OESTERHOUDT STRIKES
At some point in our lives, we all wonder whether we are "good people." We live with others. We know how "good people" act. We have an intuitive sense about what makes a person "good." We even hear things about what makes a person "good:" They are friendly, kind, forbearing, compassionate, ethical, honest, caring, loving, trustworthy, gracious, forgiving and generous. "Good people" do not hurt you. They do what they say; and they apologize if they do not. They consider you at the same time they consider themselves. Aristotle and many other philosophers have written tomes about what it takes to be "good." It is an age-old question.
Of course, not everyone can agree on what is "good." You can't know you are a good person until you know what is good in the first place. What is good in one person's eyes may be bad in another. It is easy to lay down absolute standards for goodness. Yet like all ethical dilemmas, only we can say whether we subjectively feel that we have done right. Nonetheless, we can generally all agree that being "good" involves living without intent to injure other people. In that sense, being a "good person" essentially depends on positive motivation. And that positive motivation shines through in good actions toward others. Good people think selflessly; they refuse to hurt others to advance their interests. Bad people do the opposite; they are willing to hurt others to help themselves.
Being a good person is an individual lifestyle. It does not depend on how much money you make or what you do for a living. While it is possible to identify "objective" factors that hint whether a person is "good," true goodness comes from the heart, not from action alone. Enron fraud artists probably donated some money to charity the same year they robbed millions; that donation did not make them good people. No, being good is internal; and good shines through in external action. It is hard to verify. But everyone knows it when they see it.
It is refreshing to know a truly good person because they are rare. In our world, it is hard to be selfless and honorable. There are so many impulsions to discard goodness toward others in order to advance yourself. By the same token, it is hard to be patient. No one wants to wait or understand others' problems. Nor do they want to waste their time on others without reward. After all, people need to fend for themselves. They only have a limited time to get the job done. If they waste their time being nice to others, they might injure their own fortunes. And no one likes to do that. Put simply, we expect most people not to be good; our society frustrates goodness. That is why it is a welcome relief to meet a good person.
There is no formula to being a good person. Yet people throw the term around far more than they should. In many cases, they say someone is "good" solely because they act in a way that enriches them. That misunderstands what it means to be good. A truly good person acts with malice toward no one. The fact that a person acts the way another person wants them to does not make him good. To the contrary, expecting a person to act in a way that is beneficial to you undermines their value as an individual. It "instrumentalizes" them; it makes them pawns in a game you want to win. Just because someone pays you according to a contract does not make them "good." Merely fulfilling an external legal obligation is no shortcut to goodness. A good person holds to his word because it is his word, not because the law threatens him to do so.
Yet many people think that observing external obligations makes you "good." It is easy to make this mistake. After all, complying with the law seems like a "good" thing to do. But the law is indifferent to intention. And intention is the only thing that determines whether a person is good. In that sense, it is possible to seem good by fulfilling every imaginable legal standard. Yet it is also possible to have only bad intentions while complying with the law. You can be a total scoundrel yet do nothing illegal. If a person did not know you, they might say: "Well, he is law-abiding. So he must be a good person." To that extent, fulfilling external obligations can disguise ethical flaws.
I encountered an example to illustrate this easily confused distinction in the New York Post a few days ago. I read an article about some poor web designer who got run over in a Brooklyn street. See N.Y. Post, Horror hit-run in B'klyn, April 19, 2010 at p. 9. The article quoted his landlord. She spoke about his character: "He works. He comes home. He's a very good person (emphasis added)."
What did the landlord know about this guy? How did she know he was a "very good person?" She based her assessment on the fact that he works and comes home. What does that have to do with ethical goodness or pure intention? Nothing. If anything, it reveals that the landlord thinks the web designer was a "good person" solely because he went to his job, came home every night and ostensibly paid the rent. He might have been an utter scoundrel who doublecrossed his friends and broke women's hearts. Yet as far as the landlord was concerned, he was a "good person" because he adhered to his contractual obligations to pay rent. He also was a "good person" because he quietly went to his job and caused no disturbances.
I suppose this is what it takes to be a "good person" in a landlord's eyes. Landlord apply a "formula" for goodness: Have good credit; make an income; cause no trouble; pay your rent; keep your mouth shut; pay next month's rent; pay a late fee after the first. Your intentions do not matter. And "being a good person" means acting exactly the way the landlord wants. In this case, the landlord happened to like the way her tenant behaved because he did what enriched her. She morally approved him because his behavior coincided with her interests. His own ethical qualities did not influence her appraisal. It was "all about her." And that determined whether he was "good."
This gravely misunderstands what it means to be a "good person." A person is not "good" simply because he acts in a way that enriches another. Nor is he "good" simply because he adheres to contractual obligations under law. Rather, goodness is more subtle than that. There is no checklist. Action is not enough. It takes real reflection to see whether someone is good. Getting a rent check in the mail every month does not suffice to prove goodness.
Criminals and scallywags can mail rent checks, too. That does not make them good people.
But who has time to sit down and really think about character in our society? It seems we only care about character when we want to damage a foe with some embarrassing "flaw." And once again, we do that to merely to advance ourselves at their expense. By hurting them, we help ourselves. And hurting others is rarely good.
Showing posts with label Intent. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Intent. Show all posts
Friday, April 23, 2010
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
DOMINIC CARTER, CRIME AND CHANGING PUNISHMENT IN AMERICA
AN ESSAY
A few months ago, I wrote a short article about Dominic Carter, the former New York 1 anchorman who allegedly beat his wife. I used Mr. Carter's story to illustrate how difficult it is to "prove" things in our empirically-based evidence system. Now, a State court in New York has sentenced Mr. Carter to an unusual punishment for attempted assault. This presents compelling new issues.
Just as Mr. Carter's case provided an excellent vehicle to discuss evidence law, his sentence now provides an excellent vehicle to discuss criminal penalties in modern America. Put simply, criminal penalties are changing in America. And they are drifting far from their traditional purposes. In my view, this is not a good thing.
According to the New York Post, Mr. Carter was convicted of attempted assault for pervasively abusing his wife since 1997. See N.Y. Post, Crying shame of jailed NY1 journo, Jan. 15, 2010 at 5. Although his wife denied that Mr. Carter beat her, the trial judge--Arnold Etelson--referenced police reports detailing marital strife in the Carter home for over a decade. Id. He sentenced Mr. Carter to 30 days' imprisonment. Id. He also ordered Mr. Carter to "stay away" from his wife for two years unless "he is prescribed medication by a psychiatrist able to assure the judge that [he] is well enough to see her." Id. Additionally, the judge gave Mr. Carter an article from New York Magazine detailing Matt Damon's views about "honesty and humility." Id. During sentencing, he told Mr. Carter: "Try some humility and honesty--it goes a long way." Id. Finally, the judge gave Mr. Carter's wife a sticker with the words "Attitude Makes the Difference. " Id. He instructed her to affix the sticker to her bathroom mirror so that Mr. Carter can see it when he visits. Id.
This is highly irregular judicial work. As a general rule, the criminal law forbids specifically defined conduct. The criminal justice system decides whether the defendant engaged in that conduct, then neutrally decrees the legal consequences. While morality animates all criminal codes, it is not for judges in the criminal justice system to pontificate about it, let alone publicly scold criminals for sport. This New York judge transformed his courtroom into an entertainment circus. And the spotlight was not on Mr. Carter--it was on the judge.
To start, it is strange that Judge Etelson characterized these facts as "attempted" assault. At common law--and under New York State law--an assault means an intentionally harmful or offensive touching. See, e.g. NYPL § 120.00, et seq. Any intentional crime can be "attempted" if the defendant intends to achieve the bad result envisioned in the criminal code, then takes some action corroborating that intent. But it is no longer "attempt" when the defendant achieves exactly what the law forbids. Here, the judge relied on police reports that detailed Mr. Carter's abuse. They all but verified that he had routinely hit his wife since 1997. If the judge believed those reports, then he should have convicted Mr. Carter of assault, not attempted assault. If Mr. Carter succeeded in harmfully or offensively touching his wife, it was no longer attempted assault. It was just plain old assault--and it's a worse crime than attempted assault.
But Judge Etelson's legal errors pale in comparison with his bizarre approach to criminal penalties. Traditionally, criminal penalties in America--as in all Western countries--target the body and property. The law assumes that people do not want to suffer bodily pain or lose their property, so penalties targeting those things ostensibly dissuade potential criminals from making "bad choices." The death penalty, imprisonment, fines and corporal punishment encompass everything a State can realistically do to penalize crime.
In modern America, imprisonment is the preferred penalty. Fines follow in second place. Most consider corporal punishment an archaic penalty; it really never happens anymore. The death penalty is more common. Still, State-ordered death is quite a rare punishment, too.
Judge Etelson did not give Mr. Carter a traditional punishment. Rather, he theatrically used Mr. Carter as an instrument. The only traditional part about Mr. Carter's sentence was his imprisonment. To some, thirty days in prison for attempted assault might appear harsh. But no one would call it bizarre. People expect either fines or imprisonment for crimes in America. The criminal justice system works in part because the public knows what to expect for certain transgressions. They trust judges to declare penalties that everyone expects. At the same time, they understand that even a convicted criminal is entitled to some dignity before the law. He need not be publicly humiliated, ridiculed or belittled in the courtroom. His prison term and social ostracism accomplish that on their own. It is not the judge's role to morally grandstand or scold. He simply must pronounce sentence. Legislators moralize when they write the laws. Judges should not.
What does a New York Magazine article or a sticker have to do with the law? When did Matt Damon become a legal authority? True, "honesty, humility and a good attitude" are virtues. But it is not the law's role to chastise people for failing to be virtuous. The law's only role is to decree whether a person acted in a defined way. It does not matter whether he was virtuous or not when he did. A defendant suffers enough when a judge declares the penalty for violating the law; he does not need to "rub it in" by acting the moralist. In fact, I argue that judges overstep their bounds when they do.
I understand that people like to see criminals squirm. But their convictions should make them squirm, not a judge's moralizing antics. If every judge took it upon himself to act like Judge Etelson, our criminal justice system would look more like a Catholic school than a neutral forum for just laws. In a word, it is not a judge's job to castigate a convict's moral failings. Moral failings are irrelevant to the law. And the law is the only thing that judges are constitutionally empowered to decide. Anything else they say is unauthorized fluff.
Judge Etelson-style grandstanding is not the only abomination that occurs in our criminal justice system. Now, criminal penalties also increasingly intertwine with psychiatry. Mr. Carter's case is no exception. In his sentence, Judge Etelson conditioned Mr. Carter's future with his wife on his agreement to take psychiatric medications. He also retained discretion whether to permit Mr. Carter to see her, depending on whether a psychiatrist could assure him that he was "well enough."
Are these judicial inquiries? If they are, do they not negate the State's moral outrage against Mr. Carter? After all, if the court believes that Mr. Carter needs psychiatric medication, that means he is mentally ill. If he was mentally ill at the time he struck his wife, that makes him far less morally blameworthy. After all, the criminal law depends upon free, rational choice for its moral strength. It is easy to condemn someone who knowingly makes a bad choice. But it is not easy to condemn someone who lacked the mental composure to make choices, let alone recognize they were wrong.
In this case, Judge Etelson tried to wear too many hats. He wanted to punish Mr. Carter for doing something that violated the law. But then he stepped back and ordered Mr. Carter to take psychiatric medications for his "mental problems." Put simply, judges are not psychiatrists. They are not social workers. It is not their job to monitor people's behavior once they serve their sentences. Nor is it their job to declare whether people are "normal." Rather, they are mere judicial officers, and it's not a complicated job. It is not about management; it is about judgment: Did the defendant do this or not? If he did, he goes to jail. If he didn't, he goes free.
There is undoubtedly a relationship between law and psychiatry. But a judge's only concern with psychiatry is to determine whether a defendant is mentally well enough to be criminally responsible. If he is, that ends the inquiry. In fact, judges must be extremely wary when dealing with psychiatry in criminal cases. After all, the entire rationale for criminal punishment collapses as soon as psychiatry shows that the defendant cannot make rational choices. In that light, judges should tread lightly when tampering with psychiatric issues. They might just discover that the "evil defendant" is really no ogre at all. He might just be "sick." And it is not proper to morally condemn sick people, let alone jail them for choices they could not make. For better or worse, the law only works on sane people.
I doubt that Judge Etelson understood all these issues when he entertained the news media during Dominic Carter's sentencing last week. From his perspective, he was in the spotlight and he was going to relish the moment. He was not content to play the neutral magistrate who calmly decrees the legal consequences of statutory violations. No, he had to play the scolding father, too, as well as the psychiatrist and the actor.
I do not like this. While it may be impossible to separate law from popular morality, judges should consciously try to do so. True, laws enshrine popular morality. But they are not moral weapons. They are technical guidelines. It does not matter whether a law-abiding citizen is moral; he must merely not violate the technical guidelines. Morality is about character. Law is about conduct. It is much easier to control conduct than character. And a judge simply declares whether the individual in question violated the conduct guideline.
Well, at least that's what a judge is supposed to do. American criminal law is changing for the worse because the distinction between morality and law is eroding every day. Just look at the Carter case. It's all right there to see.
A few months ago, I wrote a short article about Dominic Carter, the former New York 1 anchorman who allegedly beat his wife. I used Mr. Carter's story to illustrate how difficult it is to "prove" things in our empirically-based evidence system. Now, a State court in New York has sentenced Mr. Carter to an unusual punishment for attempted assault. This presents compelling new issues.
Just as Mr. Carter's case provided an excellent vehicle to discuss evidence law, his sentence now provides an excellent vehicle to discuss criminal penalties in modern America. Put simply, criminal penalties are changing in America. And they are drifting far from their traditional purposes. In my view, this is not a good thing.
According to the New York Post, Mr. Carter was convicted of attempted assault for pervasively abusing his wife since 1997. See N.Y. Post, Crying shame of jailed NY1 journo, Jan. 15, 2010 at 5. Although his wife denied that Mr. Carter beat her, the trial judge--Arnold Etelson--referenced police reports detailing marital strife in the Carter home for over a decade. Id. He sentenced Mr. Carter to 30 days' imprisonment. Id. He also ordered Mr. Carter to "stay away" from his wife for two years unless "he is prescribed medication by a psychiatrist able to assure the judge that [he] is well enough to see her." Id. Additionally, the judge gave Mr. Carter an article from New York Magazine detailing Matt Damon's views about "honesty and humility." Id. During sentencing, he told Mr. Carter: "Try some humility and honesty--it goes a long way." Id. Finally, the judge gave Mr. Carter's wife a sticker with the words "Attitude Makes the Difference. " Id. He instructed her to affix the sticker to her bathroom mirror so that Mr. Carter can see it when he visits. Id.
This is highly irregular judicial work. As a general rule, the criminal law forbids specifically defined conduct. The criminal justice system decides whether the defendant engaged in that conduct, then neutrally decrees the legal consequences. While morality animates all criminal codes, it is not for judges in the criminal justice system to pontificate about it, let alone publicly scold criminals for sport. This New York judge transformed his courtroom into an entertainment circus. And the spotlight was not on Mr. Carter--it was on the judge.
To start, it is strange that Judge Etelson characterized these facts as "attempted" assault. At common law--and under New York State law--an assault means an intentionally harmful or offensive touching. See, e.g. NYPL § 120.00, et seq. Any intentional crime can be "attempted" if the defendant intends to achieve the bad result envisioned in the criminal code, then takes some action corroborating that intent. But it is no longer "attempt" when the defendant achieves exactly what the law forbids. Here, the judge relied on police reports that detailed Mr. Carter's abuse. They all but verified that he had routinely hit his wife since 1997. If the judge believed those reports, then he should have convicted Mr. Carter of assault, not attempted assault. If Mr. Carter succeeded in harmfully or offensively touching his wife, it was no longer attempted assault. It was just plain old assault--and it's a worse crime than attempted assault.
But Judge Etelson's legal errors pale in comparison with his bizarre approach to criminal penalties. Traditionally, criminal penalties in America--as in all Western countries--target the body and property. The law assumes that people do not want to suffer bodily pain or lose their property, so penalties targeting those things ostensibly dissuade potential criminals from making "bad choices." The death penalty, imprisonment, fines and corporal punishment encompass everything a State can realistically do to penalize crime.
In modern America, imprisonment is the preferred penalty. Fines follow in second place. Most consider corporal punishment an archaic penalty; it really never happens anymore. The death penalty is more common. Still, State-ordered death is quite a rare punishment, too.
Judge Etelson did not give Mr. Carter a traditional punishment. Rather, he theatrically used Mr. Carter as an instrument. The only traditional part about Mr. Carter's sentence was his imprisonment. To some, thirty days in prison for attempted assault might appear harsh. But no one would call it bizarre. People expect either fines or imprisonment for crimes in America. The criminal justice system works in part because the public knows what to expect for certain transgressions. They trust judges to declare penalties that everyone expects. At the same time, they understand that even a convicted criminal is entitled to some dignity before the law. He need not be publicly humiliated, ridiculed or belittled in the courtroom. His prison term and social ostracism accomplish that on their own. It is not the judge's role to morally grandstand or scold. He simply must pronounce sentence. Legislators moralize when they write the laws. Judges should not.
What does a New York Magazine article or a sticker have to do with the law? When did Matt Damon become a legal authority? True, "honesty, humility and a good attitude" are virtues. But it is not the law's role to chastise people for failing to be virtuous. The law's only role is to decree whether a person acted in a defined way. It does not matter whether he was virtuous or not when he did. A defendant suffers enough when a judge declares the penalty for violating the law; he does not need to "rub it in" by acting the moralist. In fact, I argue that judges overstep their bounds when they do.
I understand that people like to see criminals squirm. But their convictions should make them squirm, not a judge's moralizing antics. If every judge took it upon himself to act like Judge Etelson, our criminal justice system would look more like a Catholic school than a neutral forum for just laws. In a word, it is not a judge's job to castigate a convict's moral failings. Moral failings are irrelevant to the law. And the law is the only thing that judges are constitutionally empowered to decide. Anything else they say is unauthorized fluff.
Judge Etelson-style grandstanding is not the only abomination that occurs in our criminal justice system. Now, criminal penalties also increasingly intertwine with psychiatry. Mr. Carter's case is no exception. In his sentence, Judge Etelson conditioned Mr. Carter's future with his wife on his agreement to take psychiatric medications. He also retained discretion whether to permit Mr. Carter to see her, depending on whether a psychiatrist could assure him that he was "well enough."
Are these judicial inquiries? If they are, do they not negate the State's moral outrage against Mr. Carter? After all, if the court believes that Mr. Carter needs psychiatric medication, that means he is mentally ill. If he was mentally ill at the time he struck his wife, that makes him far less morally blameworthy. After all, the criminal law depends upon free, rational choice for its moral strength. It is easy to condemn someone who knowingly makes a bad choice. But it is not easy to condemn someone who lacked the mental composure to make choices, let alone recognize they were wrong.
In this case, Judge Etelson tried to wear too many hats. He wanted to punish Mr. Carter for doing something that violated the law. But then he stepped back and ordered Mr. Carter to take psychiatric medications for his "mental problems." Put simply, judges are not psychiatrists. They are not social workers. It is not their job to monitor people's behavior once they serve their sentences. Nor is it their job to declare whether people are "normal." Rather, they are mere judicial officers, and it's not a complicated job. It is not about management; it is about judgment: Did the defendant do this or not? If he did, he goes to jail. If he didn't, he goes free.
There is undoubtedly a relationship between law and psychiatry. But a judge's only concern with psychiatry is to determine whether a defendant is mentally well enough to be criminally responsible. If he is, that ends the inquiry. In fact, judges must be extremely wary when dealing with psychiatry in criminal cases. After all, the entire rationale for criminal punishment collapses as soon as psychiatry shows that the defendant cannot make rational choices. In that light, judges should tread lightly when tampering with psychiatric issues. They might just discover that the "evil defendant" is really no ogre at all. He might just be "sick." And it is not proper to morally condemn sick people, let alone jail them for choices they could not make. For better or worse, the law only works on sane people.
I doubt that Judge Etelson understood all these issues when he entertained the news media during Dominic Carter's sentencing last week. From his perspective, he was in the spotlight and he was going to relish the moment. He was not content to play the neutral magistrate who calmly decrees the legal consequences of statutory violations. No, he had to play the scolding father, too, as well as the psychiatrist and the actor.
I do not like this. While it may be impossible to separate law from popular morality, judges should consciously try to do so. True, laws enshrine popular morality. But they are not moral weapons. They are technical guidelines. It does not matter whether a law-abiding citizen is moral; he must merely not violate the technical guidelines. Morality is about character. Law is about conduct. It is much easier to control conduct than character. And a judge simply declares whether the individual in question violated the conduct guideline.
Well, at least that's what a judge is supposed to do. American criminal law is changing for the worse because the distinction between morality and law is eroding every day. Just look at the Carter case. It's all right there to see.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
WHOM WOULD YOU RATHER KILL? A MAN OR A DOG?
OESTERHOUDT STRIKES
We learn from earliest childhood that "killing is bad." We have a natural moral sense that ending lives is generally not a good (and certainly not a nice) thing to do. Along the same lines, we learn that "life is valuable." We especially learn this when it comes to human lives. Animal lives are, well, not as valuable.
Some people genuinely take these lessons to heart. Abortion opponents, for instance, say that "all potential life is valuable." That means that not just full-grown adults do not deserve to die, but also tiny cell clusters that might one day develop into fetuses. Some even think that any potential life is valuable. But this reaches into absurdity. After all, every ejaculation and ovulation cycle represents "potential life." Surely it is neither sin nor murder to have a period or to ejaculate without an intention to procreate.
But all "life rhetoric" is vexingly biased. After all, who speaks up for non-human life? All cellular organisms are "alive." They all "die" when their necessary cellular functions cease. Is it somehow distressing, then, when a cow dies? How about a cockroach? Or a tree? These things are all "life." Yet no one marches to stop "tree murder," and no one wails when a raccoon dies in the wilderness. Put simply, when people say they "believe in life," they really mean that they believe in "human life." After all, people have an interest in staying alive. From a biological perspective, no living creature wants to die. A few people, of course, want to kill themselves. In the aggregate, however, most living humans want to stay alive.
Despite all this, even those who feverishly "defend human life" are not absolutists. Even people who fight tooth and nail to defend the unborn--or lament wasted sperm--have exceptions to their rule. After all, many people think that some human life is not worth preserving. When a man "deserves" to die, even the staunchest life defenders do not intervene to save him. I always found it amusing that most abortion defenders support capital punishment. I find it even more amusing that some particularly fiery abortion defenders murder doctors in order to prevent abortions. How's that for a problematic principle? All life is precious; but some people deserve to be killed. It's enough to boggle one's mind--or even laugh, if it weren't so serious.
Perhaps it is not so surprising after all. In fact, I venture that most people actually have little problem killing their fellow man. In fact, I think most people would have an easier time killing a man than a "lesser life form," like a dog or a deer. Despite all the things we learn about killing others, I think most people just need to be pushed far enough in order to kill another human being. And not just kill--gleefully kill.
And that's the difference: Men must be pushed to kill another person. Only human beings have the capacity to taunt, insult, degrade, abuse and denigrate their fellows. They can cause untold misery to one another, both physically and psychologically. The urge to kill builds in proportion to the misery a person endures at another's hands. Sometimes it does not even take that much to push a person over the edge. Think about road rage killings and drunken barroom squabbles. Men exchange words. Their emotions fly off the handle. Next thing you know, someone is dead. In other cases, a person suffers chronic abuse and finally snaps. Consider the beaten wife who just can't take it any more and slits her husband's throat while he sleeps.
In short, people kill each other for comparatively little. Maybe life is not that sacred after all.
But the same people who gladly kill their fellow man might have trouble killing a puppy dog. After all, people who kill over abuse or petty arguments do so because humans have a unique ability to arouse enmity in one another. In the moment before a man stabs a rival who insulted his girlfriend, he thinks: "I'm gonna kill this fucking asshole." In other words, the human capacity for intent leads men to kill each other. It even makes killing easy in the right circumstances.
Not so with a dog. Why would anyone want to kill an innocent little puppy? Everyone knows that a puppy can't cause any harm. It can't lie, deceive, insult, connive, abuse, beat, torture or tyrannize. It can do none of the things that arouse homicidal rage in human beings. If it came between an innocent puppy dog and a hated tormentor who slaps and insults you all day for weeks on end, I don't think I'm stretching to suggest that most people would much rather kill the man than the dog.
In a word, it is facetious to claim that "all human life is sacred." Our own behavior proves us wrong when we do. The truth is that human beings drive us crazy from time to time. They drive us so crazy, in fact, that we become all too willing to kill them if the circumstances impel us. Only humans have the capacity to arouse such furious, homicidal rages. Puppies have no such capacity. That is why-- if given the choice--I think most people would rather kill a detested, tyrannical person than an innocent dog.
We learn from earliest childhood that "killing is bad." We have a natural moral sense that ending lives is generally not a good (and certainly not a nice) thing to do. Along the same lines, we learn that "life is valuable." We especially learn this when it comes to human lives. Animal lives are, well, not as valuable.
Some people genuinely take these lessons to heart. Abortion opponents, for instance, say that "all potential life is valuable." That means that not just full-grown adults do not deserve to die, but also tiny cell clusters that might one day develop into fetuses. Some even think that any potential life is valuable. But this reaches into absurdity. After all, every ejaculation and ovulation cycle represents "potential life." Surely it is neither sin nor murder to have a period or to ejaculate without an intention to procreate.
But all "life rhetoric" is vexingly biased. After all, who speaks up for non-human life? All cellular organisms are "alive." They all "die" when their necessary cellular functions cease. Is it somehow distressing, then, when a cow dies? How about a cockroach? Or a tree? These things are all "life." Yet no one marches to stop "tree murder," and no one wails when a raccoon dies in the wilderness. Put simply, when people say they "believe in life," they really mean that they believe in "human life." After all, people have an interest in staying alive. From a biological perspective, no living creature wants to die. A few people, of course, want to kill themselves. In the aggregate, however, most living humans want to stay alive.
Despite all this, even those who feverishly "defend human life" are not absolutists. Even people who fight tooth and nail to defend the unborn--or lament wasted sperm--have exceptions to their rule. After all, many people think that some human life is not worth preserving. When a man "deserves" to die, even the staunchest life defenders do not intervene to save him. I always found it amusing that most abortion defenders support capital punishment. I find it even more amusing that some particularly fiery abortion defenders murder doctors in order to prevent abortions. How's that for a problematic principle? All life is precious; but some people deserve to be killed. It's enough to boggle one's mind--or even laugh, if it weren't so serious.
Perhaps it is not so surprising after all. In fact, I venture that most people actually have little problem killing their fellow man. In fact, I think most people would have an easier time killing a man than a "lesser life form," like a dog or a deer. Despite all the things we learn about killing others, I think most people just need to be pushed far enough in order to kill another human being. And not just kill--gleefully kill.
And that's the difference: Men must be pushed to kill another person. Only human beings have the capacity to taunt, insult, degrade, abuse and denigrate their fellows. They can cause untold misery to one another, both physically and psychologically. The urge to kill builds in proportion to the misery a person endures at another's hands. Sometimes it does not even take that much to push a person over the edge. Think about road rage killings and drunken barroom squabbles. Men exchange words. Their emotions fly off the handle. Next thing you know, someone is dead. In other cases, a person suffers chronic abuse and finally snaps. Consider the beaten wife who just can't take it any more and slits her husband's throat while he sleeps.
In short, people kill each other for comparatively little. Maybe life is not that sacred after all.
But the same people who gladly kill their fellow man might have trouble killing a puppy dog. After all, people who kill over abuse or petty arguments do so because humans have a unique ability to arouse enmity in one another. In the moment before a man stabs a rival who insulted his girlfriend, he thinks: "I'm gonna kill this fucking asshole." In other words, the human capacity for intent leads men to kill each other. It even makes killing easy in the right circumstances.
Not so with a dog. Why would anyone want to kill an innocent little puppy? Everyone knows that a puppy can't cause any harm. It can't lie, deceive, insult, connive, abuse, beat, torture or tyrannize. It can do none of the things that arouse homicidal rage in human beings. If it came between an innocent puppy dog and a hated tormentor who slaps and insults you all day for weeks on end, I don't think I'm stretching to suggest that most people would much rather kill the man than the dog.
In a word, it is facetious to claim that "all human life is sacred." Our own behavior proves us wrong when we do. The truth is that human beings drive us crazy from time to time. They drive us so crazy, in fact, that we become all too willing to kill them if the circumstances impel us. Only humans have the capacity to arouse such furious, homicidal rages. Puppies have no such capacity. That is why-- if given the choice--I think most people would rather kill a detested, tyrannical person than an innocent dog.
Friday, November 6, 2009
WHAT'S WORSE, IRAQ OR VIETNAM? LOW POINTS IN AMERICAN HISTORY
AN ESSAY
Before the "conflict" in Vietnam during the 1960s and 1970s, America had a hearty appetite for war. In the decades before Vietnam, Americans had waged several very successful wars against traditional opponents in Europe and Asia. They used their overwhelming industrial might to grind their enemies into submission. And because they always waged war far from home, these wars never directly impacted the civilian population. American cities never burned, nor did rampaging armies rape American women. In short, America had an appetite for war because it won them with comparatively little sacrifice.
But Vietnam tempered America's appetite for war because it was "unwinnable." Unlike the world wars, Vietnam was a civil war between ideological enemies in the same country. The "enemy" did not fight along traditional lines; they fought a dispersed war. They made it difficult for America to leverage its massive industrial might against them. Despite America's massive technological and material advantages, the North Vietnamese continued to resist. They never fought pitched battles with the Americans. They used hit-and-run tactics, preserved their forces and vanished into the jungle. No matter how many B-52 bombers or helicopters the Americans threw at them, they always managed to reappear. For a country accustomed to obliterating its enemies in open combat, this was a rude awakening.
America called Vietnam a "quagmire" because it could not crush its enemies in a single campaign. America does not like "quagmires" for the same reason it does not like unprofitable businesses: If you can't deliver success quick, people lose interest and close you down. America likes quick wins, not protracted struggles. Vietnam was a protracted struggle. When it appeared that no measure of carpet bombing or napalm would bring the North Vietnamese to heel, the American people simply lost interest and gave up.
This was a sobering moment in American history. Ragtag communist rebels turned away the world's most advanced army. The North Vietnamese never defeated the Americans in the field, but they successfully protracted the war long enough to deprive America's will for further combat. In this sense, they did not inflict a "military defeat" on the United States. But they prevented the United States from "achieving victory." That was a first in American history. And it disheartened many Americans.
Disbelief and frustration over the "unsatisfactory result" in Vietnam colored American public opinion about war for decades. During the buildup to the First Gulf War in 1990, President George H.W. Bush reassured the public that the coming conflict in Kuwait would result in "decisive victory." He invoked the "quagmire" in Southeast Asia when he said: "This will not be another Vietnam." He knew that Americans would not tolerate a protracted struggle. So he set his goal modestly: Destroy the Iraqi army, liberate Kuwait and go home. It was an achievable goal. He accomplished it. Unlike Vietnam, the First Gulf War was not a "quagmire" because it had a limited scope. Americans were happy with the outcome.
But the Second Gulf War did not have a limited scope. Unlike his father, President George W. Bush did not set achievable goals when he planned to invade Iraq in 2003. He said he wanted to "find weapons of mass destruction" and "remove Saddam Hussein from power." Yet any novice policy adviser knew that occupying a Middle Eastern country would entail a much broader involvement than merely liberating one Nation from another. Sure enough, this is exactly what happened. After ousting Saddam, American forces assumed a "police role" in Iraq. By removing Saddam, they unleashed a power vacuum that triggered a civil war. American troops found themselves in the crossfire between two warring factions. Casualties mounted. There was no end in sight.
We are still there: Another quagmire.
Both the Second Gulf War and Vietnam represent low points in American history. They both represent moments in which America questions its ability to wage successful wars. They both caused immense dissent at home. But I venture that the "Iraqi adventure" is a lower point in American history than the Vietnam war. I say this because there is a key distinction in motivation between them. I judge history by the intentions of those who animate it. And by that standard, Iraq appears a more unethical struggle than Vietnam.
Although both Vietnam and Iraq resulted in military "quagmires," America had a much purer purpose in Vietnam than it did in Iraq. For better or worse, America involved itself in Vietnam for an almost naive ideological reason: To halt the spread of its philosophical nemesis: Communism. America did not have any particular loyalty to the South Vietnamese government, nor did it have vested commercial interests in Southeast Asia. Instead, it embroiled itself in a bloody civil war 10,000 miles away solely to show that it did not like communism. No matter what you think about communism, you cannot fault the United States for believing in its "principles" in Vietnam. It had a clear philosophical "purpose" in fighting that war. It may have been the wrong purpose, but at least America believed in something to justify its sacrifice.
In short, America's motivations were apparent in Vietnam. And they were based in philosophical disagreement. Vietnam, then, represented America's belief in its own economic system over another. It was a "battle of principles."
But America's motivations for war in Iraq were far less naive. Despite Bush's rhetoric about "delivering democracy to Iraq" and "freeing Iraqis from tyranny," no one really believed those explanations. No, any reasonable person could see that America had massive commercial interests in an oil-producing country like Iraq. Even the Vice President owned shares in a company that stood to greatly benefit from any military involvement in the Middle East.
Worse, America took a dishonest course in shuffling toward war in 2003. President Bush used public hysteria about Islamic terrorism to forge a fanciful link between Osama bin Laden and Iraq. He even exaggerated stories about Iraqi "weapons of mass destruction" to deceive Americans into thinking that invading Iraq was necessary for "self-defense." He presented false testimony to the United Nations and the American public to garner support for military action. All the while, he failed to mention the crude commercial reasons why war in Iraq would benefit industrial interests.
America's "quagmire" in Iraq is not just a military fiasco. It is also the culmination of unethical behavior and dishonesty on an international scale. That is why I think it warrants greater condemnation than American involvement in Vietnam. As bad as Vietnam was, at least the President did not deceive both the international community and his own people to launch an unjust war. In Vietnam, America fought honestly to combat a philosophy it rejected. Everyone was relatively clear about that. But in Iraq, America fought--and still fights--an unnecessary war born in ignorance and deception. Worst, even a mild cynic can see that America has a direct interest in seizing territory in the oil-rich Middle East. And the commercial explanation renders all other explanations disingenuous. There was no such commercial explanation for war in Vietnam.
In sum, both Vietnam and Iraq stand out as bleak moments in American history. Both drove America into social turmoil because they did not result in "quick wins." But because America resorted to dishonesty to garner support for war in Iraq, I conclude that our experience in Iraq is a more embarrassing national humiliation than Vietnam. Unlike our naive--and foolishly misguided--motivations for war in Vietnam, our motivations for war in Iraq were simply crass, greedy and dishonorable. And we even had to lie and cheat to gain popular approval for action.
That is just unethical and shocking.
Before the "conflict" in Vietnam during the 1960s and 1970s, America had a hearty appetite for war. In the decades before Vietnam, Americans had waged several very successful wars against traditional opponents in Europe and Asia. They used their overwhelming industrial might to grind their enemies into submission. And because they always waged war far from home, these wars never directly impacted the civilian population. American cities never burned, nor did rampaging armies rape American women. In short, America had an appetite for war because it won them with comparatively little sacrifice.
But Vietnam tempered America's appetite for war because it was "unwinnable." Unlike the world wars, Vietnam was a civil war between ideological enemies in the same country. The "enemy" did not fight along traditional lines; they fought a dispersed war. They made it difficult for America to leverage its massive industrial might against them. Despite America's massive technological and material advantages, the North Vietnamese continued to resist. They never fought pitched battles with the Americans. They used hit-and-run tactics, preserved their forces and vanished into the jungle. No matter how many B-52 bombers or helicopters the Americans threw at them, they always managed to reappear. For a country accustomed to obliterating its enemies in open combat, this was a rude awakening.
America called Vietnam a "quagmire" because it could not crush its enemies in a single campaign. America does not like "quagmires" for the same reason it does not like unprofitable businesses: If you can't deliver success quick, people lose interest and close you down. America likes quick wins, not protracted struggles. Vietnam was a protracted struggle. When it appeared that no measure of carpet bombing or napalm would bring the North Vietnamese to heel, the American people simply lost interest and gave up.
This was a sobering moment in American history. Ragtag communist rebels turned away the world's most advanced army. The North Vietnamese never defeated the Americans in the field, but they successfully protracted the war long enough to deprive America's will for further combat. In this sense, they did not inflict a "military defeat" on the United States. But they prevented the United States from "achieving victory." That was a first in American history. And it disheartened many Americans.
Disbelief and frustration over the "unsatisfactory result" in Vietnam colored American public opinion about war for decades. During the buildup to the First Gulf War in 1990, President George H.W. Bush reassured the public that the coming conflict in Kuwait would result in "decisive victory." He invoked the "quagmire" in Southeast Asia when he said: "This will not be another Vietnam." He knew that Americans would not tolerate a protracted struggle. So he set his goal modestly: Destroy the Iraqi army, liberate Kuwait and go home. It was an achievable goal. He accomplished it. Unlike Vietnam, the First Gulf War was not a "quagmire" because it had a limited scope. Americans were happy with the outcome.
But the Second Gulf War did not have a limited scope. Unlike his father, President George W. Bush did not set achievable goals when he planned to invade Iraq in 2003. He said he wanted to "find weapons of mass destruction" and "remove Saddam Hussein from power." Yet any novice policy adviser knew that occupying a Middle Eastern country would entail a much broader involvement than merely liberating one Nation from another. Sure enough, this is exactly what happened. After ousting Saddam, American forces assumed a "police role" in Iraq. By removing Saddam, they unleashed a power vacuum that triggered a civil war. American troops found themselves in the crossfire between two warring factions. Casualties mounted. There was no end in sight.
We are still there: Another quagmire.
Both the Second Gulf War and Vietnam represent low points in American history. They both represent moments in which America questions its ability to wage successful wars. They both caused immense dissent at home. But I venture that the "Iraqi adventure" is a lower point in American history than the Vietnam war. I say this because there is a key distinction in motivation between them. I judge history by the intentions of those who animate it. And by that standard, Iraq appears a more unethical struggle than Vietnam.
Although both Vietnam and Iraq resulted in military "quagmires," America had a much purer purpose in Vietnam than it did in Iraq. For better or worse, America involved itself in Vietnam for an almost naive ideological reason: To halt the spread of its philosophical nemesis: Communism. America did not have any particular loyalty to the South Vietnamese government, nor did it have vested commercial interests in Southeast Asia. Instead, it embroiled itself in a bloody civil war 10,000 miles away solely to show that it did not like communism. No matter what you think about communism, you cannot fault the United States for believing in its "principles" in Vietnam. It had a clear philosophical "purpose" in fighting that war. It may have been the wrong purpose, but at least America believed in something to justify its sacrifice.
In short, America's motivations were apparent in Vietnam. And they were based in philosophical disagreement. Vietnam, then, represented America's belief in its own economic system over another. It was a "battle of principles."
But America's motivations for war in Iraq were far less naive. Despite Bush's rhetoric about "delivering democracy to Iraq" and "freeing Iraqis from tyranny," no one really believed those explanations. No, any reasonable person could see that America had massive commercial interests in an oil-producing country like Iraq. Even the Vice President owned shares in a company that stood to greatly benefit from any military involvement in the Middle East.
Worse, America took a dishonest course in shuffling toward war in 2003. President Bush used public hysteria about Islamic terrorism to forge a fanciful link between Osama bin Laden and Iraq. He even exaggerated stories about Iraqi "weapons of mass destruction" to deceive Americans into thinking that invading Iraq was necessary for "self-defense." He presented false testimony to the United Nations and the American public to garner support for military action. All the while, he failed to mention the crude commercial reasons why war in Iraq would benefit industrial interests.
America's "quagmire" in Iraq is not just a military fiasco. It is also the culmination of unethical behavior and dishonesty on an international scale. That is why I think it warrants greater condemnation than American involvement in Vietnam. As bad as Vietnam was, at least the President did not deceive both the international community and his own people to launch an unjust war. In Vietnam, America fought honestly to combat a philosophy it rejected. Everyone was relatively clear about that. But in Iraq, America fought--and still fights--an unnecessary war born in ignorance and deception. Worst, even a mild cynic can see that America has a direct interest in seizing territory in the oil-rich Middle East. And the commercial explanation renders all other explanations disingenuous. There was no such commercial explanation for war in Vietnam.
In sum, both Vietnam and Iraq stand out as bleak moments in American history. Both drove America into social turmoil because they did not result in "quick wins." But because America resorted to dishonesty to garner support for war in Iraq, I conclude that our experience in Iraq is a more embarrassing national humiliation than Vietnam. Unlike our naive--and foolishly misguided--motivations for war in Vietnam, our motivations for war in Iraq were simply crass, greedy and dishonorable. And we even had to lie and cheat to gain popular approval for action.
That is just unethical and shocking.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
DOMINIC CARTER, EVIDENCE LAW, HEARSAY AND TRUTH : IT IS NEVER EASY TO SAY WHAT "ACTUALLY HAPPENED"
AN ESSAY
Earlier this week, I read about Dominic Carter, a disgraced New York TV anchorman. Last year, authorities charged Mr. Carter with domestic abuse after his wife complained that her husband tried to strangle her during a fight. She later recanted her story, claiming that a mysterious "day laborer" was the assailant, not her husband. That did not faze the prosecutor. He proceeded with the case against Mr. Carter.
Mr. Carter appeared in Queens County court to answer the charges last week. In addition to flatly denying that he "had done anything wrong," he begged the judge to dismiss the case because he was "too important" and had "many friends in New York State government." He dropped several names, including Judith Kaye, the Chief Judge of New York's highest court. The judge was flabbergasted, admonishing Mr. Carter: "Don't drop names in here! You know better than that!" She did not dismiss the case. Mr. Carter's employer publicly condemned his conduct and appeared ready to fire him.
Mr. Carter decided to fly to Kansas City after his hard week back home. While waiting to take off, he stood up and made his way toward the restroom. Although no one exactly knows what happened next, a flight attendant screamed: "I want this man off the plane. He tried to assault me." Mr. Carter vigorously denied the accusation, explaining that he "must have bumped into her" while "bending over to tie his shoes." In any event, the flight attendant won the debate and Mr. Carter was ejected from the plane.
Police arrived to investigate the complaint. They determined that the flight attendant caused the altercation. They did not file charges. Mr. Carter took the next flight without incident.
I recount this story because it made me think about proving things. Evidence law represents our legal system's attempt to inscribe past events with "truth." I have written many times that it is impossible to know "the truth" about anything without being personally present to perceive it with our own senses. Yet we must rely on reports to formulate our beliefs about almost every event in our lives. We cannot sense everything that happens on earth. So we must put our trust in stories. Evidence law tries to assign credibility to stories. It also tries to screen out information likely to confuse the truth rather than find it.
Consider Mr. Carter's relatively banal story. The question is "what happened on the plane as he walked down the aisle?" Did he "deliberately assault" the flight attendant? Or did he really bend over to tie his shoes? Was it an accident? How do we know? We certainly weren't there. I read about the conflicting stories in the newspaper. How, then, can we satisfy ourselves about "what actually happened?"
Let's suppose the authorities decided to put Mr. Carter on trial for assault. To prove assault, the State would have to show that Mr. Carter intended to touch the flight attendant in a harmful or offensive way, and that he did touch her in such a way. From a philosophical standpoint, it is extremely difficult to prove intent, because intent exists solely in another person's mind. When threatened with punishment, a person rarely confesses to what he "actually intended to do," so evidence law requires us to look to external factors to "infer" intent. In other words, we must look to observable facts (ie, behavior, words) to conclude an unobservable fact (the actor's intent).
Mr. Carter's defense would depend upon his ability to show he did not "mean" to offensively touch the flight attendant. That is an intent defense. But to prove his intent, he would have to point to external factors. The best way to do that would be to call witnesses who directly perceived the event, preferably from a close distance. They could say what they saw: Did he slap the woman? Did he raise his arms in a threatening way? Did he "look angry?" Did it "look like he meant to hit her?" These are visual perceptions, and they carry the most weight when attempting to convince a listener to adopt "the truth" about a particular event.
But what about words? We can correctly infer a person's intent based upon his verbal conduct. What people say (and how they say it) can lead us to guess what they feel, intend and think. Still, whenever words enter an evidence question, the analysis becomes much more complicated. Everyone knows the word "hearsay," but fewer know the legal definition. In popular understanding, "hearsay" simply means "reported speech from someone else." In evidence law, however, it has a much more technical meaning. It means any "out-of-court statement offered to prove the truth of the matter asserted." See Federal Rule of Evidence 801(c). "Statements," in turn, mean "oral or written assertions or nonverbal conduct of a person, if intended by the person as an assertion." See Fed. R. Evid. 801(a). Applying these definitions, we see that even the defendant's own words can be hearsay if he repeats them in court. In short, hearsay does not have to come from "someone else," nor does it even have to be verbal.
This introduces a serious problem in criminal cases in which the defendant tries to explain what he intended to do. At the same time, the prosecution has an advantage over the defendant because another evidence rule permits a "party-opponent" to introduce an "opposing party's statement" against him. See. Fed. R. Evid. 801(d)(1)(A). This means that the opposing party here (namely, the prosecutor) could use Mr. Carter's statements against him, but Mr. Carter could not use his own statements to defend himself. For example, if Mr. Carter wanted to prove that he said "I was just bending over to tie my shoes" after the flight attendant accused him, he could not testify that he said it because it is "hearsay." But if the prosecutor brought in a witness who said Mr. Carter exclaimed: "Get outta my way, biatch" on his way down the aisle, it would be fully admissible against Mr. Carter as a "statement by a party-opponent."
This is a bizarre result. It almost seems unfair. After all, shouldn't people get to say what they said on earlier occasions in order to explain themselves? When the question involves individual intent, the individual is really the only one who can confirm or deny it. Yet evidence law turns away from this "best source" because it presumes that accused individuals will not tell the truth.
Thankfully, evidence law offers another way for Mr. Carter to get his statements before the jury. Although he could not testify that he said: "I was just bending over to tie my shoes" after the flight attendant accused him, a different witness could. Federal Rule of Evidence 803(3) provides an exception to the hearsay rule for statements relating to the "declarant's then-existing state of mind," including their "intent." In this case, if a nearby passenger heard Mr. Carter say: "I was just bending over to tie my shoes" immediately after the flight attendant screamed at him, it could be admitted to show that Mr. Carter did not intend to harmfully touch the flight attendant. It would not be hearsay because the defense does not offer it to prove the "truth" that Mr. Carter actually tied his shoes. Rather, it would offer the statement to prove the declarant's (ie, Mr. Carter's) then-existing mental state: Namely, that he did not intend to offensively touch anyone.
I mention all this to show how difficult it is to prove things. It is even more difficult to prove them according to technical evidence rules that prohibit people from explaining what they actually said, yet permit others to use their words against them.
Do all these rules bring us any closer to the "truth?" I don't think so. In the end, ascribing truth to a story depends as much on available evidence as it does to pure intuition. In my view, lawyers make a colossal philosophical blunder when they think they have a greater claim to "uncovering truth" because they apply technical evidence rules. No man-made rule can change the fact that human beings have limited senses. When it comes to believing something that allegedly happened outside those senses, one man's guess is virtually as good as the next man's.
Earlier this week, I read about Dominic Carter, a disgraced New York TV anchorman. Last year, authorities charged Mr. Carter with domestic abuse after his wife complained that her husband tried to strangle her during a fight. She later recanted her story, claiming that a mysterious "day laborer" was the assailant, not her husband. That did not faze the prosecutor. He proceeded with the case against Mr. Carter.
Mr. Carter appeared in Queens County court to answer the charges last week. In addition to flatly denying that he "had done anything wrong," he begged the judge to dismiss the case because he was "too important" and had "many friends in New York State government." He dropped several names, including Judith Kaye, the Chief Judge of New York's highest court. The judge was flabbergasted, admonishing Mr. Carter: "Don't drop names in here! You know better than that!" She did not dismiss the case. Mr. Carter's employer publicly condemned his conduct and appeared ready to fire him.
Mr. Carter decided to fly to Kansas City after his hard week back home. While waiting to take off, he stood up and made his way toward the restroom. Although no one exactly knows what happened next, a flight attendant screamed: "I want this man off the plane. He tried to assault me." Mr. Carter vigorously denied the accusation, explaining that he "must have bumped into her" while "bending over to tie his shoes." In any event, the flight attendant won the debate and Mr. Carter was ejected from the plane.
Police arrived to investigate the complaint. They determined that the flight attendant caused the altercation. They did not file charges. Mr. Carter took the next flight without incident.
I recount this story because it made me think about proving things. Evidence law represents our legal system's attempt to inscribe past events with "truth." I have written many times that it is impossible to know "the truth" about anything without being personally present to perceive it with our own senses. Yet we must rely on reports to formulate our beliefs about almost every event in our lives. We cannot sense everything that happens on earth. So we must put our trust in stories. Evidence law tries to assign credibility to stories. It also tries to screen out information likely to confuse the truth rather than find it.
Consider Mr. Carter's relatively banal story. The question is "what happened on the plane as he walked down the aisle?" Did he "deliberately assault" the flight attendant? Or did he really bend over to tie his shoes? Was it an accident? How do we know? We certainly weren't there. I read about the conflicting stories in the newspaper. How, then, can we satisfy ourselves about "what actually happened?"
Let's suppose the authorities decided to put Mr. Carter on trial for assault. To prove assault, the State would have to show that Mr. Carter intended to touch the flight attendant in a harmful or offensive way, and that he did touch her in such a way. From a philosophical standpoint, it is extremely difficult to prove intent, because intent exists solely in another person's mind. When threatened with punishment, a person rarely confesses to what he "actually intended to do," so evidence law requires us to look to external factors to "infer" intent. In other words, we must look to observable facts (ie, behavior, words) to conclude an unobservable fact (the actor's intent).
Mr. Carter's defense would depend upon his ability to show he did not "mean" to offensively touch the flight attendant. That is an intent defense. But to prove his intent, he would have to point to external factors. The best way to do that would be to call witnesses who directly perceived the event, preferably from a close distance. They could say what they saw: Did he slap the woman? Did he raise his arms in a threatening way? Did he "look angry?" Did it "look like he meant to hit her?" These are visual perceptions, and they carry the most weight when attempting to convince a listener to adopt "the truth" about a particular event.
But what about words? We can correctly infer a person's intent based upon his verbal conduct. What people say (and how they say it) can lead us to guess what they feel, intend and think. Still, whenever words enter an evidence question, the analysis becomes much more complicated. Everyone knows the word "hearsay," but fewer know the legal definition. In popular understanding, "hearsay" simply means "reported speech from someone else." In evidence law, however, it has a much more technical meaning. It means any "out-of-court statement offered to prove the truth of the matter asserted." See Federal Rule of Evidence 801(c). "Statements," in turn, mean "oral or written assertions or nonverbal conduct of a person, if intended by the person as an assertion." See Fed. R. Evid. 801(a). Applying these definitions, we see that even the defendant's own words can be hearsay if he repeats them in court. In short, hearsay does not have to come from "someone else," nor does it even have to be verbal.
This introduces a serious problem in criminal cases in which the defendant tries to explain what he intended to do. At the same time, the prosecution has an advantage over the defendant because another evidence rule permits a "party-opponent" to introduce an "opposing party's statement" against him. See. Fed. R. Evid. 801(d)(1)(A). This means that the opposing party here (namely, the prosecutor) could use Mr. Carter's statements against him, but Mr. Carter could not use his own statements to defend himself. For example, if Mr. Carter wanted to prove that he said "I was just bending over to tie my shoes" after the flight attendant accused him, he could not testify that he said it because it is "hearsay." But if the prosecutor brought in a witness who said Mr. Carter exclaimed: "Get outta my way, biatch" on his way down the aisle, it would be fully admissible against Mr. Carter as a "statement by a party-opponent."
This is a bizarre result. It almost seems unfair. After all, shouldn't people get to say what they said on earlier occasions in order to explain themselves? When the question involves individual intent, the individual is really the only one who can confirm or deny it. Yet evidence law turns away from this "best source" because it presumes that accused individuals will not tell the truth.
Thankfully, evidence law offers another way for Mr. Carter to get his statements before the jury. Although he could not testify that he said: "I was just bending over to tie my shoes" after the flight attendant accused him, a different witness could. Federal Rule of Evidence 803(3) provides an exception to the hearsay rule for statements relating to the "declarant's then-existing state of mind," including their "intent." In this case, if a nearby passenger heard Mr. Carter say: "I was just bending over to tie my shoes" immediately after the flight attendant screamed at him, it could be admitted to show that Mr. Carter did not intend to harmfully touch the flight attendant. It would not be hearsay because the defense does not offer it to prove the "truth" that Mr. Carter actually tied his shoes. Rather, it would offer the statement to prove the declarant's (ie, Mr. Carter's) then-existing mental state: Namely, that he did not intend to offensively touch anyone.
I mention all this to show how difficult it is to prove things. It is even more difficult to prove them according to technical evidence rules that prohibit people from explaining what they actually said, yet permit others to use their words against them.
Do all these rules bring us any closer to the "truth?" I don't think so. In the end, ascribing truth to a story depends as much on available evidence as it does to pure intuition. In my view, lawyers make a colossal philosophical blunder when they think they have a greater claim to "uncovering truth" because they apply technical evidence rules. No man-made rule can change the fact that human beings have limited senses. When it comes to believing something that allegedly happened outside those senses, one man's guess is virtually as good as the next man's.
Monday, November 2, 2009
INTENT AND THE FIRST AMENDMENT : POLICING THE IMPOSSIBLE
AN ESSAY
Over the last few weeks, I've had the chance to read some Supreme Court cases. I always keep a long list of cases I want to read. I have not had much time to write as much as I'd like lately, so I've taken the chance to read a few. That's not to say that Supreme Court cases freshen my outlook. To the contrary, they often confirm my overriding belief that the Supreme Court is full of shit. As a satirist, I need to see foolishness at work in order to properly mock it. Both sadly and thankfully, the Supreme Court keeps me well-stocked with preposterous arguments, as well as unabashed ideology masquerading as neutral legal principle.
If I had to choose an area of constitutional law that interests me the most, I would choose the First Amendment. The First Amendment is the soul and conscience of the Constitution. It is the intellectual nucleus of our liberal republic. Although the Framers may have conceived it very differently than the way we understand it today, it is a beacon of individual hope in an otherwise dully administrative document. The First Amendment protects the individual freedom to speak, write, think and express ourselves as the people we are. It forbids government from punishing us because we hold beliefs or profess religions. It also guarantees a free press, ensuring that--at least in theory--every voice has a forum to be heard. While that may not technically be true in an age when money translates into the power to circulate messages, it at least espouses a strongly positive ideal: That all voices have worth, no matter how much the majority rejects them.
These are metaphysically good principles in which anyone can believe. In fact, they are so good that both American patriots in the 18th Century and revolutionaries in later times died for them. Without the First Amendment or something like it, we could not truly say what we mean in life. And when we cannot say what we mean, we cannot be who we are. In that sense, the First Amendment is all about individuality. That is inspiring. That is why I like studying it. It is not just about property and penalties. It is about ideas and expression. There are not many legal areas that impact such profoundly philosophical questions. I like profundity more than banality.
But there is a sharp distinction between First Amendment theory and Supreme Court practice. For better or worse, nine men and women have the sole authority to determine whether government violates First Amendment principles in individual cases. In these clashes between the individual and government, the Court sometimes favors liberty. At other times, it permits government to stamp out individual self-expression. Supreme Court justices say they "rule according to the law." But in First Amendment cases--as in virtually all hotly-debated constitutional areas--the justices barely mask their own political and ideological leanings. They use law merely as a cloak to justify deeply biased political conclusions. Behind all the technical analysis and supposed detachment (many justices abandon detachment altogether) stands stark, flawed humanity. Despite their pedigrees, resumes and degrees, justices are human beings. And human beings are woefully imperfect.
When it comes to the First Amendment, the justices' personal values influence everything they do. If they do not like certain messages, they will find a way to voice hostility toward them. This takes some artifice, of course, because the Constitution forbids government from suppressing speech "solely because it disapproves of the content." But the Court has fashioned doctrines to outmaneuver this result. It allows government to target speech if it artificially regulates the "time, place and manner" in which the speech occurs. So if a city wants to stop communists from speaking, it can say they can only hold a parade on Tuesday at 3 AM in some uninhabited back alley. Obviously, government does not like communist messages. Although it cannot literally ban communism as "content," it can achieve the same result by targeting the "time, place and manner" of communist speech. In this way, the Supreme Court allows government to cloak its own hostility toward certain ideas by phrasing its disapproval in more "neutral ways." The result is often the same: Government does not like certain speech and successfully suppresses it.
Our Supreme Court has burrowed deeply into the First Amendment. The freedom to express individual ideas carries so many exceptions that it is now almost an illusory right. Without going into exhaustive detail, government can suppress speech not only because it occurs in "inappropriate places (ie, schools)," at "inappropriate times (ie, late at night)" or in an "inappropriate manner (ie, too loud)," but also because the speech itself is categorically "obscene," "defamatory," "inciting," or "reasonably likely to lead an average person to come to blows with another." The burden lies on the government to establish that the "dangerous speech" falls into one of these categories, but the Court has been surprisingly accommodating toward government over the years. In fact, it has been so accommodating that it has permitted government to regulate speech even beyond the "traditionally unacceptable categories."
Renton v. Playtime Theaters, 475 U.S. 41 (1986), provides a ready example. That case involved a municipal effort to crack down on porn shops. It was clear that the city simply did not like porn, even though porn is technically "speech" under the First Amendment. So the city enacted zoning laws that forced porn shops into run-down industrial neighborhoods. The law treated porn shops differently solely because they engaged in the porn business; in other words, their speech made them targets. But the Court did not call this "impermissible content regulation." Rather, it fashioned a new exception to the First Amendment: the "secondary effects doctrine." Through this sleight of constitutional hand, the Court proclaimed that government does not violate the First Amendment if it merely wishes to regulate the "effects of speech on the community," rather than the "speech itself." Under this approach, the city in Renton just had to say it enacted the law because it wanted to keep crime down and property values up. Then it said that porn "speech" caused crime to rise and property values to sink. The Court validated the restriction and the porn shops had to move.
In 2002, the Court revisited Renton in City of Los Angeles v. Alameda Books, Inc., 535 U.S. 425 (2002). There, the city enacted an ordinance forbidding more than one "adult business" from operating in the same building. No other business was subject to the restriction. The city said it enacted the ordinance because it wanted to control the "secondary effects" of "multiple adult businesses" in the same vicinity. It invoked the earlier Renton case for support, even though it had no real evidence to show that splitting up two related porn shops in the same building would reduce crime or boost property values. The Court was satisfied with a cursory 1977 study that anecdotally linked porn shops with higher crime rates, even though that study predated the ordinance by more than a decade. In sum, the Court had no problem sustaining a clearly speech-prohibitive, discriminatory law by invoking a doctrine it invented only sixteen years earlier.
In my view, this shows the Court's great willingness to ignore the First Amendment when its members do not like the speech at issue. Obviously Chief Justice Rehnquist and Sandra Day O'Connor did not like porn shops...just look at them:
As much as the majority in Alameda Books may have believed that "constitutional jurisprudence" dictated their conclusion in the case, I venture that it was simply a value judgment. Republicans (all five justices in the majority here were Republicans) don't like porn--well, at least publicly they say they don't. Those values influenced their decision whether to allow government to regulate it. After all, the law in Alameda Books specifically targeted only porn shops. The regulation turned upon the content of the speech. Although that seems to violate the First Amendment's ban on "content regulation," the Republicans found a way to sidestep that result. How? Simple: Values. When a justice doesn't like speech, he or she will find a "legal exception" to suppress it. That's the problem with law.
But there is more to the story. Justice Kennedy issued a bizarre concurrence in Alameda Books that brings another troublesome issue to the fore: Legislative intent. Kennedy--also a Republican, but a grandiose one with a penchant for self-righteous oratory (he's Catholic, too)--said he was "troubled" by the liberal argument that the statute in the case targeted porn shops "solely because of their speech." So he quieted himself by reasoning that a city could rely on the "secondary effects doctrine" as long as it did not "proportionally affect speech." In Kennedy's view, the law in Alameda Books was sound because it had an effect on bad "secondary effects" (good) without affecting the "quantity of speech" (bad) in equal measure. Put another way, because the legislature only specifically targeted "secondary effects" and allowed porn shops to open under separate roofs, it reasonably lowered "secondary effects" without "completely muzzling their expression."
This is a fanciful distinction. In essence, it appears that Justice Kennedy believes that a legislature's stated intent suffices to determine whether it has adopted a "content-specific" speech regulation. Here, it seems obvious that the Los Angeles city council did not like porn shops because they engage in "porn speech." It offended the councilmen's values. They simply did not like the speech. But they escaped constitutional consequence because they said they were concerned about "secondary effects," not the "speech itself." The statute visibly discriminated against porn shops based on their speech, yet Justice Kennedy said that was fine because the legislature had the right intent.
It defies belief to say that a city would not "reduce the quantity of certain speech" if its regulations drive its speakers from the marketplace. Why else would the city want to close down porn shops if it did not like what they were saying? It is too easy to mouth the words "secondary effects" when in fact the legislature flat-out doesn't like porn.
These are important questions because speech regulations are dangerous. When government succeeds in suppressing speech, it gains precedential authority to suppress even more. When the Supreme Court simply goes along with the program, our rights as individuals steadily decline. True, no one wants to crusade for a porn shop's right to sell smut. But the First Amendment does not distinguish between right and wrong speech. If it is speech, we presumptively protect it. Individual freedom depends upon the freedom to express ourselves. And when the Supreme Court slowly allows government to bar us from speaking in certain ways, our liberty slowly suffocates, too.
In short, Supreme Court justices should defer to the individual interest in self-expression in doubtful cases, not the value-laden judgments of local governments. If it allows government to regulate speech content merely by proffering a flimsy "secondary effects" justification, it will not take long to dismantle the First Amendment. If there is one constitutional guarantee that we must defend, it is the guarantee that government will presumptively not regulate the substance of our thoughts and expressions, no matter how unpopular they may be.
Over the last few weeks, I've had the chance to read some Supreme Court cases. I always keep a long list of cases I want to read. I have not had much time to write as much as I'd like lately, so I've taken the chance to read a few. That's not to say that Supreme Court cases freshen my outlook. To the contrary, they often confirm my overriding belief that the Supreme Court is full of shit. As a satirist, I need to see foolishness at work in order to properly mock it. Both sadly and thankfully, the Supreme Court keeps me well-stocked with preposterous arguments, as well as unabashed ideology masquerading as neutral legal principle.
If I had to choose an area of constitutional law that interests me the most, I would choose the First Amendment. The First Amendment is the soul and conscience of the Constitution. It is the intellectual nucleus of our liberal republic. Although the Framers may have conceived it very differently than the way we understand it today, it is a beacon of individual hope in an otherwise dully administrative document. The First Amendment protects the individual freedom to speak, write, think and express ourselves as the people we are. It forbids government from punishing us because we hold beliefs or profess religions. It also guarantees a free press, ensuring that--at least in theory--every voice has a forum to be heard. While that may not technically be true in an age when money translates into the power to circulate messages, it at least espouses a strongly positive ideal: That all voices have worth, no matter how much the majority rejects them.
These are metaphysically good principles in which anyone can believe. In fact, they are so good that both American patriots in the 18th Century and revolutionaries in later times died for them. Without the First Amendment or something like it, we could not truly say what we mean in life. And when we cannot say what we mean, we cannot be who we are. In that sense, the First Amendment is all about individuality. That is inspiring. That is why I like studying it. It is not just about property and penalties. It is about ideas and expression. There are not many legal areas that impact such profoundly philosophical questions. I like profundity more than banality.
But there is a sharp distinction between First Amendment theory and Supreme Court practice. For better or worse, nine men and women have the sole authority to determine whether government violates First Amendment principles in individual cases. In these clashes between the individual and government, the Court sometimes favors liberty. At other times, it permits government to stamp out individual self-expression. Supreme Court justices say they "rule according to the law." But in First Amendment cases--as in virtually all hotly-debated constitutional areas--the justices barely mask their own political and ideological leanings. They use law merely as a cloak to justify deeply biased political conclusions. Behind all the technical analysis and supposed detachment (many justices abandon detachment altogether) stands stark, flawed humanity. Despite their pedigrees, resumes and degrees, justices are human beings. And human beings are woefully imperfect.
When it comes to the First Amendment, the justices' personal values influence everything they do. If they do not like certain messages, they will find a way to voice hostility toward them. This takes some artifice, of course, because the Constitution forbids government from suppressing speech "solely because it disapproves of the content." But the Court has fashioned doctrines to outmaneuver this result. It allows government to target speech if it artificially regulates the "time, place and manner" in which the speech occurs. So if a city wants to stop communists from speaking, it can say they can only hold a parade on Tuesday at 3 AM in some uninhabited back alley. Obviously, government does not like communist messages. Although it cannot literally ban communism as "content," it can achieve the same result by targeting the "time, place and manner" of communist speech. In this way, the Supreme Court allows government to cloak its own hostility toward certain ideas by phrasing its disapproval in more "neutral ways." The result is often the same: Government does not like certain speech and successfully suppresses it.
Our Supreme Court has burrowed deeply into the First Amendment. The freedom to express individual ideas carries so many exceptions that it is now almost an illusory right. Without going into exhaustive detail, government can suppress speech not only because it occurs in "inappropriate places (ie, schools)," at "inappropriate times (ie, late at night)" or in an "inappropriate manner (ie, too loud)," but also because the speech itself is categorically "obscene," "defamatory," "inciting," or "reasonably likely to lead an average person to come to blows with another." The burden lies on the government to establish that the "dangerous speech" falls into one of these categories, but the Court has been surprisingly accommodating toward government over the years. In fact, it has been so accommodating that it has permitted government to regulate speech even beyond the "traditionally unacceptable categories."
Renton v. Playtime Theaters, 475 U.S. 41 (1986), provides a ready example. That case involved a municipal effort to crack down on porn shops. It was clear that the city simply did not like porn, even though porn is technically "speech" under the First Amendment. So the city enacted zoning laws that forced porn shops into run-down industrial neighborhoods. The law treated porn shops differently solely because they engaged in the porn business; in other words, their speech made them targets. But the Court did not call this "impermissible content regulation." Rather, it fashioned a new exception to the First Amendment: the "secondary effects doctrine." Through this sleight of constitutional hand, the Court proclaimed that government does not violate the First Amendment if it merely wishes to regulate the "effects of speech on the community," rather than the "speech itself." Under this approach, the city in Renton just had to say it enacted the law because it wanted to keep crime down and property values up. Then it said that porn "speech" caused crime to rise and property values to sink. The Court validated the restriction and the porn shops had to move.
In 2002, the Court revisited Renton in City of Los Angeles v. Alameda Books, Inc., 535 U.S. 425 (2002). There, the city enacted an ordinance forbidding more than one "adult business" from operating in the same building. No other business was subject to the restriction. The city said it enacted the ordinance because it wanted to control the "secondary effects" of "multiple adult businesses" in the same vicinity. It invoked the earlier Renton case for support, even though it had no real evidence to show that splitting up two related porn shops in the same building would reduce crime or boost property values. The Court was satisfied with a cursory 1977 study that anecdotally linked porn shops with higher crime rates, even though that study predated the ordinance by more than a decade. In sum, the Court had no problem sustaining a clearly speech-prohibitive, discriminatory law by invoking a doctrine it invented only sixteen years earlier.
In my view, this shows the Court's great willingness to ignore the First Amendment when its members do not like the speech at issue. Obviously Chief Justice Rehnquist and Sandra Day O'Connor did not like porn shops...just look at them:
As much as the majority in Alameda Books may have believed that "constitutional jurisprudence" dictated their conclusion in the case, I venture that it was simply a value judgment. Republicans (all five justices in the majority here were Republicans) don't like porn--well, at least publicly they say they don't. Those values influenced their decision whether to allow government to regulate it. After all, the law in Alameda Books specifically targeted only porn shops. The regulation turned upon the content of the speech. Although that seems to violate the First Amendment's ban on "content regulation," the Republicans found a way to sidestep that result. How? Simple: Values. When a justice doesn't like speech, he or she will find a "legal exception" to suppress it. That's the problem with law.
But there is more to the story. Justice Kennedy issued a bizarre concurrence in Alameda Books that brings another troublesome issue to the fore: Legislative intent. Kennedy--also a Republican, but a grandiose one with a penchant for self-righteous oratory (he's Catholic, too)--said he was "troubled" by the liberal argument that the statute in the case targeted porn shops "solely because of their speech." So he quieted himself by reasoning that a city could rely on the "secondary effects doctrine" as long as it did not "proportionally affect speech." In Kennedy's view, the law in Alameda Books was sound because it had an effect on bad "secondary effects" (good) without affecting the "quantity of speech" (bad) in equal measure. Put another way, because the legislature only specifically targeted "secondary effects" and allowed porn shops to open under separate roofs, it reasonably lowered "secondary effects" without "completely muzzling their expression."
This is a fanciful distinction. In essence, it appears that Justice Kennedy believes that a legislature's stated intent suffices to determine whether it has adopted a "content-specific" speech regulation. Here, it seems obvious that the Los Angeles city council did not like porn shops because they engage in "porn speech." It offended the councilmen's values. They simply did not like the speech. But they escaped constitutional consequence because they said they were concerned about "secondary effects," not the "speech itself." The statute visibly discriminated against porn shops based on their speech, yet Justice Kennedy said that was fine because the legislature had the right intent.
It defies belief to say that a city would not "reduce the quantity of certain speech" if its regulations drive its speakers from the marketplace. Why else would the city want to close down porn shops if it did not like what they were saying? It is too easy to mouth the words "secondary effects" when in fact the legislature flat-out doesn't like porn.
These are important questions because speech regulations are dangerous. When government succeeds in suppressing speech, it gains precedential authority to suppress even more. When the Supreme Court simply goes along with the program, our rights as individuals steadily decline. True, no one wants to crusade for a porn shop's right to sell smut. But the First Amendment does not distinguish between right and wrong speech. If it is speech, we presumptively protect it. Individual freedom depends upon the freedom to express ourselves. And when the Supreme Court slowly allows government to bar us from speaking in certain ways, our liberty slowly suffocates, too.
In short, Supreme Court justices should defer to the individual interest in self-expression in doubtful cases, not the value-laden judgments of local governments. If it allows government to regulate speech content merely by proffering a flimsy "secondary effects" justification, it will not take long to dismantle the First Amendment. If there is one constitutional guarantee that we must defend, it is the guarantee that government will presumptively not regulate the substance of our thoughts and expressions, no matter how unpopular they may be.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
USING RACIAL BIAS FOR PROFIT
OESTERHOUDT STRIKES
I saw a report yesterday on a local New York City newscast about a private nightclub that allegedly turned away several patrons "because they were black." Apparently, these patrons were all friends with a noted local author who is black, too. She was throwing a party and wanted all her friends to be there. According to the report, the doormen refused her friends entry at about 2 AM last Sunday. The report also mentioned that the club is a popular nightspot. Many people can't get in, even celebrities.
You know what's coming. Now the local author has hired a lawyer and she has filed a $1 billion class action racial discrimination lawsuit against the club. She says that the club's management engaged in racial bias against her and now she has a right to collect money damages. The report did not say which law she invoked in her complaint.
Racial discrimination is alive and well in all multicultural societies. It is not a uniquely American problem. Still, the United States is famous for its racism. Yes, we have a black President now. But this is no "post-racial society." Blacks die at a younger age than any other ethnic group in this country. They make significantly less money. They go to prison in far greater proportions. They consistently score lower on educational achievement tests. And this is no accident: There is a legacy of State-sponsored discrimination at work in America that continues to negatively impact blacks in all life pursuits.
In short, racism exists in America. It always has and it probably always will. It is a constant problem. It deserves condemnation when it appears.
But racism does not explain everything. In many cases, racism does not account for unjust results in social interactions between the races; not every white man is a bigot. I think the New York author's case represents a false racial cry. It is one thing to claim that racism exists in private businesses in the United States. It is one thing to take a principled stand against it. But it is quite another to use purported racial bias as an excuse to sue a business for $1 billion.
In short, financial motives obscure principled ones. Here, the author undoubtedly has a financial motive. If she truly cared about dignity and equality, why would she demand $1 billion to crusade for them? To an objective observer, this looks like a stab at personal paydirt, not a principled call for justice. After all, a crusader for justice wants justice, not a billion dollars.
In theory, awarding money damages for racial discrimination vindicates the Nation's interest in rooting out racism. It works by penalizing businesses for proven racial bias. If racism is unprofitable, so the theory goes, then businesses will not engage in it. But asking for $1 billion from a single nightclub is beyond the pale. It could never possibly pay that amount. If the Plaintiff got what she wanted in this case, the club would cease to exist several times over. And who would benefit from this? A few aggrieved clubgoers who could not drink and dance where they wanted one night? By demanding so much, this Plaintiff loses her moral authority and comes across as a common profiteer.
I venture that it is utterly shameless to use racial discrimination as a pretext for immense personal profit. I find it disgusting when people use this country's bad racial history to extort astronomical sums for personal gain. This author should be ashamed of herself. Even if the club discriminated against her and her friends, she would have done better to ask for a much more modest sum than $1 billion. She could have asked that any damages be paid to an educational fund or something, not her own bank account. If she really cared about racial bias, she would have used the case not so much to enrich herself than to publicly investigate the club's practices. Perhaps that is what she wanted to do along. Yet asking for $1 billion just makes her look like a cheap hustler out for cash, not a principled warrior out for justice.
I am not surprised that the author's lawyer so willingly went along with this circus act. After all, he stands to gain publicity and a hefty fee for his toils. It does not matter whether this is all just a crude attempt to shake a club down by conjuring the ghosts of America's racist past. It does not even matter whether the law supports his position. He has personal motives, just like the Plaintiff. This has nothing to do with remedying continuing racial ills in America. This is about money and fame, pure and simple.
He would be wise to mind the law in this case, too. After all, the Constitution forbids racial discrimination only when the State engages in it. See U.S. Const. Amd. XIV sec. 1 When private businesses discriminate, it is much more difficult to prevail. Federal and State laws prohibit racial discrimination in "places of public accommodation." But those laws require the Plaintiff to prove "discriminatory intent" against the private actor. That is no easy task. It is one thing for a person to think that a private club racially discriminated against him or her. It is quite another to show that a private club had an intentional policy disfavoring blacks. After all, this was a popular club. It turned many people away, including celebrities. It could conjure up virtually any explanation for its decisions. It will never admit "actual racial animus" against blacks.
From a legal standpoint, this is what it takes to win cases like this. It won't happen.
Instead, the author will scream and whine and talk to tabloid newspapers. She will attract attention to herself and boost her book sales. Some will say she suffered racism. Others will say she is exaggerating. Still others will simply ignore her.
No matter the reaction, one thing remains: She is trying to exploit America's sad racial history for crass personal profit. That is downright contemptible.
I saw a report yesterday on a local New York City newscast about a private nightclub that allegedly turned away several patrons "because they were black." Apparently, these patrons were all friends with a noted local author who is black, too. She was throwing a party and wanted all her friends to be there. According to the report, the doormen refused her friends entry at about 2 AM last Sunday. The report also mentioned that the club is a popular nightspot. Many people can't get in, even celebrities.
You know what's coming. Now the local author has hired a lawyer and she has filed a $1 billion class action racial discrimination lawsuit against the club. She says that the club's management engaged in racial bias against her and now she has a right to collect money damages. The report did not say which law she invoked in her complaint.
Racial discrimination is alive and well in all multicultural societies. It is not a uniquely American problem. Still, the United States is famous for its racism. Yes, we have a black President now. But this is no "post-racial society." Blacks die at a younger age than any other ethnic group in this country. They make significantly less money. They go to prison in far greater proportions. They consistently score lower on educational achievement tests. And this is no accident: There is a legacy of State-sponsored discrimination at work in America that continues to negatively impact blacks in all life pursuits.
In short, racism exists in America. It always has and it probably always will. It is a constant problem. It deserves condemnation when it appears.
But racism does not explain everything. In many cases, racism does not account for unjust results in social interactions between the races; not every white man is a bigot. I think the New York author's case represents a false racial cry. It is one thing to claim that racism exists in private businesses in the United States. It is one thing to take a principled stand against it. But it is quite another to use purported racial bias as an excuse to sue a business for $1 billion.
In short, financial motives obscure principled ones. Here, the author undoubtedly has a financial motive. If she truly cared about dignity and equality, why would she demand $1 billion to crusade for them? To an objective observer, this looks like a stab at personal paydirt, not a principled call for justice. After all, a crusader for justice wants justice, not a billion dollars.
In theory, awarding money damages for racial discrimination vindicates the Nation's interest in rooting out racism. It works by penalizing businesses for proven racial bias. If racism is unprofitable, so the theory goes, then businesses will not engage in it. But asking for $1 billion from a single nightclub is beyond the pale. It could never possibly pay that amount. If the Plaintiff got what she wanted in this case, the club would cease to exist several times over. And who would benefit from this? A few aggrieved clubgoers who could not drink and dance where they wanted one night? By demanding so much, this Plaintiff loses her moral authority and comes across as a common profiteer.
I venture that it is utterly shameless to use racial discrimination as a pretext for immense personal profit. I find it disgusting when people use this country's bad racial history to extort astronomical sums for personal gain. This author should be ashamed of herself. Even if the club discriminated against her and her friends, she would have done better to ask for a much more modest sum than $1 billion. She could have asked that any damages be paid to an educational fund or something, not her own bank account. If she really cared about racial bias, she would have used the case not so much to enrich herself than to publicly investigate the club's practices. Perhaps that is what she wanted to do along. Yet asking for $1 billion just makes her look like a cheap hustler out for cash, not a principled warrior out for justice.
I am not surprised that the author's lawyer so willingly went along with this circus act. After all, he stands to gain publicity and a hefty fee for his toils. It does not matter whether this is all just a crude attempt to shake a club down by conjuring the ghosts of America's racist past. It does not even matter whether the law supports his position. He has personal motives, just like the Plaintiff. This has nothing to do with remedying continuing racial ills in America. This is about money and fame, pure and simple.
He would be wise to mind the law in this case, too. After all, the Constitution forbids racial discrimination only when the State engages in it. See U.S. Const. Amd. XIV sec. 1 When private businesses discriminate, it is much more difficult to prevail. Federal and State laws prohibit racial discrimination in "places of public accommodation." But those laws require the Plaintiff to prove "discriminatory intent" against the private actor. That is no easy task. It is one thing for a person to think that a private club racially discriminated against him or her. It is quite another to show that a private club had an intentional policy disfavoring blacks. After all, this was a popular club. It turned many people away, including celebrities. It could conjure up virtually any explanation for its decisions. It will never admit "actual racial animus" against blacks.
From a legal standpoint, this is what it takes to win cases like this. It won't happen.
Instead, the author will scream and whine and talk to tabloid newspapers. She will attract attention to herself and boost her book sales. Some will say she suffered racism. Others will say she is exaggerating. Still others will simply ignore her.
No matter the reaction, one thing remains: She is trying to exploit America's sad racial history for crass personal profit. That is downright contemptible.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
HEALTH CARE REVOLUTION : MY LONG-TERM PLAN
A REFLECTION
I’ve been doing some promoting lately. Whenever I meet people, I try to get a feel for their social leanings. If I think they might like my blog, I tell them about it. I’m even thinking about advertising in some newspapers. But I know everyone won’t like it. In fact, I like that idea.
When I talk to people who have spent some time reading my catalogue, I hear familiar refrains: “Do you plan on writing anything for mass consumption? Do you plan to write a novel? A play? A book?” In truth, I have never wanted to be popular. I don’t want to be John Grisham. I don’t want to compromise my ideas in order to write something that is “conventionally pleasing.” I don’t want anyone to transform my writing into Hollywood adaptations, and I don’t care if Oprah Winfrey finds my essays compelling. She’s welcome to enjoy my essays; I just don’t thirst for her recognition. That’s all I mean. She’s welcome to like my writing. But nothing will make me write a lighthearted romantic comedy, like the New York Fire Department Captain who wrote a feel-good novel in his spare time. I just can’t do it. It’s hard for me to be frivolous. It makes me sick, actually.
Still, I have larger designs. For one, I want to compile all my satires into a “pamphlet.” I think my satires all dwell on consistent themes. They all mock powerful people and their pretentious, condescending arguments. I plan on editing my satires and organizing them in such a way that they could be read as a “book.” My essays travel over more varied ground, but I think they, too, could be organized into a relatively consistent format. In this sense, I think my blog already qualifies as a “book.” I just need to hash the ideas together and bind it up.
Second, I want to write a longer piece. I really like novels. But I don’t like English and American novels (with some exceptions, of course). I like German and Russian novels. There is an immense difference. German and Russian novels generally have loose, skeletal plots that merely provide a framework for dark, philosophical expositions. English and American novels generally go heavy on plot and light on philosophy. I’ve written before that I don’t like plot. If I want plot, I’ll read a newspaper or police report. When it comes to literature, I want something more, something challenging and daring. Sappy love stories don’t interest me, nor do swashbuckling commercial success stories. These are conventional stories. When I talk about love and commercial success, I’m usually mocking them. Dostoevsky and Kafka did, too.
So what kind of novel will I write? For two years, I’ve been mulling a novel about a new American revolution. What better way to make mordant observations about society than through a fictional revolution? I’ve said before that revolutions excite me because they represent times during which old orders collapse and the law fails. They spark radical changes in values. They make powerful people scurry and run. They force people to rethink their lives. That’s exciting. By the same token, I’ve written that revolution will not happen in America because too many people are “relatively pleased” with their lives; they don’t want to think differently. After all, enough people have homes, cars and televisions to risk everything for a shot at “something better.” So they let existing power structures persist, no matter how subtly pernicious.
But this broaches a question: What would push Americans over the edge? What would make Americans risk everything to reshape their society? What kinds of pressures and injustices would spur significant numbers to risk armed revolt against the old order? And how would the old order respond to those revolts? I always thought health care would be a good metaphor here. I envisioned an America—maybe forty years from now—in which wealth and power disparities grew to intolerable levels. In this unequal society, some people have access to miraculous medical treatments, while others die on the streets. I thought injustices involving health care would provide a good literary vehicle for a “fictional revolution.” Eerily, I thought these things long before the current “health care crisis” and the irrational debate it has unleashed in recent months.
My novel will pursue familiar, satirical themes. I often write about health care on my blog because it is a proxy for numerous subsidiary themes, including inequality, fairness, justice, death, money, commerce, profit, American life, hypocrisy and compassion. It touches upon life, yet it intertwines with money and profit. It touches upon our deepest humanity, yet it is also a commodity. No matter how you slice the health care issue, some people live and die because they can’t pay. That provides plentiful opportunities for commentary. Emotions run high in the health care debate because people worry about getting sick and dying. They become irrational when they think government might impede their access to a doctor, or because government tolerates a system in which they cannot afford to ever see one. I can envision emotions running so high over this issue, in fact, that revolution could ensue. We just need the right internal and external circumstances to make enough people angry and desperate. My novel will describe those circumstances.
I don’t think my novel will be gloomy. I often worry that readers find my writing too bitter and too scathing. Yet every time I try to make it less biting, I find I do not fully address the issue. I write satire because I see hypocrisy and injustice everywhere. You can’t take down injustice and hypocrisy with kid gloves. My writing might appear bleak because it reflects a bleak world. I don’t intend to depress when I write; I follow the old Russian tradition in this regard: I laugh through tears. I find so many injustices perversely funny. Maybe I’m unusual for thinking that. I don’t know. But I know I don’t intend to be gloomy. I can control my intentions, and every time I write a satire, I intend to provoke laughter about something that is really quite abominable about our society. When I write my novel about “the American revolution of 2048” it will aim to provoke laughter as much as it provokes a good, hard look at our society.
Anyway, these are my long-term plans. In the meantime, I plan to continue posting on the blog as I always do. This blog is my laboratory. Here new ideas spring forth and bubble up to the surface. Sometimes they are rough and undeveloped. Other times they pick up where an earlier one left off. No matter what, they are insights into my mind. I am proud that I have created this testament. I have reduced so many thoughts to writing over the past year. If I hadn’t, who knows how many thoughts would simply have vanished into time? Thoughts tend to do that. If you don’t seize them and develop them, they escape you. My blog helps me rein them in and keep them. After all, life is one immense distraction. It can blow you off course before you even know what’s happening to you.
Thanks to everyone who tunes in to read my latest stuff.
I’ve been doing some promoting lately. Whenever I meet people, I try to get a feel for their social leanings. If I think they might like my blog, I tell them about it. I’m even thinking about advertising in some newspapers. But I know everyone won’t like it. In fact, I like that idea.
When I talk to people who have spent some time reading my catalogue, I hear familiar refrains: “Do you plan on writing anything for mass consumption? Do you plan to write a novel? A play? A book?” In truth, I have never wanted to be popular. I don’t want to be John Grisham. I don’t want to compromise my ideas in order to write something that is “conventionally pleasing.” I don’t want anyone to transform my writing into Hollywood adaptations, and I don’t care if Oprah Winfrey finds my essays compelling. She’s welcome to enjoy my essays; I just don’t thirst for her recognition. That’s all I mean. She’s welcome to like my writing. But nothing will make me write a lighthearted romantic comedy, like the New York Fire Department Captain who wrote a feel-good novel in his spare time. I just can’t do it. It’s hard for me to be frivolous. It makes me sick, actually.
Still, I have larger designs. For one, I want to compile all my satires into a “pamphlet.” I think my satires all dwell on consistent themes. They all mock powerful people and their pretentious, condescending arguments. I plan on editing my satires and organizing them in such a way that they could be read as a “book.” My essays travel over more varied ground, but I think they, too, could be organized into a relatively consistent format. In this sense, I think my blog already qualifies as a “book.” I just need to hash the ideas together and bind it up.
Second, I want to write a longer piece. I really like novels. But I don’t like English and American novels (with some exceptions, of course). I like German and Russian novels. There is an immense difference. German and Russian novels generally have loose, skeletal plots that merely provide a framework for dark, philosophical expositions. English and American novels generally go heavy on plot and light on philosophy. I’ve written before that I don’t like plot. If I want plot, I’ll read a newspaper or police report. When it comes to literature, I want something more, something challenging and daring. Sappy love stories don’t interest me, nor do swashbuckling commercial success stories. These are conventional stories. When I talk about love and commercial success, I’m usually mocking them. Dostoevsky and Kafka did, too.
So what kind of novel will I write? For two years, I’ve been mulling a novel about a new American revolution. What better way to make mordant observations about society than through a fictional revolution? I’ve said before that revolutions excite me because they represent times during which old orders collapse and the law fails. They spark radical changes in values. They make powerful people scurry and run. They force people to rethink their lives. That’s exciting. By the same token, I’ve written that revolution will not happen in America because too many people are “relatively pleased” with their lives; they don’t want to think differently. After all, enough people have homes, cars and televisions to risk everything for a shot at “something better.” So they let existing power structures persist, no matter how subtly pernicious.
But this broaches a question: What would push Americans over the edge? What would make Americans risk everything to reshape their society? What kinds of pressures and injustices would spur significant numbers to risk armed revolt against the old order? And how would the old order respond to those revolts? I always thought health care would be a good metaphor here. I envisioned an America—maybe forty years from now—in which wealth and power disparities grew to intolerable levels. In this unequal society, some people have access to miraculous medical treatments, while others die on the streets. I thought injustices involving health care would provide a good literary vehicle for a “fictional revolution.” Eerily, I thought these things long before the current “health care crisis” and the irrational debate it has unleashed in recent months.
My novel will pursue familiar, satirical themes. I often write about health care on my blog because it is a proxy for numerous subsidiary themes, including inequality, fairness, justice, death, money, commerce, profit, American life, hypocrisy and compassion. It touches upon life, yet it intertwines with money and profit. It touches upon our deepest humanity, yet it is also a commodity. No matter how you slice the health care issue, some people live and die because they can’t pay. That provides plentiful opportunities for commentary. Emotions run high in the health care debate because people worry about getting sick and dying. They become irrational when they think government might impede their access to a doctor, or because government tolerates a system in which they cannot afford to ever see one. I can envision emotions running so high over this issue, in fact, that revolution could ensue. We just need the right internal and external circumstances to make enough people angry and desperate. My novel will describe those circumstances.
I don’t think my novel will be gloomy. I often worry that readers find my writing too bitter and too scathing. Yet every time I try to make it less biting, I find I do not fully address the issue. I write satire because I see hypocrisy and injustice everywhere. You can’t take down injustice and hypocrisy with kid gloves. My writing might appear bleak because it reflects a bleak world. I don’t intend to depress when I write; I follow the old Russian tradition in this regard: I laugh through tears. I find so many injustices perversely funny. Maybe I’m unusual for thinking that. I don’t know. But I know I don’t intend to be gloomy. I can control my intentions, and every time I write a satire, I intend to provoke laughter about something that is really quite abominable about our society. When I write my novel about “the American revolution of 2048” it will aim to provoke laughter as much as it provokes a good, hard look at our society.
Anyway, these are my long-term plans. In the meantime, I plan to continue posting on the blog as I always do. This blog is my laboratory. Here new ideas spring forth and bubble up to the surface. Sometimes they are rough and undeveloped. Other times they pick up where an earlier one left off. No matter what, they are insights into my mind. I am proud that I have created this testament. I have reduced so many thoughts to writing over the past year. If I hadn’t, who knows how many thoughts would simply have vanished into time? Thoughts tend to do that. If you don’t seize them and develop them, they escape you. My blog helps me rein them in and keep them. After all, life is one immense distraction. It can blow you off course before you even know what’s happening to you.
Thanks to everyone who tunes in to read my latest stuff.
Monday, July 27, 2009
JUSTICE SCALIA EXPLAINS : "NOBODY TORTURED ME LAST WEEK"
By : Mr. Antonin G. Scalia, Associate Justice, United States Supreme Court (Appointed by President Ronald Reagan 1986); Law Professor, University of Chicago (1977-1982); Annual Hero of the Federalist Society (2007); Defender of 21st Century constitutional liberty by reference to 18th Century grammar; Founder, the Justice Antonin Scalia Institute for Insulting, Degrading and Denigrating Your Professional Colleagues (Pursuant to Law and Ethics Rules, Common Decency Notwithstanding) (2008-present).
You may have heard that government agents took me into custody last week and subjected me to interrogation. For some odd reason, senior officials in our intelligence community obtained information linking me to an al-Qaeda plot to poison children’s lunches in Washington, D.C. public schools. During my custody, I was asked many questions. Since then, the wildest rumors have been circulating about it. Today I write to put these rumors to rest. Put simply, I am fine. A little tired, yes, but otherwise fine.
Nobody tortured me last week. Rather, agents from the Department of Homeland Security, the CIA and the FBI came to my home last week and informed me that they had “information” linking me to a terror plot. I responded that this was nonsense. The agents ignored my response. They told me they had to “take me into custody” to ask further questions. They said that “the safety of American children” was at stake. It angered me that someone provided false information linking me to a conspiracy to kill children. But I did not blame the officers for arresting me. After all, they were merely acting to protect American children. What did they know? They had to get the truth. If I had to suffer temporary incarceration to dispel their suspicions, I was prepared to pay that price for living in a democracy committed to safety for all.
After surrendering to the agents, they handcuffed me and put a black hood over my head. I remember being pushed into an automobile, then an airplane. The airplane took off. We were airborne for what seemed an eternity. No one spoke during the flight. When we finally landed, I was led down from the plane. I heard the agents speaking. Men answered them in a foreign language. I think it was Polish or Bulgarian, but I do not know for sure. It was Slavic, but I don’t think it was Russian. I was put into another car. I no longer heard the American agents. Now, I only heard Slavic voices.
We stopped after driving about two hours. At this point, I was taken from the car. Someone finally took the hood off my head and uncuffed me. It was early morning. I looked around. I was in a forest near an old concrete bunker. There were several trucks and jeeps parked outside the bunker. About fifteen armed men wearing green uniforms milled around the bunker entrance. I had no idea what they were saying. My eyes hurt; I could not look directly into the light because they were still sensitive. I had not slept during the whole trip. After about a minute, two soldiers with slung rifles approached me and said in accented English: “Come with us. We have some questions to ask you.”
I was taken into the bunker. A stairway led about two stories underground. There was a long hallway with steel doors lining either side. Lamps hung overhead, casting a pale white glow from above. The soldiers opened a door on the left and pushed me in. It was a large room. It smelled musty, as if there was not enough ventilation. There was a single steel table in the middle of the room, with a chair on either side. A few old-looking file cabinets stood against each wall. There was a small door at the back of the room.
“Wait here,” said one of the soldiers. “Make yourself comfortable,” he added, pointing to the chair. I sat down. The soldiers left the room. They closed the heavy steel door and locked it behind them. I sat alone for several hours. There was no bathroom and I desperately needed to relieve myself, since I had no opportunity to do so during my journey up to this point. Finally, I had to relieve myself on the floor.
Several more hours passed. I could not sleep. The chair was too uncomfortable. Strange, scattered thoughts started racing through my head. I started fixating on the bright fluorescent lights that lined the ceiling above me. They buzzed incessantly. One even flickered a little. I started scratching my head and staring at the flickering light. I wanted desperately to sleep but I couldn’t close my eyes for more than a second. I started pitying myself and cursing the whole situation. After all, I hadn’t done anything. But I immediately caught myself: “No, you have to go through this to protect the children.” Even though I was innocent, I willingly absorbed my adversity because I knew our agents had to protect Americans from terror.
Finally, the door in the back of the room creaked open. Two officers came into the room. I looked up at them. One of the officers held a file folder. The other one held a rusty steel device that looked like a leg brace. It had screws on either side and two jagged-looking “jaws.” A moment later, two soldiers came into the room with rifles. After them, another man came into the room. He was black. He was not wearing a green uniform. He looked American; the others did not. He closed the door behind him. The two officers looked back at him. “Are you ready, sir?” They asked. “Yes. Go ahead,” he responded. By his voice, I knew he was American.
“Well, Antonin,” began the officer in accented English, setting his file folder onto the table. “We can make this as easy or as difficult as you want. We know you’ve been speaking to al-Rahwiri.”
“I don’t know what this is all about,” I responded. “You obviously don’t have the right man here.”
The officer looked at me blankly. Then he turned to the other officer and gestured with his head toward the table. The other officer threw the steel device onto the table. “You were saying?” He paused, then continued: “There is no point lying to us. We know you spoke to al-Rahwiri. We know about the D.C. school district. We know you discussed cyanide with him.”
“I don’t know where you got that information, but it can’t be accurate.”
“Antonin, I don’t want to be a bad guy with you. Just tell us you plotted to kill the kids in D.C. and you can go home. If you don’t confess, this is not going to be a good day for you. Please, be easy on yourself. There’s no way out of this. I know you think you’re smart and you know about constitutional law. You think you have rights, even though you routinely deny them to others. Look, don’t be hard on yourself. Just tell us you know about the plot, then we can start talking like two civilized human beings.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t admit to that. It’s just not true. And I will not be coerced into saying otherwise.”
“All right. Have it your way.” The officer gestured to the two soldiers, who violently restrained me. Meanwhile, the second officer picked up the metal device and dangled it in front of my face. The two soldiers strapped me to my chair with ropes. The second officer pushed the chair away from the table and grabbed my right arm. Although I tried to struggle, he placed my right thumb into a slot on the metal device. He started screwing the two jagged “jaws” together around the thumb.
At this point, I was mildly alarmed. The two jaws met around my thumb and slowly crushed it. I could literally feel the bone shattering inside my hand. It hurt quite a lot, but it was bearable. I knew that the officers were simply trying to protect children from terrorists, and that justified my physical suffering. The jaws continued to press together until my thumb was virtually squashed. But I did not cry out, nor did I confess. After all, I hadn’t done anything.
“Why don’t you just say you talked to al-Rahwiri?” asked the officer.
“Because I never talked to him,” I responded despite the bearable pain.
“Well, I don’t believe you,” the officer replied. He then turned to the American behind him. The American nodded and pointed toward a file cabinet. The officer nodded. He said something to the soldiers in his language. They let me go. They opened the file cabinet and removed what looked like garden shears. Then the second officer slowly unscrewed the device from my thumb. I did not have much of a thumb left, but I was managing well.
“Now, Antonin. You can’t hold out forever. You are pretty good liar. You are even willing to take some pain to defend your lies. But no one leaves this room without telling the truth. All right, now where were we? Oh yes, the D.C. school district. Tell us that you bought cyanide with the intention of collaborating with al-Rahwiri to poison children’s lunches.”
“I never did that. I never bought cyanide. And I never intended to poison children. I have just been writing judicial opinions and questioning lawyers at oral argument for the past 10 months.”
He looked at me incredulously. “Well, we’re asking the questions now.” He then picked up his file folder, flipped a few pages and picked one out. “If you did not buy cyanide, why do we have this order ticket from CyanID Co. Inc. memorializing the sale of 500 gallons of liquid cyanide to you, Mr. Antonin G. Scalia on July 1, 2009? You see, Antonin, don’t try to deceive us. We have evidence.”
“That’s a forgery. I never did business with that company. I never bought cyanide.”
“Antonin, please. Evidence is evidence. We even have evidence showing that you transferred funds to CyanID Co. Inc. Now, either you tell us the truth or we will draw it out of you.”
“Go ahead. I never did anything wrong.”
The officer sighed. He nodded to the two soldiers, who again braced me. The second officer tore off my shirt. He then took the garden shears and clipped off my right nipple. “Still don’t know anything, do you, Antonin?”
I did not let the officer intimidate me. “No, I don’t. I will not lie to you.” Although it hurt to lose my right nipple, clipping it off was a necessary measure calculated in good faith to protect American children from terror.
At this point, a cell phone rang. The American answered: “Phelps here.” He stood listening for several minutes, interrupting only to say, “yes,” “oh really” and “un huh” several times. Finally, he said: “Yes, sir” and hung up the phone. He gestured for the officer to approach him. He whispered something to the officer. The officer nodded, glanced over at me, looked back at the American, then saluted. The American pursed his lips, turned around, opened the back door and walked out.
Several silent moments passed. The officer said something to his comrades in his language. The soldiers cut the ropes holding me to the chair. The second officer opened the file cabinet and put away the garden shears. He then took my shirt and put it over my shoulders. Finally, the lead officer said in English: “We have received information indicating that you are no longer a suspect. You may leave now.” He abruptly turned and left the room. The second officer followed. The two soldiers stayed with me. I just sat there.
Within minutes, two doctors came into the room and bandaged my wounds. They gave me a new shirt and brought me a meal and water. Then the two soldiers helped me up, led me upstairs and placed me in a waiting truck. The truck drove to a military airfield, where an American transport jet was waiting for me. Two U.S. Air Force officers greeted me. One said: “Sorry for the misunderstanding, your honor,” then gently helped me aboard the plane. They showed me to a comfortable bed and I laid down for the flight back to the United States.
I recount these details because I believe the American people deserve to know what happened to me. Contrary to all the rumors, I was not tortured. Rather, I was subjected to legitimate investigation calculated to determine whether terrorists planned to kill American children. The Executive Branch of the Federal government has authority to pursue any means necessary to protect Americans from terror, including investigations that may appear harsh. Put simply, when our government has a legitimate purpose—such as protecting children from al-Qaeda—it may pursue any methods necessary to effectuate that purpose. Although I endured some personal discomfort as a result of this investigation, our agents cannot always be perfect. I do not fault them for zealously attempting to root out terror, even in error.
I was not tortured because torture is illegal by treaty. Our government does not act illegally, nor does it ignore its treaty obligations. Under the governing legal standard, “torture” means the “intentional infliction of severe pain for a prohibited purpose.” Applying this definition to my experience, I can say to a legal certainty that I did not suffer torture.
First, I did not suffer “severe” pain. True, the thumbscrew device crushed my right thumb. It inflicted “pain.” But it was bearable pain. Viewed objectively, the pain was not “severe.” I can imagine far worse pain. It also hurt quite a bit when the officer clipped off my right nipple. It also permanently disfigured and degraded me. Again, however, the pain was not “severe.” While no specific case under the treaty has ever addressed nipple-clipping, I am confident that—as a jurist—such mild impositions do not rise to the level of “severe” pain necessary to meet the legal definition.
Second, and more importantly, the agents in this case did not inflict pain on me for a “prohibited purpose.” Cases have held that “prohibited purposes” under the treaty definition include sadism, unlawful information acquisition, revenge and medical experiment. Here, the agents inflicted pain on me in the honest—though mistaken—belief that I conspired to poison children in the D.C. public school system. They were acting to prevent what they reasonably believed to be imminent deadly harm to American children. That is about as legitimate a purpose as you can have. It is certainly not “prohibited” to zealously protect American children. In fact, that purpose justifies everything, including the infliction of “severe pain.” Thus, even if I concluded that the agents in this case inflicted “severe” pain on me, they still would not have committed “torture,” because their purpose was not “prohibited.” To the contrary, it was eminently legitimate.
I am committed to the rule of law. The rule of law in my case clearly indicates that I did not suffer torture. We apply legal definitions as they are written, not as what “we think they mean.” Logic and precedent establish that crushing thumbs and clipping off nipples do not constitute “torture” under the governing legal standard. I therefore reject all the liberal allegations that I wrongfully suffered “torture” while in custody last week. The rule of law suffers when the public irrationally applies “colloquial” understandings to make “legal” conclusions. I refuse to turn my back on the law, even if I endured a personally uncomfortable incident.
Torture is a legal term, not a colloquial one. Under law, I did not suffer torture. In fact, I am proud to live in a society with laws that allow its government to use any methods necessary to protect children from imminent terrorist attack. When our children’s safety is at stake, I think it is entirely reasonable to allow our government to take unrestricted action against the suspected conspirators. Our Constitution is not absolute; after all, our Constitution would be worthless if terrorists could freely attack the population. And what good is government if it cannot protect itself in the most threatening circumstances?
I do not need a right nipple to continue my duties as an Associate Justice of the United States Supreme Court. I am ready to get back to work immediately. And I will continue to hold that no one commits “torture” if they inflict pain to protect children from imminent harm.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
WHAT I REALLY THINK ABOUT THE LAW (AND LAWYERS)
AN ESSAY
For almost a year now, I have written essays and satires criticizing “the law.” Some mock the legal profession. Others mock the inane factual intricacies of the common law. Still others criticize the unfair power relationships underlying so much contemporary legal doctrine. Still, when I criticize “the law,” I am not advocating anarchy. I am actually criticizing something much more subtle, including people who use law for bad purposes. When it comes to human law, there are men who win and men who lose. It is “game-like.” Some men sit as judges between other men who desperately want to win. It is not neutral because men are not neutral by nature. Men use the law to advance their own causes, whether to protect or acquire property or to condemn men’s bodies to pain. It is instrumental, not academic. Yet human law is supposed to be detached, at least in theory. It is supposed to represent larger principles, not petty interests. But in using law, men pervert principles for their own gain. They could care less whether they do “abstract justice.” This tension represents the focal point of my criticism.
Interestingly, I had to study law for years before I could safely formulate these views. I came from a family that ridiculed lawyers. I was told from an early age that lawyers were “sleazebuckets,” “liars,” “thieves” and “gladhanders” who said anything necessary to make a few dollars. My parents labeled them “rude,” “impolite,” “unscrupulous” and “mean-spirited.” My father had one encounter with the civil justice system in his life. He often recounted it to me. During a deposition about some air conditioning sale gone wrong, the opposing lawyer cast spiteful doubt on every single thing he said. He said it made him feel horrible. He said the lawyer gave him the impression that he thought my father was lying about everything, when in fact he was telling the truth. He also said the lawyer asked convoluted questions in such perplexing language that he could not even really figure out what he wanted to know. Then, after the deposition ended, the opposing lawyer and my father’s lawyer joked around and talked about playing golf on the weekend, as if the foregoing inquisition had been “just another day at the office.”
These pejoratives burrowed deeply into my consciousness. I did not harbor good impressions about lawyers. In my early experience, I did not know many lawyers firsthand. They seemed rather boring and aloof. More often, I saw them mocked in television shows, movies, jokes and literature. These lampoons commonly tracked my parents’ criticisms: lawyers were unethical, mean, ridiculous, fast-talking, text-parsing word-benders determined to make money no matter what. Even Shakespeare’s generation pronounced the dominant judgment on lawyers: “The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.” King Henry VI, Part 2, Act IV, sc. ii. Apparently, for centuries people have just not liked the way lawyers make them feel. In a word, my upbringing taught me that lawyers were “bad” because they condescended to any artifice to win arguments, all the while manipulating inscrutable language. In essence, lawyers were “bad” and “mean” because they did not speak plainly. And because they “did it all for money.”
But somehow I wound up in law school. Perhaps I was fighting against my own nature when I decided I would study law. At the time, I just wanted an income in life. I studied literature in college. To my chagrin, I found no “literature firms” that paid living wages. In my early twenties, I had knowledge—some would say “useless knowledge” because it did not readily translate into “corporate employability”—but no trade. Yet I needed a trade to pay rent and buy food. I struggled with this for a while. I bounced around doing translations and freelance German-language jobs. I jostled my brain to figure out how to bandy my existing knowledge into a paycheck. Ultimately, I settled on the law because it involved language, rhetoric, writing and—in some sense—government and principle. Despite all my childhood distaste for lawyers, I nonetheless came to understand that there was something redeeming about the law, something intangible and good. I always loved studying history, philosophy and government. I knew that law played a role in these disciplines. It may not have been obvious, but I knew it was there. There was a “hidden allure” in the law beyond mere squabbles for property. It could bring about positive social change and cut through injustice. I did not know how it did these things, so I decided I would learn how it did. At the same time, I said to myself: “I’ll find out what the law is really all about and I’ll get a paycheck in the end, too.” This is how I landed in law school.
Six years later, I can confidently say that you will never meet a lawyer who detests the law as much as I do. Yet there is more to that statement than meets the eye. I learned that the law does indeed prompt the criticisms my parents taught me as a child. But I also confirmed that there is a “hidden allure” in the law that undermines those criticisms. I came to despise the law because—on the whole—the law’s negative characteristics outweigh its positive characteristics. Practice wins over theory in the law, even though much legal theory is thematically pleasing. In short, there is profound tension in all legal discourse. There is tension between practice and principle. Principles transcend; practice does not. Principles exist no matter what result follows in a particular case; practice aims solely to achieve particular results. Principles work only when their adherents follow them; practice demands “flexibility,” even if that means abandoning principle to win. In my “legal career,” I fell in love with principle because principle represents something larger than winning. That made me a terrible practitioner. Law firms do not want discerning legal scholars who insist on adherence to principle. They want discerning legal scholars who are willing to ignore, manipulate and distinguish principle in order to win a case and make money for the firm. This is what repulses me about the law: Principles are all well and good; but principles don’t pay.
Still, not all legal principles are good. I do not restrict my criticism to shameless legal practice. The law indulges in pure intellectual foolishness, too. For example, many lawyers proudly say that we live under the “rule of law.” The “rule of law” requires that government reference written laws and follow authorized procedures before taking adverse action against men’s bodies or property. Government must act according to verifiable law or not at all. There are great advantages to this theory. It prevents “tyranny” because it stops government from arbitrarily imprisoning people or seizing property. It bars government from harming people based solely on individual caprice or ill-will. In that sense, the rule of law cuts down on arbitrariness and “unreasonable conduct” in government. Additionally, by imposing rigorous procedures on government power, everyone theoretically has a chance to defend themselves prior to adverse action. In theory, everyone can know the laws under which government acts.
But the “rule of law” can lead to absurdity, too. After all, if government can act solely according to law, what happens if laws are evil? The government can be evil? In short, the rule of law can insulate the government from internal challenge as much as it can help to ensure order and transparency. Lawyers tend to think that as long as something is “written in law,” it is “right,” even when common decency, intuition, conscience or natural feelings of justice might dictate a contrary conclusion. For example, the “rule of law” in 1954 dictated that government could lawfully segregate African-Americans and whites in public accommodations. Lawyers in the Brown v. Board of Education case could point to no written law requiring that blacks and whites enjoy equal access to public accommodations. In fact, written law explicitly authorized segregation. Yet the Supreme Court ignored the rule of law in that case. It said that the Fourteenth Amendment’s Equal Protection Clause did not tolerate “State-sponsored racial segregation” because such segregation stamps blacks with a “badge of inferiority.” I agree with the Court, even though no written law directly supported its conclusion. But under the “rule of law,” this was an abysmal decision. If the Court had been truly faithful to the rule of law, it would have followed precedent and applied the law as written. At the time the Court decided Brown, there was nothing in the law about “badges of inferiority” or “psychological trauma.” It made these things up. In short, the Court did not just look to the law to render its decision. It looked to principles beyond the law, or at least implied in the law.
To our ears, this sounds courageous. It even sounds noble. But as a technical matter, the Court disparaged the “rule of law” in Brown. In this sense, Brown provides a fine example for the proposition that the “rule of law” can enslave as much as it can protect. When it comes to the rule of law, the result depends on what the law says, not what conscience or justice says. When the law is bad, the result is bad. Viewed strictly, judges have nothing to say about it.
Yet Brown also shows that inspiring principles do sometimes penetrate the law. I love Brown because it testifies to the “intangible allure” hidden in the law. It shows that justice and “natural right” do sometimes prevail over unjust written laws. And more importantly, it shows that justice and “natural right” constantly pull against the law, even if they disrupt its “orderly administration.” Justice always looms in legal questions. Often legal rules are consistent with justice. Sometimes they are not. In theory, judges and lawyers are not allowed to consider anything beyond the law. That is another reason why I criticize the law: It makes it difficult for judges and lawyers to follow their conscience. Rather, it induces them into a “culture of compliance” in which wooden adherence to written requirements supplants principle. In Brown, the Court refused to “comply” with unjust written requirements. Unfortunately, that does not happen very often. More often, judges and lawyers simply follow the path written in the law; and most troublingly, it rarely bothers them.
My struggles with the law mirror the tension between written law and intuitive justice. I think the tension between law and justice fascinates many people, not just those who have studied law. Movies like The Dark Knight become popular because they tap into this fascination, challenging the idea that the law is supposed to deliver justice, or even cares about it at all. At the same time, people confuse the law with justice. They expect the law to deliver results that are consistent with their intuitive sense about what it is right. Often, they discover to their horror that written law dictates a far different result. Those unlucky to be caught up in civil litigation quickly lose all illusions about lofty principles as cases drag on for years, costing both sides millions while lawyers battle over schedules and copy costs. Moreover, when people “get to know” lawyers, they do not see men and women committed to finding justice. Rather, they see men and women committed to complying with technical requirements in precisely such a way as to avoid punishment and to maximize their chances of winning (and fees). Professional ethics rules provide the best example for the proposition that lawyers do not need a conscience to win: They just need to follow what the rulebook says, even if they have no respect at all for the spirit behind the rules. This is the spiritual and intellectual vacuum that flows from fanatical commitment to the “rule of law.” Justice has no place in such a technical maze. It is all about compliance. If compliance results in justice, fine. If it doesn’t, that’s fine, too. In both cases, it’s “legal.”
These are the reasons why I despise the law. But it is a selective repugnance. I do not like the law for its fanatical devotion to form, compliance, technicality and procedure. I do not like the law for its tendency to lure people to believe that its “administrative rules” lead to justice. I do not like the law because it teaches practitioners to ignore conscience and principle when pondering questions that involve both. I do not like the law for the “culture of compliance” it creates in order to replace intuitive justice. In short, I do not like the law because there is nothing noble about complying with rules, especially if they are bad.
Yet I love the law for the brightness it offers. There are principles in the law that offer avenues to justice. There are principles in our Constitution that exalt individual rights, conscience, belief and self-definition against government power. Daring judges and lawyers see the brightness in these principles and apply them to break stultifying legal traditions. While I believe in the rule of law to the extent necessary to protect individuals from tyranny, I do not blindly comply with unjust rules because they are rules. Nor do I feel just for complying with rules simply because they are rules. Rather, I put my trust in principles that may not find expression in written law. And I truly care about those principles, even if they are not profitable.
This makes me a renegade among lawyers.
For almost a year now, I have written essays and satires criticizing “the law.” Some mock the legal profession. Others mock the inane factual intricacies of the common law. Still others criticize the unfair power relationships underlying so much contemporary legal doctrine. Still, when I criticize “the law,” I am not advocating anarchy. I am actually criticizing something much more subtle, including people who use law for bad purposes. When it comes to human law, there are men who win and men who lose. It is “game-like.” Some men sit as judges between other men who desperately want to win. It is not neutral because men are not neutral by nature. Men use the law to advance their own causes, whether to protect or acquire property or to condemn men’s bodies to pain. It is instrumental, not academic. Yet human law is supposed to be detached, at least in theory. It is supposed to represent larger principles, not petty interests. But in using law, men pervert principles for their own gain. They could care less whether they do “abstract justice.” This tension represents the focal point of my criticism.
Interestingly, I had to study law for years before I could safely formulate these views. I came from a family that ridiculed lawyers. I was told from an early age that lawyers were “sleazebuckets,” “liars,” “thieves” and “gladhanders” who said anything necessary to make a few dollars. My parents labeled them “rude,” “impolite,” “unscrupulous” and “mean-spirited.” My father had one encounter with the civil justice system in his life. He often recounted it to me. During a deposition about some air conditioning sale gone wrong, the opposing lawyer cast spiteful doubt on every single thing he said. He said it made him feel horrible. He said the lawyer gave him the impression that he thought my father was lying about everything, when in fact he was telling the truth. He also said the lawyer asked convoluted questions in such perplexing language that he could not even really figure out what he wanted to know. Then, after the deposition ended, the opposing lawyer and my father’s lawyer joked around and talked about playing golf on the weekend, as if the foregoing inquisition had been “just another day at the office.”
These pejoratives burrowed deeply into my consciousness. I did not harbor good impressions about lawyers. In my early experience, I did not know many lawyers firsthand. They seemed rather boring and aloof. More often, I saw them mocked in television shows, movies, jokes and literature. These lampoons commonly tracked my parents’ criticisms: lawyers were unethical, mean, ridiculous, fast-talking, text-parsing word-benders determined to make money no matter what. Even Shakespeare’s generation pronounced the dominant judgment on lawyers: “The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.” King Henry VI, Part 2, Act IV, sc. ii. Apparently, for centuries people have just not liked the way lawyers make them feel. In a word, my upbringing taught me that lawyers were “bad” because they condescended to any artifice to win arguments, all the while manipulating inscrutable language. In essence, lawyers were “bad” and “mean” because they did not speak plainly. And because they “did it all for money.”
But somehow I wound up in law school. Perhaps I was fighting against my own nature when I decided I would study law. At the time, I just wanted an income in life. I studied literature in college. To my chagrin, I found no “literature firms” that paid living wages. In my early twenties, I had knowledge—some would say “useless knowledge” because it did not readily translate into “corporate employability”—but no trade. Yet I needed a trade to pay rent and buy food. I struggled with this for a while. I bounced around doing translations and freelance German-language jobs. I jostled my brain to figure out how to bandy my existing knowledge into a paycheck. Ultimately, I settled on the law because it involved language, rhetoric, writing and—in some sense—government and principle. Despite all my childhood distaste for lawyers, I nonetheless came to understand that there was something redeeming about the law, something intangible and good. I always loved studying history, philosophy and government. I knew that law played a role in these disciplines. It may not have been obvious, but I knew it was there. There was a “hidden allure” in the law beyond mere squabbles for property. It could bring about positive social change and cut through injustice. I did not know how it did these things, so I decided I would learn how it did. At the same time, I said to myself: “I’ll find out what the law is really all about and I’ll get a paycheck in the end, too.” This is how I landed in law school.
Six years later, I can confidently say that you will never meet a lawyer who detests the law as much as I do. Yet there is more to that statement than meets the eye. I learned that the law does indeed prompt the criticisms my parents taught me as a child. But I also confirmed that there is a “hidden allure” in the law that undermines those criticisms. I came to despise the law because—on the whole—the law’s negative characteristics outweigh its positive characteristics. Practice wins over theory in the law, even though much legal theory is thematically pleasing. In short, there is profound tension in all legal discourse. There is tension between practice and principle. Principles transcend; practice does not. Principles exist no matter what result follows in a particular case; practice aims solely to achieve particular results. Principles work only when their adherents follow them; practice demands “flexibility,” even if that means abandoning principle to win. In my “legal career,” I fell in love with principle because principle represents something larger than winning. That made me a terrible practitioner. Law firms do not want discerning legal scholars who insist on adherence to principle. They want discerning legal scholars who are willing to ignore, manipulate and distinguish principle in order to win a case and make money for the firm. This is what repulses me about the law: Principles are all well and good; but principles don’t pay.
Still, not all legal principles are good. I do not restrict my criticism to shameless legal practice. The law indulges in pure intellectual foolishness, too. For example, many lawyers proudly say that we live under the “rule of law.” The “rule of law” requires that government reference written laws and follow authorized procedures before taking adverse action against men’s bodies or property. Government must act according to verifiable law or not at all. There are great advantages to this theory. It prevents “tyranny” because it stops government from arbitrarily imprisoning people or seizing property. It bars government from harming people based solely on individual caprice or ill-will. In that sense, the rule of law cuts down on arbitrariness and “unreasonable conduct” in government. Additionally, by imposing rigorous procedures on government power, everyone theoretically has a chance to defend themselves prior to adverse action. In theory, everyone can know the laws under which government acts.
But the “rule of law” can lead to absurdity, too. After all, if government can act solely according to law, what happens if laws are evil? The government can be evil? In short, the rule of law can insulate the government from internal challenge as much as it can help to ensure order and transparency. Lawyers tend to think that as long as something is “written in law,” it is “right,” even when common decency, intuition, conscience or natural feelings of justice might dictate a contrary conclusion. For example, the “rule of law” in 1954 dictated that government could lawfully segregate African-Americans and whites in public accommodations. Lawyers in the Brown v. Board of Education case could point to no written law requiring that blacks and whites enjoy equal access to public accommodations. In fact, written law explicitly authorized segregation. Yet the Supreme Court ignored the rule of law in that case. It said that the Fourteenth Amendment’s Equal Protection Clause did not tolerate “State-sponsored racial segregation” because such segregation stamps blacks with a “badge of inferiority.” I agree with the Court, even though no written law directly supported its conclusion. But under the “rule of law,” this was an abysmal decision. If the Court had been truly faithful to the rule of law, it would have followed precedent and applied the law as written. At the time the Court decided Brown, there was nothing in the law about “badges of inferiority” or “psychological trauma.” It made these things up. In short, the Court did not just look to the law to render its decision. It looked to principles beyond the law, or at least implied in the law.
To our ears, this sounds courageous. It even sounds noble. But as a technical matter, the Court disparaged the “rule of law” in Brown. In this sense, Brown provides a fine example for the proposition that the “rule of law” can enslave as much as it can protect. When it comes to the rule of law, the result depends on what the law says, not what conscience or justice says. When the law is bad, the result is bad. Viewed strictly, judges have nothing to say about it.
Yet Brown also shows that inspiring principles do sometimes penetrate the law. I love Brown because it testifies to the “intangible allure” hidden in the law. It shows that justice and “natural right” do sometimes prevail over unjust written laws. And more importantly, it shows that justice and “natural right” constantly pull against the law, even if they disrupt its “orderly administration.” Justice always looms in legal questions. Often legal rules are consistent with justice. Sometimes they are not. In theory, judges and lawyers are not allowed to consider anything beyond the law. That is another reason why I criticize the law: It makes it difficult for judges and lawyers to follow their conscience. Rather, it induces them into a “culture of compliance” in which wooden adherence to written requirements supplants principle. In Brown, the Court refused to “comply” with unjust written requirements. Unfortunately, that does not happen very often. More often, judges and lawyers simply follow the path written in the law; and most troublingly, it rarely bothers them.
My struggles with the law mirror the tension between written law and intuitive justice. I think the tension between law and justice fascinates many people, not just those who have studied law. Movies like The Dark Knight become popular because they tap into this fascination, challenging the idea that the law is supposed to deliver justice, or even cares about it at all. At the same time, people confuse the law with justice. They expect the law to deliver results that are consistent with their intuitive sense about what it is right. Often, they discover to their horror that written law dictates a far different result. Those unlucky to be caught up in civil litigation quickly lose all illusions about lofty principles as cases drag on for years, costing both sides millions while lawyers battle over schedules and copy costs. Moreover, when people “get to know” lawyers, they do not see men and women committed to finding justice. Rather, they see men and women committed to complying with technical requirements in precisely such a way as to avoid punishment and to maximize their chances of winning (and fees). Professional ethics rules provide the best example for the proposition that lawyers do not need a conscience to win: They just need to follow what the rulebook says, even if they have no respect at all for the spirit behind the rules. This is the spiritual and intellectual vacuum that flows from fanatical commitment to the “rule of law.” Justice has no place in such a technical maze. It is all about compliance. If compliance results in justice, fine. If it doesn’t, that’s fine, too. In both cases, it’s “legal.”
These are the reasons why I despise the law. But it is a selective repugnance. I do not like the law for its fanatical devotion to form, compliance, technicality and procedure. I do not like the law for its tendency to lure people to believe that its “administrative rules” lead to justice. I do not like the law because it teaches practitioners to ignore conscience and principle when pondering questions that involve both. I do not like the law for the “culture of compliance” it creates in order to replace intuitive justice. In short, I do not like the law because there is nothing noble about complying with rules, especially if they are bad.
Yet I love the law for the brightness it offers. There are principles in the law that offer avenues to justice. There are principles in our Constitution that exalt individual rights, conscience, belief and self-definition against government power. Daring judges and lawyers see the brightness in these principles and apply them to break stultifying legal traditions. While I believe in the rule of law to the extent necessary to protect individuals from tyranny, I do not blindly comply with unjust rules because they are rules. Nor do I feel just for complying with rules simply because they are rules. Rather, I put my trust in principles that may not find expression in written law. And I truly care about those principles, even if they are not profitable.
This makes me a renegade among lawyers.
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