speaking) urge the Court look to parochial U.S. law, and conservatives (still crudely speaking) favor the adoption of a rule from international law and practice. Then the Court asks for new arguments on extraterritoriality. Now the conservatives point to U.S. law – the judge-made presumption against extraterritoriality – and liberals point to the international status of the offenses. It is like a game of Twister.

Neither position is fully correct. There may be a place for extraterritoriality in ATS cases, but in a much narrower class of cases then where it is currently applied. The next few posts draw on much of my prior work, and I hope the reader forgives me not recapitulating the entire argument of those articles in these posts.

I wonder if folks at HHS were in contact with folks at Justice before they decided to announced a few weeks back that health insurers must cover contraceptives.  While this requirement isn’t directly pertinent to the constitutionality of the ACA, it weakens the government’s defense in two extra-legal respects.

First, the laws’ defenders want to focus on the issue of  how the individual mandate alleviates the problem of the uninsured facing unexpected and catastrophic medical costs, which they then impose on the public to the tune of tens of billions of dollars.*  But the headlines have been dominated by the issue of health insurers being required to pay for the very expected and relatively minimal (as low as $9 a month for birth control pills) cost of non-OTC contraceptives.  This very much makes it seem like the ACA is as much about expanding federal power for the benefit of liberal constituencies as about the need for coordination in the interstate market for medical services to avoid problems related to the uninsured.

Second, while liberals don’t typically associate federalism with the protection of liberty, conservatives do, and it’s the conservative Justices whose votes the government needs.  One of the “swing” Justices, Anthony Kennedy, waxed eloquent on the importance of federalism to individual rights just last term.  Meanwhile, every one of the five conservatives on the Court is a Catholic.  So pretty much the last thing you’d want if you were an Obama Administration lawyer defending the ACA is for HHS to announce just before oral arguments that henceforth under the ACA Catholic organizations, over the strong objections of the Church, will be compelled by the federal government to violate what they see as their Catholic religious obligations and provide contraception coverage to their employees.  While the Flukes of the world see this as a victory for women’s rights, I suspect that Kennedy and Roberts see it as a federal infringement on religious liberty [and not just any religious liberty, but their co-religionists' religious liberty!], with more to come if the ACA is upheld.

I don’t know what the odds are that the Supreme Court will rule in favor of any of the plaintiffs’ challenges, but I’m pretty confident that the odds in favor are higher than they would have been if HHS had kept its bureaucratic mouth shut about the contraception mandate for several more months.

*Just after I posted this, I ran across a great example, this statement by former acting Solicitor General Neal Katyal:

The challengers to the reform say that never before has the government forced people to buy a product. We’re not forcing you to buy a product. Health care is something all Americans consume, and you don’t know when you’re going to consume it. You could get struck by a bus, you could have a heart attack and the like. And if you don’t have health insurance, then you show up at the emergency room. The doctors are under orders to treat you — as any Western, any civilized society would do. And who pays for that? Well, ordinary Americans pay for that. They’re the ones who have to pick up the tab for those who don’t have insurance. We are not regulating what people buy, we’re regulating how people finance it.

Notice how little the contraception mandate fits with this argument.

I was trying to think of a good example to illustrate the Federal government’s lack of a general police power as opposed to the states’ inherent police power, with an example that doesn’t implicate serious “substantive due process” concerns.  So here goes: All states have compulsory schooling laws, some to age 18, others to age 16.  No one seriously questions the constitutionality of these laws.

But let’s say the Federal government decided to pass legislation, modeled on longstanding state laws, requiring all residents of the United States to attend school until age 18 or face [some penalty--a fine, or being drafted into "national service" or whatever].  A resident of a state where schooling is only mandatory until age 16 sues, claiming that this is beyond Congress’s enumerated powers.

The government claims that it has the authority under its Commerce power to require school attendance.  After all, not only is education is a huge percentage of the American economy, the federal government already regulates the education market to a substantial degree and spends tens of billions of dollars annually for education, money that will to some extent be wasted if children don’t continue their education at least through high school. Thus, it’s both necessary and proper that the government impose an education mandate to ensure that it’s education policies will be successful.

To the argument that a sixteen year old dropout isn’t engaged in economic activity, the government argues that staying out of school is itself an economic activity, because, among other things, it reduces the amount of federal and state aid to one’s school, makes one less marketable in the employment market, reallocates resources that would otherwise be spend on the dropout’s education, and makes it more likely that one will need to spend money on education in the future.  Moreover, no one is really “out” of the education market, because everyone is learning things all the time, whether from t.v., one’s friends, Facebook, or formal schooling.  Finally, by dropping out of school, a sixteen year old is raising the expected costs to the government and society of future crime, welfare payments, and the like.

Anyone think the government should win?

UPDATE: The government has at least one more argument: Given interstate mobility, the dropouts from “16″ states may move to other states and impose costs on them due to their lack of education. Nevertheless, I have a hard time seeing these arguments getting five votes from the current Court.

As I’ve argued several times before, the Supreme Court’s conservative majority will not uphold the individual mandate if the mandate’s defenders are unable to come up with a limiting principle that will prevent a decision upholding the law from eviscerating any remaining limits on Congress’s power to regulate interstate commerce.  (Which is not to say that the majority will necessarily uphold the law if such a limiting principle is articulated).

I leave it to those who have studied the briefs in detail to discuss whether the government and its amici have come up with such a principle.  But with friends like New York Times columnist Linda Greenhouse, they don’t need enemies.  Greenhouse:

If  the commerce power extends to backyard marijuana growing (as it did to backyard wheat growing in the famous New Deal case of Wickard v. Filburn), the notion that Congress somehow lacks the power to regulate, restructure or basically do whatever it wants in the health care sector, which accounts for 17 percent of the gross domestic product, is far-fetched on its face.

Greenhouse’s reasoning is sloppy.  First, Wickard v. Filburn didn’t apply to “backyard” wheat growing, the farm in question was a large commercial operation, and the wheat in question was fed to the farm’s cattle, who were sold on the interstate market.  But more important, Wickard and Raich were both as-applied challenges, while the challenge to the individual mandate is a facial challenge.

So what Greenhouse is arguing is that because the Supreme Court has in the past refused to countenance as-applied challenges that sought to exempt local activity from a concededly broader scheme of the regulation of interstate commerce, facial challenges to laws that on the grounds they don’t regulate interstate commerce to begin with are also out of bounds.  In other words, Congress can do whatever it wants, at least so long as it identifies an important economic “sector” to which its regulation pertains.

In the health care area, can Congress in fact require everyone to eat broccoli? Exercise twice a day in government-run health care facilities, with a government-mandated exercise program? Prohibit people from picking wild blueberries for their own consumption?   According to Greenhouse, Congress can do any of those things, even though there is no commerce, much less interstate commerce, involved, so long as it can argue that by doing so it’s really trying to regulate the “health care sector.”

Maybe it’s a good idea to give Congress the power to regulate whatever and however it wants, though I really doubt it.  More to the point, I’m quite sure that the conservative majority is not willing to endorse the proposition that the commerce power is really the Congress-Can-Do-Whatever-it-Wants Power.

Bonus foolishness from Greenhouse: She touts Nancy Pelosi’s infamous “Are you serious?” response to questions about the ACA’s constitutional basis as evidence that the ACA is in fact constitutional, as opposed to what is really is, evidence that Pelosi and her allies treated the idea that the health care law needed to be within Congress’s enumerated powers with thinly-veiled contempt.  As I discussed here (with further examples of such contempt), this in turn is a very good reason for the Court not to defer to Congress’ view of the scope of its commerce power, though of course lack of deference doesn’t dictate the outcome one way or the other.

James Taranto and Ed Whelan also have sharp words for Greenhouse.

I have an op-ed up at Jurist Forum.  Here’s how it starts:

With the US Supreme Court poised to decide whether the Affordable Care Act’s (ACA) individual mandate is unconstitutional, the ghost of the notorious 1905 Supreme Court decision in Lochner v. New York hovers over the case. Invalidate the mandate and you are resurrecting Lochner, legal briefs supporting the government argue.

Yet the holding in Lochner, which found that the Due Process Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment protects a robust right to “liberty of contract,” was overruled decades ago and is not at issue in the health care litigation. Plaintiffs have challenged the individual mandate primarily as being beyond Congress’s Article I, Section 8 power to regulate interstate commerce. They argue that this power must have substantive limits, or the Constitution would have simply given Congress the power to regulate everything.

So why are defenders of the mandate so eager to talk about Lochner? The answer lies in the peculiar status of Lochner in American constitutional discourse.

Most blogosphericos know Benjamin Wittes as a founding editor of the premiere national security law blogsite, Lawfare (for which I serve as His Serenity, the Book Review Editor).  However, he has a broader role at the Brookings Institution, where he is a senior fellow in Governance Studies.  Most recently, this has led to an exciting new project between Brookings and the Center for the Constitution at James Madison’s Montpelier (which, if you live in the DC-VA area, is well worth a visit).  It is called ConText: An Experiment in Crowd-Sourced Commentary.  Which is to say, what do James Madison, the Constitutional Convention, Wikipedia, and the Talmud have in common?  Wittes explains:

That’s the question behind a new project Brookings has launched in partnership with the Center for the Constitution at James Madison’s Montpelier. The project, about which I am deeply excited, is at one level an attempt to bring to life the most important document in American history that nobody ever reads: Madison’s Notes of the Debates in the Federal Convention of 1787. At another level, however, it is a broader experiment in crowd-sourcing commentary on dense historical texts and in illuminating those texts for the public, for students, and for scholars in new ways.

It also has an interesting story behind it.

For several years now, Brookings and Montpelier have been conducting joint programming on a variety of issues related to the Constitution and contemporary public policy. Montpelier, for those of you who have never visited it, is the plantation of James Madison. The idyllic setting is also the home of the Center for the Constitution, which conducts educational seminars about constitutional thought for a variety of audiences: teachers, police officers, legislators, judges. The Brookings-Montpelier collaboration began as an effort to marry such discussion of Founding Era thought with Brookings work on contemporary public policy. Over time, however, we began talking about ways to expand the collaboration into publications. At one point, I suggested to Sean O’Brien—then the director of the center and now the chief operating officer of the larger Montpelier operation—that perhaps we should jointly publish a new edition of the Notes of the Convention. They are, after all, the best record of the Founding debates we have. And while everyone reads the Federalist Papers, very few lay people touch the Notes, which are dense, written in a kind of shorthand code, and are hundreds of pages long.

When I suggested this, Sean sighed and said that the center had been struggling for some time with what to do about the Notes. Another published volume of them, he thought, was not the answer. Somehow, he wanted to bring the Notes to life—to make it possible for people to be in the room as the delegates in Philadelphia thrashed out what became our system of government. Sean’s spot-on ambition started me thinking: Was there a way to do this using technology, a way that added intellectual value and was not mere kitsch? Could we take a long, impenetrably-difficult text, and tease meaning out of it in a format that people could more easily approach?

There is a model for this sort of thing, but it’s not a model from the American constitutional tradition; it’s the Talmud—the multi-volume exposition of Jewish law that developed after the Romans sacked the Temple in Jerusalem. The Talmud is a series of debates—and commentaries on those debates—on a text called the Mishnah. The rabbis found an ingenious way of commenting on this dry, lengthy text in a language (Ancient Hebrew) which was already in Roman times no longer their vernacular (they spoke and wrote in Aramaic). On a page of Talmud, a passage of Mishnah is physically surrounded by layers of commentary text, more and more of them as the centuries wore on. So in the center of the page is a short passage, by tradition, of course, Divine, but often in practice dry as dust; yet radiating out from that passage is centuries of wisdom and thought. It is not merely a form of crowd-sourced scholarship, but it is a visual means of expressing that scholarship and crowd-sourcing that seemed to me to have broad application to the exposition of lengthy and difficult historical texts like the Notes.

The trouble, of course, was that the Talmud developed over centuries, whereas Sean and I wanted to bring out the Notes now. And that’s where Wikipedia comes in. If the wisdom of crowds can write an encyclopedia, maybe a smaller crowd of scholars and interested lay people could write a commentary on the Notes. Perhaps we could develop a technological architecture that would allow a scholarly community to do over months and years what the rabbis took centuries to do with the Mishnah. This required software development.

The result is ConText, which launched today, Madison’s birthday. Organized like the Talmud, ConText surrounds the Notes with layers of commentary—commentary on the history (what was going on in the room), current events (how these events relate to current politics), theoretical and philosophical issues, and subsequent constitutional interpretation and dispute. Like Wikipedia, that commentary will be written by a scholarly community that develops around ConText: historians, constitutional scholars and practitioners, and interested students and lay people. Both the text and the commentary are fully searchable. And anyone can get an account and begin contributing.

The ConText project is not limited to the Notes, though the Notes represent the core of the experiment. If this platform will support a scholarly community devoted to illuminating this document, there are a great many other Founding Era texts (and texts from other periods), for which it might work as well. I have even flirted with the idea that it might offer a way for the intelligence community to seek analytical input on complicated contemporary unclassified texts from a broad range of scholars from whom it does not normally hear.

So please, check it out. Learn about the Notes, and contribute your knowledge of them and of the later constitutional history that began with them to the project.

Georgetown Law Professor David Cole has a terrific review of my new book, Flagrant Conduct: The Story of Lawrence v. Texas (Norton) in the April 5 issue of the NYRB. Cole presents the basic background, including what likely happened the night John Lawrence and Tyron Garner were arrested for the crime of “Homosexual Conduct,” a Texas law that forbade oral and anal sex for same-sex couples but not for opposite-sex couples. A similar Georgia law had been upheld in Bowers v. Hardwick (1986), which the Lawrence Court reversed.  Cole notes that it was unusual enough for the Court to recognize its own error:

But for it to happen in a mere seventeen years, the equivalent of a nanosecond in the “Jarndyce and Jarndyce” tempo of constitutional law, is nothing short of extraordinary. The story of how it happened is one of the great success stories of public interest law. It shows what a carefully orchestrated litigation campaign can do when supported by a passionate and growing social movement. At the same time, it offers a cautionary tale for the current controversy over the recognition of same-sex marriage, which may soon be headed, prematurely, to the Supreme Court.

The Supreme Court’s 2003 decision in Lawrence v. Texas devoted a scant paragraph to an anodyne description of the facts of the case, barely mentioned the defendants, and described their alleged conduct only as “a sexual act.” The Court was evidently more at ease with the nuances of constitutional jurisprudence than with the messy details of the case. Dale Carpenter’s Flagrant Conduct fills in the gaps, and provides a rich, meticulous, and fascinating account of the most important constitutional decision so far on the status of gays and lesbians in American society.

Unlike the Court, Carpenter revels in the factual details and the personalities involved in the struggle, as he takes us from the recesses of a private bedroom in a seedy condominium on the outskirts of Houston to the oral argument in the grand chamber of the United States Supreme Court. Along the way, he offers sharp insights into the politics, ironies, and strategies behind the Brown v. Board of Education of the gay rights movement.

Over the next couple of months I will be on an active speaking tour for my new book, Flagrant Conduct: The Story of Lawrence v. Texas, which has just been published by W.W. Norton & Co. 

Of perhaps greatest interest to readers of this blog are a couple of events coming up soon.  This Friday, March 16, I’ll be in Washington speaking at lunchtime at the Cato Institute, with commentary by Washington Post editor Charles Lane, and moderated by Cato’s David Boaz.   The following Thursday evening , March 22, I’ll be in New York speaking at the Institute for American Values, hosted by Elizabeth Marquardt, Director of the Center for Marriage and Families.

Both events are open to the public and free of charge, but require pre-registration at the links above.

In this recent post, University of Texas constitutional law professor Sanford Levinson calls for a reassessment of our federal and state constitutions:

[I]nstead of being fixated on what the Constitution means, one instead asks whether the Constitution, given a stipulated meaning that may in fact not be at all difficult to discern, is in fact wise. One might call this a “Jeffersonian” approach to the Constitution inasmuch as it invites relentlessly asking whether the Constitution is serving us well. This is, incidentally, an especially important question if we agree on constitutional meaning. Disagreement, after all, suggests the possibility of legitimately interpreting the Constitution to achieve what we might describe as “happy endings.” The situation is decidedly different, however, if we agree on constitutional meaning, but believe that it sets us up less for happy endings than for driving over a cliff….

I have recently published a new book, Framed: America’s 51 Constitutions and the Crisis of Governance (Oxford University Press), that focuses almost exclusively on the wisdom of constitutional structures that are, almost without exception, obvious in their meaning. Evidence of this obviousness is that they are rarely brought up in law school classes precisely because there is nothing to “argue about” in the only sense that lawyers and their professors define that term, which involves debates about meaning…

An important theme of the book is that there are fifty-one constitutions within the United States if one takes into account the fifty states. More to the point, these state constitutions can teach valuable lessons of their own. Some of them, as with the national constitution, may offer cautionary lessons inasmuch as they help to explain the dysfunctionalities of given state politics.

I agree with much of what Sandy says in this post. We should not blindly venerate the Constitution. And we should give serious consideration to the possibility that some parts of it are flawed or even dysfunctional. As I explained in this post, a few parts of the Constitution are indefensible and some others are at least open to serious question. Sandy is also right that legal scholars should pay more attention to the effects of the clear “hardwired” parts of the Constitution and to state constitutional law. The latter is sadly neglected by most constitutional law academics, and rarely gets its due in the law school curriculum. Hopefully, Sandy’s important book will help change that.

On the other hand, I am far less confident than Sandy that we should push for a major restructuring of the Constitution at this point in our history. As Richard Epstein notes in his response to Sandy’s post, such an effort could easily do more harm than good. We should not abjure all efforts constitutional reform. But I would prefer to use a scalpel rather than a meat cleaver. For that reason, I am skeptical of calls for a new constitutional convention, which has been advocated by some on the political right, as well as by Sandy himself.

I also disagree with some of Sandy’s specific criticisms of federal and state constitutions. For example, he writes that California’s state constitution is flawed because of “the near-inability to raise any taxes, given the constitutional requirement of a two-thirds vote in the legislature, coupled with the ability of the California electorate to pass legislation and even constitutional amendments through mechanisms of ‘direct’ democracy.” However, California has in fact been quite successful in raising taxes. It has the third-highest state income tax rate of any state (trailing only Hawaii and Oregon). The highest rate (9.3%) kicks in at an annual income of just $48,029. The state also has an above average state sales tax rate (6.25%). California’s fiscal crisis is the result of unusually high spending, not unusually low tax rates.

However, Sandy is not entirely wrong to believe that California’s problems have a constitutional dimension. As I explained in this post, the state’s dysfunctions are in part the result of its vast size and its favorable geographic location, which make it difficult for citizens to “vote with their feet” against excessive taxation and regulation. Only in the last few years have things gotten so bad that the state has begun to suffer net outmigration to other states. Californians would have been better off if the state were broken up into several smaller jurisdictions that would have to compete with each other for residents. But that option is rendered almost impossible by the federal Constitution.

UPDATE: The Tax Foundation reports that California has an additional 10.3% tax rate on incomes of over $1 million per year.

UPDATE #2: Mike Rappaport has posted a thoughtful response to Sandy’s post here. I agree with many of Mike’s points, though I a more sympathetic than he is to reforms that would make the US Constitution easier to amend.

At the Legal Theory Blog, Georgetown law professor Larry Solum – a leading originalist scholar – has the following comments on my new paper, “Originalism and Political Ignorance”:

If Somin is correct, his argument provides support for one of the core arguments of “Semantic Originalism,” that the success conditions of constitutional communication can be met if we assume that the communicative content of the constitutional text consists of the conventional semantic meanings of the words and phrases as combined by shared understandings of syntax and grammar. Any additional communicative content must be delivered by the publicly shared context of constitutional utterance. If Somin is right, then that context is relatively information poor.

Somin does not argue that the public was generally ignorant of conventional semantic meaning–and this seems unlikely, since shared semantic understandings of some sort are required for linguistic communication to succeed.

Solum’s point has a lot of merit. The public need not know as much if all that originalist theory requires of it is an understanding of “conventional semantic meanings of the words and phrases” in the Constitution. I made a related point in my article when I noted that political ignorance is less of a problem for the original meaning of parts of the Constitution that are clear and unambiguous (pp. 24-26). I also suggested that the challenge posed by public ignorance may counsel in favor of literal rather than figurative interpretations of constitutional text, since low-knowledge voters are more likely to be aware of the former (pp. 44-45).

However, semantic meaning is not a panacea for the problem of ignorance. In many important cases, the semantic meaning of parts of the Constitution is ambiguous enough to allow more than one plausible meaning (e.g. – with terms such as “liberty,” “property,” and “equal protection of the laws”). Many of our most important constitutional disputes involve broad phrases like these, to which different people can attach widely divergent meanings, all of them linguistically plausible. In such cases, widespread public ignorance makes it difficult or impossible to pin down an original meaning. Many low-knowledge voters may have been unaware of the dispute and/or had no clear view on how to resolve it.

(1) Discussion of SDP continues over at Cato Unbound.   Too many interesting posts there to pick out one, so just start from Tim Sandefur’s lead essay and keep reading.

(2) Professor Michael McConnell and Nathan Chapman have posted an article on SSRN, Due Process as Separation of Powers.  The article cautions against “resorts to originalism to support modern due process doctrines,” finding that modern due process doctrines bear little similarity to the scope of the requirement of “due process of law” when the Fourteenth Amendment was enacted. On other hand, and contrary to standard originalist critiques emanating of SDP and its antecedents going back to Edward S. Corwin in the 1910s, the authors acknowledge that “due process of law” was understood to protect a (in their view very limited) category of substantive rights, in particular vested property rights.

I don’t agree with everything in this paper–in particular, I think the authors give short shrift to the influence of abolitionist constitutional thought.  The authors correctly note that before the Civil War, the (expansive, rights-oriented) abolitionist understanding of due process of law was not “adopted by more than a fringe,” but they fail to seriously grapple with the extent to which the Radical Republicans who drafted the Fourteenth Amendment after the Civil War were influenced by abolitionist thought. (I’m not sure how great the influence was, but it can’t be dismissed by reference to the state of constitutional law in 1860; the abolitionists were, after all, among the primary ideological victors of the war).

In any event, it’s a very valuable contribution to the debate over the meaning of the Due Process Clause, both in 1868 and today.

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.

UPDATE #2: I should acknowledge an error: Contrary to what I previously thought, most unions are not organized as corporations, but have a separate legal status of their own. I very much regret the mistake and apologize for it.

At the same time, it is important to recognize that unions, like corporations were freed from restrictions on independent campaign-related speech by the Citizens United decision, and the Court’s reasoning in both cases was the same. Moreover, the “corporations aren’t people” argument for restricting corporate speech still applies to unions with equal force. Unions are no more “natural” persons than corporations are. Both are legal entities with special rights, obligations, and privileges defined by the government. In some ways, unions actually have more legal privileges than corporations do. For example, unlike business corporations, they are exempt from federal income taxation.

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.