Balkinization  

Monday, October 29, 2018

Key Questions for Regulators Rise with the Dawn of AI-Driven Healthcare

Guest Blogger

Eric M. Fish
Much of the initial excitement and application of artificial intelligence in healthcare has been focused on population health management, data analytics, and reduction of inefficiencies within the administration of healthcare. Many of the early direct-to-consumer products using artificial intelligence are branded as devices or apps that focus on general wellness and heath, not treatment of disease. Despite growing investment in artificial intelligence for healthcare generally, only 30 percent of investment deals fund of companies developing products that support providers in direct patient care and treatment of disease. But soon, artificial intelligence will be a common component of the clinical workflow, and will offer new challenges the current regulatory framework.

To date, the regulatory discussions about artificial intelligence have focused on the activities and approvals of the U.S. Food and Drug Administration. In 2017, the FDA approved a cloud-based deep learning algorithm that serves as a decision support tool that allows for physicians to diagnose heart conditions with greater efficiency and accuracy. In 2018, the FDA permitted the marketing of a medical device that uses artificial intelligence to detect diabetic retinopathy in adults who have diabetes. These approvals, in conjunction with the ubiquitous goal of providing better, faster care at a lower cost, may drive the release of new products and fuel additional demand to create them. Although the FDA is one of many stakeholders with interest and jurisdiction to influence the development of healthcare technology, its role as the primary regulator of medical technology devices has made it the de facto agency responsible to review the introduction of new healthcare technologies that use algorithms. But other regulators need to become more engaged.

Read more »

Organizing the Federal Government’s Regulation of AI

Guest Blogger

A. Michael Froomkin

For the Symposium on The Law And Policy Of AI, Robotics, and Telemedicine In Health Care.

            Medical AI (by which currently we mean primarily Machine Learning or “ML” for short) can’t be understood, or regulated, in a vacuum. While Medical ML does present a few special issues of its own, most of the regulatory challenges it creates involve issues that are common to ML more generally and/or involve aspects of policy that are not especially medical, and often not especially ML either.

From this I conclude three things:


  • While the FDA does have a special role in regulating some aspects of medical ML many of the issues involve matters far outside the FDA’s normal domain or experience – and usually fall into the domain of other agencies, which in fact have relevant expertise.
  • While it’s often tempting to suggest we create a purpose-built regulator for a new technology, such as we did with the FCC for broadcast radio and TV, or FERC for the transmission of electricity and for gas and oil pipelines, this would not be a good approach to AI regulation, certainly not now, and probably not in the future. Medicine is only one of many potentially transformational applications of ML, a technology that seems poised to transform other professions, transportation, urban design, marketing, security, and many other aspects of our lives.
  • The best way forward is to set up a national think tank and resource for regulators in federal, state, and even local government who need technical information, advice, and whose efforts will need some coordination.

The legal and policy issues raised by Medical AI intersect with tort law, privacy, anti-trust, industrial policy, consumer protection, battlefield care, medical device regulation, issues relating to the training and supply of physicians, and more. Many of the disruptions ML promises for medicine will parallel similar issues in other parts of the economy. Regulatory solutions optimized for medical ML applications should at least do no harm to regulatory solutions for those other areas; ideally they should be synergistic with them. In short, smart regulation of medical ML needs to be sensitive to the unique aspects of health care, but should also fit in with AI regulation as it applies across the economy and society. 

Read more »

Sunday, October 28, 2018

Four Roles for Artificial Intelligence in the Medical System

Guest Blogger

W. Nicholson Price II

For the Symposium on The Law And Policy Of AI, Robotics, and Telemedicine In Health Care.

How will artificial intelligence (AI) change medicine?  AI, powered by “big data” in health, promises to transform medical practice, but specifics remain inchoate.  Reports that AI performs certain tasks at the level of specialists stoke worries that AI will “replacephysicians.  These worries are probably overblown; AI is unlikely to replace many physicians in the foreseeable future.  A more productive set of questions considers how AI and physicians should interact, including how AI can improve the care physicians deliver, how AI can best enable physicians to focus on the patient relationship, and how physicians should review the recommendations and predictions of AI.  Answering those questions requires clarity about the larger function of AI: not just what tasks AI can do or how it can do them, but what role it will play in the context of physicians, other patients, and providers within the overall medical system.  Medical AI can improve for patients and improve the practice of medicine for providers—as long as its development is supported by an understanding of what role it can and should play.  Four different roles each have the possibility to be transformative for providers and patients: AI can push the frontiers of medicine; it can replicate and democratize medical expertise; it can automate medical drudgery; and it can allocate medical resources.

Read more »

Saturday, October 27, 2018

Non-Diagnosis: An Unappreciated but Critical Role for AI in Healthcare

Guest Blogger

William M. Sage
AI can help people understand and improve their health without forcing them along the “final common pathway” into the paid medical mainstream. 

Better health information technology has been a consensus goal of health policy experts for roughly two decades, with AI (“artificial” or “augmented” intelligence) the latest example of a potentially disruptive innovation in the informatics domain.  In particular, AI’s potential to improve diagnostic speed and accuracy has created palpable excitement in radiology and pathology for cancer detection and other clinical applications.  In 2015, the Institute of Medicine (now called the National Academy) devoted an entire consensus report titled “Improving Diagnosis in Health Care” to reducing diagnostic errors – an effort that continued an influential series of Academy critiques of the safety and quality of healthcare. 

It seems unobjectionable to argue that more accurate diagnosis will lead to more effective treatment.  As the IOM observed, “Getting the right diagnosis is a key aspect of health care -- it provides an explanation of a patient's health problem and informs subsequent health care decisions.“  However, diagnosis releases a cascade of additional effects that have largely gone unnoticed.  The IOM report failed even to acknowledge these “social meanings” of diagnosis, such as replacing uncertainty with explanation, inferring moral culpability or blamelessness, suggesting communicability or lack thereof, and creating or constraining opportunities for education, employment, insurance, and the like. 

Perhaps most importantly, the act of diagnosis channels the measurement and modification of health into conventional medical pathways, including an assurance and perhaps even an amplification of payment within the existing system.  A dispassionate assessment of why most health care information is produced, recorded, and exchanged has been lost in the enthusiasm for AI and similar innovations.  On the list: professional traditions such as the physician’s “H&P” (history and physical) and “SOAP notes” (subjective and objective data followed by the physician’s assessment and plan), clinical performance aids such as test results and consultation reports, and documentation to avoid inferences of professional negligence (malpractice).  But these are decidedly partial explanations.  More than anything else, the US healthcare system collects the information it needs to collect in order to get paid.

Read more »

Friday, October 26, 2018

Call for Papers

Jason Mazzone



Constitutional History: Comparative Perspectives

Chicago, Illinois

April 29 & 30, 2019



An international conference sponsored by:
  • University of Illinois College of Law
  • University of Bologna School of Law
  • Johns Hopkins Center for Constitutional Studies and Democratic Development

* * *

Paper proposals are invited for the Fourth Illinois-Bologna conference on Constitutional History: Comparative Perspectives. The conference will be held in Chicago on April 29 & 30, 2019.

The conference keynote speaker will be Justice Grant Huscroft of the Court of Appeal for Ontario (Canada).

* * *

Accompanying the spread of constitutional government around the world has been a profound interest in the comparative aspects of constitutional law. Scholars have catalogued the differing features of national constitutions and examined how different constitutional systems resolve common legal issues. So, too, judges faced with legal questions have sought guidance in the decisions of constitutional courts of other nations. While comparative constitutional law is therefore a well-established field, less attention has been paid so far to the comparative dimensions of constitutional history. This international conference series aims to address that shortcoming by energizing the study and analysis of constitutional history from comparative perspectives. It provides a forum for presentation and discussion of current research on issues of constitutional history that crosses national boundaries. It also bring together scholars who, at present, are working on constitutional histories of single jurisdictions—with the expectation that conversations among these scholars will allow for sharing of methodologies and point also to fresh areas of research that may transcend national boundaries.

For 2019, the focus of the conference is on Uses of History in Constitutional Adjudication. 

We therefore welcome papers that shed light on the myriad ways in which courts around the world make use of—or ignore—history as they go about deciding cases and the implications and effects of such efforts.

In some nations, the historical meaning of a constitutional provision plays an important role in how courts interpret that provision and then resolve questions of constitutional law. In other nations, historical meaning has relatively little relevance to adjudicating contemporary disputes. A nation’s history can also provide background themes—whether acknowledged or not—that shape how courts approach and situate cases and how they conceive of the role they themselves play in the constitutional system. Historical legacies might provide justification for one outcome over another or limit the options available to a court. Courts might themselves play a role in shaping historical memory by providing in the course of resolving disputes their own reflections upon a nation’s past. Judicial opinions might even be a context for airing of disagreements over the historical record or its lessons. Sometimes courts might decide cases in a way that suggests ignorance of a historical tradition. This might be deliberate: perhaps no institutional actor wants to dredge up the past. Uses of history in constitutional adjudication also raise questions of methodology, including the capacity of courts to conduct historical research and analysis and variations in that regard across national systems. There are also issues of legitimacy: for instance, which kinds of uses of history are defensible in a constitutional regime? And which kinds of history? And when might invocation of history generate public support or opposition? Assessments of current practices, particularly from a comparative perspective, can generate lessons for the future practices of courts—whether longstanding or newly-established—as they adjudicate constitutional cases. These are among the topics papers for the conference could usefully address.  


* * *

Scholars interested in presenting a paper at the conference should first e-mail a title and summary of the proposed paper along with a CV to Professor Jason Mazzone at mazzonej[@]illinois.edu. There is no word limit for the proposals but proposals in the range of 500-1,000 words are typical. Proposals received by December 15, 2018 will receive priority. After that date, submitted proposals will be considered if space remains.

For those whose abstracts are accepted, draft papers will be due for circulation three weeks prior to the conference.

Subject to the usual requirements of peer review, papers from the conference will be published as a single volume by Brill. Authors who accept an invitation to present a paper at the conference must agree to have the paper included in the published volume. Additional information about length and formatting requirements for the final versions of the papers will be provided to authors.

Conference participants are responsible for their own travel and accommodation expenses.

The Algorithm Will See You Now

Guest Blogger

Claudia Haupt

For the Symposium on The Law And Policy Of AI, Robotics, and Telemedicine In Health Care.

Artificial intelligence (AI) may well turn out to have a transformative effect on the delivery of healthcare services. Various mobile devices now feature “mHealth” applications, prompting healthcare providers to explore novel ways to incorporate these functions into medical care. Technology companies are connecting existing consumer-facing technologies like Alexa to diagnostics AI, creating new avenues of medical advice-giving. Similarly, professional-use algorithms and AI are available on the provider side. As we may be moving from computer-aided diagnosis to algorithm-generated advice, new technical, medical, and legal questions emerge.  What seems like a new frontier in the delivery of healthcare services actually takes us back to the early days of AI—after all, ELIZA’s DOCTOR script, developed in the mid-twentieth century, simulated a psychotherapist.

Technological innovation in healthcare occurs in a densely regulated space dominated by asymmetries of knowledge and social relationships based on trust. Professional advice is valuable to patients and clients because of the asymmetry between lay and expert knowledge. Professionals have knowledge that clients lack, but need to make important life decisions. These relationships are governed by a legal framework of professional advice-giving consisting of several elements, including professional licensing, fiduciary duties, informed consent, and professional malpractice liability. The regulatory goal is to ensure that the patient (or client) receives comprehensive, accurate, reliable advice from the doctor (or other advice-giving professional). Traditionally, this framework assumed interactions between human actors. Introducing AI challenges this assumption, though I will stipulate that AI does not entirely replace human doctors for now.


The questions underlying professional advice-giving involving various forms of technology raise enduring questions about the nature of the doctor-patient relationship. What does it mean to give and to receive professional advice, and how do things change when technological solutions—including AI—are inserted into the process of advice-giving?

We might consider the various medical tech solutions to be medical devices and contemplate potential regulation by the U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA). But the line between medical devices, so understood, and other electronic health gadgets seems increasingly blurry. And the process of professional advice-giving is the same across professions, whereas the FDA’s potential jurisdiction over medical devices only applies to one slice of the professional universe. The theoretical questions have much deeper roots that would be obscured by a sector-specific regulatory solution. Or we might want to subject AI, independent of its application, to regulation by a separate agency. I have recently started to explore yet another perspective: for AI in professional advice-giving, such as AI in the doctor-patient relationship, we might want to start with the traditional regulatory framework for professionals. This perspective builds on a theory of professional advice-giving that has the professional-client or doctor-patient relationship at its core and conceptualizes professionals as members of knowledge communities. So doing, this approach puts scholarship on professional regulation into conversation with the emergent literature on AI governance.

Outside of the medical context, Jack Balkin explains that a rapid move from “the age of the Internet to the Algorithmic Society” is underway. He defines the Algorithmic Society as “a society organized around social and economic decision making by algorithms, robots, and AI agents [] who not only make the decisions but also, in some cases, carry them out.” In this emerging society, we need “not laws of robotics, but laws of robot operators.” Here, “the central problem of regulation is not the algorithms but the human beings who use them, and who allow themselves to be governed by them. Algorithmic governance is the governance of humans by humans using a particular technology of analysis and decision-making.”

We should likewise begin to consider forms of algorithmic governance in the medical advice-giving context. Should professional-use algorithms be subject to professional licensing, and what level of technical proficiency should be expected of licensed professionals who employ AI in their practice? As a matter of professional malpractice, who is liable for harm caused by bad AI-generated advice?  Does the introduction of AI require informed consent? How do fiduciary duties apply?
Instead of assessing each algorithm or AI agent individually, or dividing the professional AI world into sector-specific regulatory regimes in order to consider whether and how it should be regulated, we should first turn to the traditional regulatory framework that governs professional advice-giving. This point, in fact, applies to all advice-giving professions. But it is perhaps most clearly conveyed in the medical context, where we have strong intuitions about the doctor-patient relationship and its underlying values.

Claudia E. Haupt is Associate Professor of Law and Political Science at Northeastern University School of Law. You can reach her by e-mail at c.haupt@northeastern.edu


Symposium on Artificial Intelligence, Robotics, and Health Care at Yale Law School

JB

The Solomon Center for Health Law and Policy and the Yale Information Society Project will host a conference on The Law and Policy of AI, Robotics, and Telemedicine in Health Care on Friday November 2, 2018, at Yale Law School.

This week on Balkinization we will post essays by some of the conference participants on how Artificial Intelligence and Robotics are changing medicine and health care.

Thursday, October 25, 2018

Fixing the Constitution's Implied Powers

John Mikhail

For the Symposium on Jonathan Gienapp, The Second Creation: Fixing the American Constitution in the Founding Era (Belknap Press, 2018).

The Second Creation: Fixing the American Constitution in the Founding Era is a marvelous study of the earliest debates over constitutional language, meaning, and interpretation.  Jonathan Gienapp’s new book is brilliantly conceived, meticulously researched, and masterfully executed.  Like any worthwhile scholarly endeavor, it will generate fresh insights and open up new avenues of inquiry, some of which may eventually call into question some of Gienapp’s own premises and arguments.  In the current academic and political climate, the challenge his book poses to originalism also seems likely to provoke a certain amount of healthy controversy.

The Second Creation is written for multiple audiences.  On the one hand, the book is addressed to historians, political scientists, and other specialists, offering them a dramatic new account of the drafting and ratification of the Constitution, along with four early constitutional controversies: removal, amendments, the bank, and the Jay Treaty.  As his title implies, however, Gienapp also defends a provocative thesis of import for constitutional lawyers and, in particular, constitutional originalists.  In a nutshell, that thesis is that constitutional meaning was not fixed when the Constitution was framed and ratified.  Nor did it operate as a significant constraint on early practice.  The Fixation Thesis and Constraint Principle endorsed by many originalists are, therefore, untenable insofar as they endeavor to be faithful to the best historical understanding of the founding era, or so Gienapp seems to suggest.  A close encounter with that history reveals that constitutional meaning was uncertain, unstable, and “up for grabs” right from the start.  In no small part, this was due to a pervasive uncertainty over what kind of instrument or object the Constitution itself actually was.
 
For example, the Constitution is written, yes; but is it entirely so?  Is it a contract, a power of attorney, a corporate charter, something else?  To what extent does it presuppose or incorporate principles of common law or the law of nations?  And what is the significance of its most noteworthy omissions?  The Articles of Confederation contains a crucial provision reserving all powers not “expressly delegated” to the states, but the Constitution does not.  Does the Constitution nonetheless presume that whatever is not given is reserved?  Does it presume that whatever is not expressly given is reserved?  What about the document’s very first and most striking sentence—the Preamble?  Does it fall within the scope of the Constitution? 

Finally, and perhaps most significantly, what should one make of the fact that some of the state ratifying conventions adopted the Constitution with a “form of ratification” or other interpretive declaration, explaining how the document should be construed?  When the South Carolina convention adopted the Constitution, for example, it echoed the Articles by declaring that “no Section or paragraph of the said Constitution warrants a Construction that the states do not retain every power not expressly relinquished by them and vested in the General Government of the Union.”  Likewise, when the Virginia convention ratified the Constitution, it did so with the stipulation—prepared by a committee that included James Madison, Edmund Randolph, and John Marshall—that “no right of any denomination can be canceled, abridged, restrained, or modified by the Congress . . . by the President or any Department or Officer of the United States except in those instances in which power is given by the Constitution for those purposes.”  As Randolph explained, the purpose of this stipulation was to enable Virginians to consider “every exercise of a power not expressly delegated” by the Constitution to be a violation of it.  Should these eighteenth-century “signing statements” be considered part of the Constitution, or at least part of an essential compromise that enabled it to be ratified?  Why or why not?

Read more »

Wednesday, October 24, 2018

Were the framers originalists (and does it matter)?

Guest Blogger

William Baude

For the Symposium on Jonathan Gienapp, The Second Creation: Fixing the American Constitution in the Founding Era (Belknap Press, 2018).

Once upon a time, it was common to respond to originalist arguments in constitutional interpretation by arguing that even the framers themselves were not originalists. And if they were not, how could or why should we be?  Exhibit A for this argument was H. Jefferson Powell's The Original Understanding of Original Intent, which pointed to many places that prominent framers had denied that their own subjective intent was dispositive of the document's true public meaning.

This Exhibit worked against "original intent" originalism, but as originalist thought became more careful and rigorous, most originalists came to agree that original meaning was controlling, not original intent. In other words, todays originalists share the position of the framers in Powell's article, so there was no mismatch between originalism and the framers.

But now along comes an important and fascinating new book from Jonathan Gienapp, The Second Creation, which threatens to pose a new and deeper version of this problem for today's originalists. In Gienapp's telling, the framers did not agree that the Constitution was a written legal text, that it was complete, that its meaning was fixed, or that it was subject to specific rules of legal interpretation. All of these things were subject to contestation throughout the 1790s. The emergence of the fixed, written, legal Constitution emerged only contingently and years after the Founding.

If Gienapp is right, what are originalists to make of it? As Jack suggests in his earlier post, the answer may depend on why one is an originalist in the first place.

Those who defend originalism on abstractly conceptual grounds might argue that this result does not matter. If one thinks that fixation is a general principle of written texts, then perhaps the framers adopted a fixed Constitution regardless of whether they meant to or were aware of it. It's just in the nature of things that writing down constitutional principles would result in a fixed Constitution that should be interpreted using originalism.

Similarly, those who think that originalism is commanded by particular textual provisions of the Constitution, such as Supremacy Clause or the oath, might argue that Gienapp's findings do not matter. The framers may have committed to originalism through the text they chose whether or not they ever saw it.

On the other hand, the very debates and contingency that Gienapp recounts might give us some pause before accepting either of these arguments. If it is perfectly imaginable -- if it was indeed imagined by some -- that our written Constitution might not have a fixed and complete meaning, then perhaps we should be reluctant to think the text settles the matter.

Those who defend originalism on purely normative grounds might also argue that it does not matter whether the founders were originalists. If the goal of originalism is to constrain judges, for instance, it might constrain them just as well whether the framers used it or not. Indeed, maybe other changes in society or law (the growth of judicial review, changes in elite culture) have made it more important for us to constrain today's judges than it was for the Founders to constrain theirs. 

But some of us take a different view -- I would say the right view -- that originalism is a theory of law, not language or policy: Our current law tells us to adhere to the framers’ law, as lawfully changed. Gienapp presents an important challenge to this theory of original law originalism.

If there was no original law, so far as the Constitution is concerned, then the original law theory points to an empty set. If the Constitution was not truly created as law until years after its official ratification, then we have the kind of newly discovered mismatch between official story and revealed truth that should provoke a constitutional crisis. A strong version of Gienapp’s thesis could mark a true interpretative revolution.

But before we original law originalists pack it in, there are some questions that will require further study and engagement with Gienapp’s research. Depending on the answers, original law originalism might still be alive and well.

First, how much true division do these episodes reveal? Gienapp describes several important debates in which prominent people disagreed about the nature and status of the Constitution. But the existence of disagreement alone does not show a lack of established rules. For originalist purposes the depth and breadth of that disagreement will be important too. For instance, some may think that the early skirmishes simply prove the dominance of public meaning originalism, because they ended so quickly and so definitively.

Second, were the disagreements about law or something else? Early disagreements about constitutional law touched on a number of fundamental questions. But not every fundamental disagreement is a disagreement about what the law was. For instance, it is possible for two people to agree about a fundamental legal principle (ambiguous documents should be construed to effectuate their purposes) while still disagreeing about the application (what was the document’s purpose?). 

Or participants can agree about what a legal instrument requires but disagree about whether they are actually going to follow it. Indeed, when governed by the Articles of Confederation, some of the same folks ignored its strictures in the name of practicality and necessity. So perhaps what was up in the air in some of these cases was not so much the law of the Constitution as the question of whether this time it was going to be taken more seriously.

Third and finally, if we do grant that some issues of the original law of the Constitution were fundamentally unsettled, originalists could still believe those issues are settled now. Originalism is fundamentally a theory of legal change, not one of stasis. The Constitution’s meaning can change if it changes in a lawful way, such as through a constitutional amendment. And it is quite plausible that the founders recognized other methods for settling constitutional meaning, such as James Madison’s account of “liquidation” through deliberate practice. If the original law allowed liquidation, then maybe the fundamental questions were quickly “liquidated” and have remained settled ever since.

Readers should consider this post a promissory note for a longer work in progress exploring the original law of the Constitution. A book as deep and important as Gienapp’s will take study and precise analysis before all of its implications are settled. In that respect, The Second Creation may fittingly resemble the fate of the Constitution itself.

William Baude is Professor of Law at the University of Chicago Law School. You can reach him by e-mail at baude@uchicago.edu 



A Marker of a Disjunctive President

Gerard N. Magliocca

We have a long-running debate on the blog about whether Donald Trump is a disjunctive president. In other words, does he represent the end of a particular party system (the Reagan coalition)? This label comes from the influential work of Stephen Skowronek, who analyzed the presidency in relation to the prevailing party system of the day.

A common theme that links the disjunctive presidents is that their party did poorly in the first set of midterm elections following their own election. This foreshadowed their defeat for reelection two years later. Skowronek identifies four disjunctive presidents (John Quincy Adams, Franklin Pierce, Herbert Hoover, Jimmy Carter). If you examine the midterm elections that followed all of their victories (1826, 1854, 1930, 1978), their parties all did poorly. They did not all lose control of Congress as a result, but the trend was unmistakable.

We'll see how the results in two weeks compare.

UPDATE: As Jack rightly pointed out to me, most Presidents see their party lose seats in their first midterm election. I didn't mean to suggest that only disjunctive presidents see significant party losses in their first midterm election. The point is that no disjunctive president led their party to victory or even just a so-so result in their first midterm election. Consequently, if the GOP gains Senate seats in November (a possibility) and holds the House (also possible), then that would tend to suggest that the collapse of the Reagan coalition is not imminent.

Tuesday, October 23, 2018

Our inevitably living Constitution

Sandy Levinson

For the Symposium on Jonathan Gienapp, The Second Creation: Fixing the American Constitution in the Founding Era (Belknap Press, 2018).

No one in the future can be considered a literate commentator on the history of the Constitution and American constitutional development who has not carefully read and reflected on Jonathan Gienapp’s stunning book The Second Creation:  Fixing the American Constitution in the Founding Era.  The title itself is extraordinarily rich.  It requires us to stop regarding the Philadelphia Convention, or even the various state ratifying conventions, as the singular moment (or even moments) of “creation” of the Constitution (whatever exactly that might be thought to mean).  They were important, to be sure, but Gienapp is convincingly insistent that the Congress that convened in 1789 and made crucially important decisions for several years thereafter (including, for example, responding to the Jay Treaty of 1795) played an essential role in “fixing” the Constitution.  
There is a quite self-conscious (at least) double entendre in the use of the word “fixing.”  One might view it as recognizing that certain (inevitable) deficiencies in the text and understandings that were present in 1787-88 were “fixed” and repaired by new and improved renderings of constitutional meanings given by the legislators thereafter.  But there is also, crucially, the development of a notion of a Constitution that becomes “fixed” and therefore made unchangeable (save for the near-futile path of constitutional amendment set out by Article V).  A word that Gienapp uses throughout his book is “textualized”; that is, the Constitution is transformed from a set of quite inchoate understandings, similar in their own way to the fluidity attached to the notion of the British “constitution,” into a specific text that is itself thought to provide firm answers to the dilemmas of actual governance that quickly emerged after the new government got up and running in the spring of 1789.  There is, of course, yet a third meaning of “fixed” that is available, as when people speak of “fixing” their dogs or cats, by which they mean neutering the animals and making it impossible for them to generate a next generation of puppies or kittens.  I shall note below the implications of this third notion of “fixing” the Constitution, which is in fatal tension with the far more dynamic view of American constitutionalism enunciated by John Marshall in what remains the single most important opinion in our history, McCulloch v. Maryland.  
            The central thesis—and indispensable contribution—of the book is announced in the Introduction:  “How a wide swath of the American political community imagined the Constitution when it was written in 1787, or [even] when the federal government first gathered under its auspices in 1789, was quite different from how that community imagined it a decade later” (p. 9).  I would add that Gienapp’s assertion makes hash not only of those who fixate on the conventions in Philadelphia or the various state capitals (plus Poughkeepsie, the surprising locale of New York’s ratifying convention), but also of those who believe, say, that The Federalist, written during this same period by highly motivated partisans of constitutional ratification, offers some specially privileged insight into constitutional meaning.  Whether or not we agree in full with Aristophanes that (at least sometimes) “whirl is king,” we should recognize that he is a better guide to American constitutional development, even (or especially) in its formative period, than are those who believe that there were necessarily “fixed” meanings of the Constitution in 1787 or even 1790, when the final state, Rhode Island, got around to ratifying the Constitution.  (Its approval was by the less-than-inspiring vote of 34-32, and one might surmise that the crucial two votes that precluded yet another rejection by Rhode Islanders was the fact that Congress was threatening to pass a law prohibiting commercial intercourse with the juridically “foreign country” of Rhode Island. So much, incidentally, for the Lincolnian theory that the United States had been a singular entity since 1774, let alone the Declaration of Independence in 1776--the four-score-and-seven-years prior to 1776.  Wherever exactly Rhode Island was prior to ratification, it was not within the United States of America.
Of course, one should not go overboard with the reference to Whirl or the “indeterminacy” of the original Constitution.  What I have elsewhere termed the “Constitution of Settlement,” involving such things as the two senators assigned to each state (alas), or the length of presidential and congressional terms, might indeed have been fixed on September 17, 1787, when the delegates, save for Randolph, Gerry, and Mason, signed the text that was then delivered to the country at large for ratification under Article VII.  And that all-important Article, which has disappeared from what might be termed the “pedagogical Constitution” taught to youngsters, was itself importantly “fixed” inasmuch as it fully repudiated the seemingly fixed rule laid down in Article XIII of the Articles of Confederation regarding requirements for amendment, and replaced it with the all-important proviso that ratification by only nine conventions, rather than all state legislatures, would be enough to breathe life into the proposed Constitution.  The dreaded Rhode Island veto, relied on by the hapless leaders of that state when they refused to send any delegates at all to Philadelphia, was no more.  George Washington took his oath of office on April 30, 1789, to become Chief Executive of a nation that at that time did not include either North Carolina or Rhode Island. This facet itself of the Constitution forces us to realize that “fixity” may be a sometime thing, though, tellingly, the defense of Article VII must take the form either of an Ackermanian justified illegality or, as argued instead by his colleague Akhil Reed Amar, an assertion that the “confederation” announced in the Articles, including the strictures of Article XIII, had in effect been dissolved by the utter failure, for example, to elicit sufficient tax revenues through the politically disastrous “requisition” system that was the equivalent of sending out letters begging for contributions that would in fact not be forthcoming. 
            But, of course, members of the new Congress, and Washington as well, were not arguing about the meaning of the Constitution of Settlement; he might have argued that his term expired on April 30, 1793, four years after he took his initial oath of office, but he accepted the understanding that the new country had in fact first sprung to life on March 4, 1789 when Congress first convened. Whether that was a “required” understanding of the Constitution might make a nice exam question, but his acceptance of March 4, to use a Madisonian term, “liquidated” any possible controversy over the end-date of the presidential term, which remained until changed by the 20thAmendment in 1933.  Rather, the disputes were about what I have termed the complementary “Constitution of Conversation,” the Constitution that, for better and worse, is the subset of the overall Constitution that legal academics and the judiciary obsess about. Consider that the Constitution clearly requires that Congress confirm high-level executive branch officials; even if one might wonder today how it is that presidents appoint National Security Advisors and other truly significant officials without such confirmation, that was not an issue facing the initial officials charged with figuring out the practical implications of the new Constitution. What did concern them was what happened if the President wishes to dismiss (or “remove”) a confirmed official.  Did Congress retain a right, derived from its confirmation power, to veto a possibly impetuous President?  Or are all executive branch officials in effect employees at the Chief Executive’s legally untrammeled will?  This is both highly interesting theoretically and also of significant practical importance.  To accept the latter notion is to adopt a significant more “monarchical” view of presidential authority than is entailed by the former, in which Congress retains a possibly decisive role in determining who exercises at least some facets of executive power.  Not surprisingly, removal was the subject of perhaps the first “great debate” in the history of the U.S. Congress, where by one vote, that of Vice-president John Adams breaking a tie in the Senate, the President (in this case George Washington, of course) was given the unilateral power to say “you’re fired.”  Interestingly enough, this decision flew directly in the fact of Publius’s assurance in Federalist 77 that “the consent of the Senate would be necessary to displace as well as to appoint.”  Not to worry, though, for a note from Alexander Hamilton, known by then, at least among the cognoscenti, to be one of the authors of The Federalist, indicated that he had “changed his opinion” and had become “convinced” that the president should indeed have the “power of removal at pleasure” (p. 155).  As Gienapp writes, this episode only demonstrated the extent to which the Constitution was being treated “as an object of [interpretive] freedom rather than of constraint” (id.).  Whirl was indeed king.  
            This heady notion of openness to what Habermas might term the force simply of the stronger normative argument—i.e, which interpretation of the Constitution was in fact best for the country?—would shortly be supplanted by an emphasis on a more “fixed” Constitution that would ostensibly constrain otherwise exuberant legislators.  The bulk of the book is devoted to demonstrating the various ways in which this occurred.  Chapter Four is entitled “The Sacred Text.”  In my own first book, I distinguished between “catholic” and “protestant” notions of what might be called, using Gienapp’s own terminology, constitutional ontology.  For constitutional “catholics,” the Constitution might include a text, but it also included, at least as importantly, the teachings of the magisterium collected in the institutional Catholic Church, just as for all but Karaite Jews, the authoritative materials include both written and unwritten sources; protestants (or Protestants), of course, believed in the maxim sola scriptura.  For whatever reason, including, perhaps, the importance of Protestantism in American culture, the appeal to a “sacred text” won out, whatever the obvious problems, well delineated by Gienapp, of believing in the reality of self-sufficient texts.  
As always, James Madison plays an important role in the narrative. He was the author of Federalist 37, a stunning essay that emphasizes the limits of textual determinacy.  Surely one of the most remarkable sentences not only in The Federalist, but in all American political thought, is Madison’s statement that “[w]hen the Almighty himself condescends to address mankind in their own language, his meaning, luminous as it must be, is rendered dim and doubtful, by the cloudy medium through which it is communicated” (p. 110).  By the time he was opposing the Bank of the United States promoted by his former ally, and now bitter enemy, Alexander Hamilton, the Constitution was becoming less “cloudy” and, Madison alleged, clearly adverse to Congress’s power to charter the Bank.  Needless to say, one can wonder whether this later position was the result of Madison’s theoretical reflection on the nature of language or, instead, the product of what we today would call “motivated reasoning,” in which political goals (such as blocking Hamilton’s vision of a commercial republic) led to seemingly different positions from those taken earlier.  
            Gienapp is truly gifted in delineating a number of early political disputes in which constitutional arguments became central. They certainly included, but are not limited to, the debate over dismissal of executive officials; the chartering of the Bank of the United Sates, and the Jay Treaty.  Not at all coincidentally, these debates also served to bring onto the scene the reality of political parties that Madison and others had hoped to forestall by creating a constitutional order that would rely on basically virtuous political leaders thinking only of an abstract public interest. Although, as Noah Feldman demonstrated in his recent marvelous study of Madison, the Virginian could be remarkably understanding of some of his political opponents, such as James Monroe, whom he continued to regard as genuine friends who simply had different views from his own, Hamilton was consigned to the role of a veritable anti-Christ, an enemy to the Republican Form of Government at least as conceived by Madison.  The Democratic-Republican Party was founded in part to fend off the Satanic blandishments of the glib and clever Hamilton, and that required as well the manufacture of arguments that might counter those of Hamilton and his own allies.  Madison and his allies proved just as willing as many of the Federalists to adopt the rhetoric of a “fixed” Constitution.  No longer was the Constitution “incomplete,” to be filled in by imaginative and innovative legislators; “instead, [it] already possessed an operative meaning, discoverable in the fixed past” (p. 310). 
            What Gienapp is setting out is not, in fact, a method of interpretation that will generate what all of us will agree are the correct answers to constitutional conundra, but, instead, a rhetoric of interpretation that participants in the particular language game of “law talk” would increasingly be expected to use.  Whatever Madison might have written, particularly in Federalist 14, about the importance of rejecting tradition and what he called the authority of “names” in favor of the “lessons of experience,” that increasingly took second place, at least in public debate, to what was ostensibly revealed in the text or the teachings of those who were now viewed as creators of the Constitution.  Obviously, we live today in the shadow of the intellectual (or rhetorical) tradition that Gienapp set out.  
            But Gienapp, perhaps because he is a truly gifted historian, offers relatively little succor to contemporary “originalists” other than describing how that particular aspect of the constitutional language-game emerged out of the intense political conflicts of the 1790s. He concludes his book, for example, by stating, “The irony of the endless search for the original Constitution is that such an inquiry will never reveal a fixed document.”  Whatever our cultural “fascination with fixity,” the concept itself is chimerical.  Thus, he concludes, “Appreciating how the idea of a fixed Constitution was invented, in other words, should encourage us to imagine anew, in our own time, what the Constitution ought to be” (p. 334).  
            As Alison LaCroix notes in her ow review of Gienapp, he quite properly devotes very few pages to the judiciary or to the particular contributions of John Marshall, present in this book primarily as a member of the Virginia ratifying convention.  Marshall would not emerge as an important figure, perhaps a genuine “Founder” of our operative constitutional order, until the 19thcentury.  But it is worth noting, I believe, that “the Great Chief Justice’s” all-important opinion in McCulloch v. Maryland (1819) provides the basis for the critique of “fixity” as a constitutive notion of the Constitution.  By then, Madison had thrown in the towel on the propriety of chartering a Bank of the United States; he had, after all, signed the bill establishing the Second Bank in 1816.  At the very least, his version of original understanding and fixity, argued at length in 1791, was rendered irrelevant by the brute reality of acceptance by the polity in general of the legitimacy of the first Bank of the United States, which had expired in 1811.  He never for an instant admitted that he had been  mistaken in his 1791 opposition to the Bank, only that it was time in effect to move on.  However, he was rendered apoplectic by the specific reasons offered by Marshall for upholding the Bank, and he wrote Virginia’s Chief Justice Spencer Roane, probably correctly, that the Constitution would not have been ratified had wavering delegates been aware of the construction that Marshall would give it with regard to the vast reach of national power under Article I, Section 8.  
            One might well argue that Marshall in substantial measure rejected much of the belief in the “fixed” Constitution in favor of a far more capacious understanding that was similar to the “true” original understanding, as of 1787-1788, attributed to Madison, that “the Constitution was incomplete, partial, and in critical ways indeterminate,” so that “ongoing discussions and experiences would help make new meanings that would flesh out the unfinished edifice that he had helped construct” (p. 332). How does Marshall do this? Consider only his seemingly casual reference to the Constitution as a “great outline” that would presumably need to be filled in as the lessons of experience suggested, including, for example, the realization that the United States was no longer confined to its original borders east of the Mississippi River, but now reached to the Pacific Ocean. His opinion included the reminder that “we must never forget it is a Constitution” that is being “expounded,” which Felix Frankfurter thought was the most important single sentence in the canon.  I confess I did not understand Frankfurter’s enthusiasm for many years, until I linked it with a sentence several paragraphs later, in which we were reminded that the Constitution was designed “to endure,” which in turn entailed that it “must be adapted to the various crises of human affairs.”  To be sure, one might read this in a quite limited, almost Schmittian sense, so that “adaptation” would occur only in cases of “emergency,” whereas otherwise we would stumble along, for better or worse, with our “fixed” understandings. 
 But it appears fairer to the Marshallian understanding to offer the same kind of capacious meaning of “crisis” that he himself offered with regard to the notion of “necessity,” which notoriously turned out to mean “convenient or useful.” It seems altogether appropriate to make “crisis” synonymous with the notion of “challenges” facing our political order at any given time.  Thus conceptions of national power, in particular, had to adjust—be “adapted to”—the development of a national economy—and in our own time globalization—let alone the perhaps existential threats presented by climate change and other environmental issues.  There is something profoundly stupid, even “imbecilic”—the word used by several critics of the Articles of Confederation to justify the need for a new Constitution in 1787—in Justice Scalia’s snarky statement, in his dissenting opinion that would have struck down Obamacare, that it is a mistake to believe that Congress necessarily has the power to do “whatever-it-takes-to-solve-a-national-problem.”   Better, presumably, to drive over a cliff rather than “adapt” one’s constitutional understanding to allow Congress to meet a genuine “national problem.” As Jack Balkin and I have argued elsewhere, this is a formula for a certain kind of “constitutional crisis.”  As much to the point is that Scalia’s view, if taken altogether seriously, further undercuts the rationale for anyone’s even genuinely respecting, let alone “venerating,” our Constitution.  
            It is telling, I believe, that Randy Barnett, in his influential book (at least in conservative circles) on an ostensibly “Republican Constitution,” goes out of his way not only to disdain what some might view as democratic self-government—because he wants an empowered judiciary to monitor alleged constitutional overreaching by the demos, including, he believes, Obamacare—but also, and more relevantly for the purposes of this review, what might one believe is the central teaching of John Marshall about the need for adaptation if a Constitution is truly to “endure”—or, one might even say, to live.  Scalia was proud to announce his devotion to a “dead Constitution,” one purportedly “fixed” in past understandings.  Gienapp allows us to understand the continued rhetorical pull of such arguments, but he also demonstrates their embeddedness, both in 1790 and 2018, in fundamentally political conflicts and their basic fatuousness as genuine guides to determining constitutional meaning.  
            



Monday, October 22, 2018

Fixation as a Constitutional Rhetoric

Mark Graber

For the Symposium on Jonathan Gienapp, The Second Creation: Fixing the American Constitution in the Founding Era (Belknap Press, 2018).

Abraham Lincoln’s speeches and writings frequently confirm but sometimes confound the central thesis of Jonathan Gienapp’s magisterial The Second Creation.  Gienapp in that superb study of constitutional language and linguistics details how Americans during the years immediately before, during and immediately after they ratified the Constitution of the United States came to regard constitutions as texts with fixed meanings.  Lincoln before assuming the presidency consistently referred to such a constitution when asserting that the American framers intended to put slavery in “the course of ultimate extinction” and plainly vested Congress with the power to ban human bondage in American territories.  Upon assuming the presidency, Lincoln rejected constitutional fixity,  treating the Constitution as incomplete and mutable.  His first inaugural declared, “But no organic law can ever be framed with a provision specifically applicable to every question which may occur in practical administration. No foresight can anticipate, nor any document of reasonable length contain express provisions for all possible questions. Shall fugitives from labor be surrendered by national or by State authority? The Constitution does not expressly say. May Congress prohibit slavery in the territories? The Constitution does not expressly say. Must Congress protect slavery in the territories? The Constitution does not expressly say.

Lincoln’s presidential rejection of constitutional fixation stemmed from a change in the purpose of his constitutional arguments rather than an abandonment of his previous understanding concerning the nature of that constitution.  Lincoln’s constitutional arguments before assuming the presidency made assertions about constitutional policy and practice, about how the Constitution of the United States should implemented in particular circumstances.   Such arguments from the 1790s to the present, Gienapp lovingly details, treat the Constitution as a text with a fixed meaning.  Lincoln’s first inaugural made arguments about constitutional authority.  Such arguments routinely assume that the framers did not resolve all constitutional questions in advance, that some entity or combination of entities must be empowered to settle at least temporarily good faith disputes over constitutional meaning.

Arguments over how the Constitution should be implemented in particular circumstances are prone to treat constitutions as texts with fixed meanings.  The point of such arguments is to justify political action or constrain the political action of others.  Authority comes from settled law rather than from personal beliefs about good policy or justice.  Presidents claim they are empowered by the past to engage in military hostilities without a congressional declaration of war.  Supreme Court justices insist the persons responsible for the Constitution empowered them to strike down bans on abortion or handguns.  Persons may base political action on beliefs about good policy or justice in a regime committed to rule by law only when authorized by the past to take such actions.

Constitutional arguments with different purposes are far less prone to treat the Constitution as a text with a fixed meaning.  Historians commonly claim that the framers did not resolve certain disputes.  Social scientists routinely point out how personal beliefs about good policy and justice influence particular constitutional decisions and the path of constitutional development.  Framers designing a constitution must decide between provisions likely capable of only one interpretation that will become part of what Sandy Levinson calls the Constitution of Settlement or provisions whose interpretation will be disputed that will become part of what Sandy Levinson calls the Constitution of Conversation.  Arguments over how constitutional disputes should be settled assume the probability that the words of the Constitution, no matter how much excavation is done to determine their meaning, do not in practice settle all constitutional controversies.

The Second Creation partly details a natural shift in the purpose of constitutional argumentation as well as a greater tendency for Americans to perceive the Constitution of the United States as a text with a fixed meaning.  During the drafting and ratification debates, many central questions concerned whether Americans wanted a constitution whose central provisions had clear fixed meanings.  Federalists preferred to fashion a Constitution of Conversation containing multiple provisions whose import would continually be worked out through a well-structured constitutional politics.  Anti-Federalists preferred a Constitution of Settlement containing only provisions capable of one interpretation.  When explaining why a Constitution of Conversation was superior to a Constitution of Settlement, Federalists unsurprisingly rejected claims that the Constitution of the United States should be a text with fixed meanings.  Once the drafting and ratification debates were over, constitutional argument shifted to implementing the various provisions of the Constitution.  During this debate, Federalists unsurprisingly began treating the Constitution as a text with fixed meanings because persons wishing to claim constitutional authority or constrain rival political actors routinely insist that their claims are rooted in a Constitution framed in the past that, interpreted properly, authorize or forbid such matters as presidential decisions to cashier cabinet members without congressional consent, legislative decisions to establishment a national bank, and congressional involvement in implementing treaties.  Federalists did not necessarily change their beliefs about constitutionalism as much as adjust to a different form of constitutional argument with different constitutional purposes

The English constitutional practice Americans inherited exhibited a similar structure.  Whether the English Constitution had a fixed meaning depended on the purpose of the constitutional argument being made.  Gienapp is right to note the many seventeenth and eighteenth century commentaries do not describe the English constitution as a text with a fixed meaning.  During the upheavals of the seventeenth century, however, prominent royal and parliamentary authorities debating political actions done in the name of the constitution were as committed to constitutional fixation as members of Congress debating the national bank and the Jay Treaty.  Edward Coke and his Parliamentary allies spoke of Magna Carta as provided fixed limits on regal power to tax, imprison and detain.  James I and Charles I were just as adamant that the law of the land placed fixed limits on parliamentary capacity to constrain royal prerogative.

Gienapp’s rich history of American constitutional rhetoric demonstrates that changes in the purposes of constitutional argument cannot explain various attitudes towards the nature of constitutions.  He details how state constitutional arguments before the Constitution of the United States was ratified were far less inclined to treat constitutions as texts with fixed meaning than constitutional arguments after ratification.  Development is clearly taking place, and not just the nature change in the purposes of constitutional argumentation as the focus of constitutional argument shifts from constitutional design to constitutional action.  For this reason, as well as the stunning rich and sophisticated treatment of constitutional argument, The Second Creation belongs which such works as Rakove, Original Meanings in the constitutional canon.

Distinguishing between the purposes of constitutional argument is nevertheless important to the study of American constitutional development.  Lincoln, the English experience and the last fifteen years of the eighteenth century in the United States suggest that what people are doing when they make constitutional arguments matters.  The fixation thesis is far more prevalent when persons make arguments about implementing the Constitution or at times when most constitutional arguments are about implementing the Constitution than when persons make arguments that describe the Constitution, are concerned with constitution design or focus on constitutional authority.  We acknowledge the Constitution of Conversation when describing actual practice, when deciding whether to use general phrases in constitutional texts and when determining who will settle, at least temporarily, a particular constitutional dispute.  When actually engaged in arguments about the meaning of the Constitution of Conversation, we speak as if we are discussing the Constitution of Settlement. 

Lincoln, the English experience and American constitutional politics during and immediately after ratification suggest that constitutions, written constitutions in particular, foster fixation rhetoric, but that fixation is a rhetoric rather than an actual description.  Legal and political rhetoric almost always present as clear what are in fact difficult political choices.  Few participants in the culture wars admit that any moral or legal unclarity exists on such questions as whether women ought to have a right to terminate pregnancies or conservative Christians ought to have a right not to bake wedding cakes for same-sex couples.  That fixation on these matters is rhetoric rather than reality becomes clear only when the purpose of the constitutional or political conversation changes.  Faculty routinely vote with enthusiasm for job candidates whose positions they describe in law review articles as unreasonable.  Most partisans recognize the right of the rival coalitions to enact their constitutional vision into law if they have gained legitimate control of governing institutions.

Gienapp may end his study too early,  Five years after the Jay Treat debate, Thomas Jefferson anticipated Lincoln when acknowledging how the meaning of the Constitution is subject to politics and not fixed in advance.  Jefferson’s first inaugural declared, “During the contest of opinion through which we have passed the animation of discussions and of exertions has sometimes worn an aspect which might impose on strangers unused to think freely and to speak and to write what they think; but this being now decided by the voice of the nation, announced according to the rules of the Constitution all will, of course, arrange themselves under the will of the law, and unite in common efforts for the common good. All, too, will bear in mind this sacred principle, that though the will of the majority is in all cases to prevail, that will to be rightful must be reasonable; that the minority possess their equal rights, which equal law must protect, and to violate would be oppression.”  Like Lincoln, Jefferson as president did claim authority solely on the ground that his principles were fixed in 1789.  Rather, Jefferson’s and Lincoln’s first inaugurals recognized that not all constitutional issues are settled during the first creation, that some mechanism is necessary for at least temporarily resolving what remains unsettled, and that the possibility exists that such settlements will eventually become unsettled.  Having made those points in their first inaugurals, both Jefferson and Lincoln frequently returned to those constitutional arguments whose purposes require reference to constitutions as texts with fixed meanings. 

The problem with the constitutional rhetoric of fixation has little to do with the interpretive struggles between originalists of all stripes, living constitutionalists and those who claim to practice both simultaneously.  Legal confidence is a feature of legal practice.  We teach our law students to express with unwavering certainty that the Constitution compels the justices to strike down bans on abortion or handguns, just as we train them to assert with unwavering confidence that justice demands a guilty verdict in any criminal case they prosecute.  The danger occurs only, in the absence of a Lincoln or a Jefferson, citizens take that rhetoric seriously and actually regard their political and legal rivals as usurpers rather than persons engaged in good faith debate over how to interpret a constitution that does not actually provide fixed answers to all constitutional questions.

Friday, October 19, 2018

The Invention of the Archival Constitution

Guest Blogger

Alison L. LaCroix

For the Symposium on Jonathan Gienapp, The Second Creation: Fixing the American Constitution in the Founding Era (Belknap Press, 2018).

            Among the many achievements of Jonathan Gienapp’s Second Creation is the book’s elegant and decisive dismantling of many tidy just-so stories that constitutional law scholars tend to tell themselves about the period between 1787 and 1796.

Statecrafters are not settling down to the business of implementing the Constitution, passing framework statutes for the federal courts, or congratulating themselves on the creation of newly enshrined principles of judicial review.  Operationally significant questions are not only omnipresent, they flare up and quickly assume existential proportions: can the Senate demand a role in removing heads of departments, or is that power constitutionally committed to the president alone?  If the president signs a treaty and the Senate ratifies it, can the House of Representatives decline to execute it, or must Congress legislate accordingly?  Ought the Constitution be amended – and if so, should those amendments be interleaved among the relevant provisions of the text, or should they be appended to the end of the document?  Confusion and discord reign. 

As Gienapp illustrates, for these and other foundational questions in the 1790s, there were no right answers waiting to be discovered.  Even with the Constitution in hand, the members of the founding generation had to invent solutions.  The Constitution was not self executing.  Continuous acts of creation were required to ignite the engine that would in turn drive the “machine that would go of itself,” to borrow the title of Michael Kammen’s prizewinning book from 1986. 

Indeed, even the theoretical undercarriage of the machine needed to be developed.  Did the U.S. Constitution take after its unwritten ancestor, the British constitution, and carry within it the same mystical combination of fixity and perpetual change that ran from Magna Carta of 1215 through the Glorious Revolution of 1688 and beyond?  Or was America’s Constitution something different – a sacred text that lived in an archive while setting the fundamental ground rules for the polity?  Over the course of the 1790s, Gienapp argues, the Constitution became the latter: “an authoritative text circumscribed in historical time” (4).  But, as The Second Creation convincingly demonstrates, such a conception did not inhere in the document itself.  On the contrary, the 1790s witnessed another act of creation that was as powerful as the drafting and ratification of the 1780s: the constitution of the Constitution.  The interpretive modes and the ontological theory that came to govern what we now term “constitutional thought” were themselves artifacts of debates that dominated the immediate post-founding era.

Perhaps the greatest shock that Gienapp presents to the conventional story of early U.S. constitutional history steals upon the reader quietly, in the form of an absence.  It is the non-presence of the Supreme Court.  Chief Justice John Jay appears – not in his scarlet judicial robes, but as the negotiator of the controversial treaty with Great Britain that brings the House into collision with the Senate and President Washington.  John Marshall, the lanky fourth chief justice, slopes into frame for only two brief cameos: a foreshadowing reference to Marbury v. Madison (1803) and one statement in Virginia’s ratifying convention in 1788.  Personnel aside, the Court’s jurisdiction under Article III is discussed over the course of a few pages.  Many Federalist essays are analyzed, but not Federalist No. 78, in which Alexander Hamilton described the “federal judicature” as “an intermediate body between the people and the legislature” that could “keep the latter within the limits assigned to their authority.”
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Thursday, October 18, 2018

Training Academies and the Rule of Law

Richard Primus

Here's a report recently out in The New York Times about a training academy for law clerks, run by the Heritage Foundation:

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/10/18/us/politics/heritage-foundation-clerks-judges-training.html


Let’s assume that what the Heritage Foundation is teaching law clerks is a set of legitimate skills and knowledge bases for the making of legal decisions.  If so, then it’s perfectly appropriate for clerks and judges who learn about those skills and knowledge bases to apply them when making legal decisions. 

But according to the report in The New York Times, the clerks who attend Heritage’s training academy promise not to apply the skills they learn and the knowledge bases they acquire in any way that would be inconsistent with the mission or interests of the Heritage Foundation.  That is, they are promising to ignore the import of those skills and knowledge bases when those skills and knowledge bases, as applied to particular cases, would point toward results contrary to the mission and interests of a specific private organization.  To be concrete: if Heritage teaches law clerks a method of interpretation of enacted legal texts, and a clerk applying that method in a particular case would conclude that the right result in the case is a result that the Heritage Foundation would see as contrary to its own mission and interests, the clerk, to keep his or her promise, would have to decline to apply that method of textual interpretation that he or she learned at the training academy.

So if the report in the Times is accurate, and if the clerks keep their promises, then one of three things must be true, as follows:

Possibility 1: Over a certain domain of cases, the clerks will knowingly refuse to write bench memos reaching legal conclusions that follow from their best good faith interpretations of the law, as understood in light of their legal learning (including what they learned from the Heritage Foundation).

Possibility 2: The clerks will never be in the position described in Possibility 1, because the clerks’ best good faith interpretations of the law (including what they learned from the Heritage Foundation) will always produce results consistent with the mission and interests of the Heritage Foundation.

Possibility 3: The clerks will never be in the position described in Possibility 1, even though the clerks’ best good faith interpretations of the law will sometimes produce results inconsistent with the mission and interests of the Heritage Foundation, because in all cases where the clerks’ best good faith interpretations of the law produce results inconsistent with the mission and interests of the Heritage Foundation, the clerks would reach those results whether or not they applied skills and knowledge bases learned at the training academy.  (In other words, in cases where the clerks might think the law goes against Heritage’s interests if they analyzed the law without the benefit of the learning acquired at the training academy, applying the learning from the training academy would not make any difference to the clerk’s view of the proper outcome.)

Possibility 2 seems unlikely.  It would be odd for any private party to have a mission and a set of interests that perfectly cohere with all existing law, unless that private party defined its mission and interests solely as the mission to see that the law is correctly applied.  And if that were the full extent of Heritage’s understanding of its mission and interests, it wouldn’t need the clerks who attend its academy to promise anything.  Everything that the promise Heritage extracts covers would already be covered by the law clerk’s obligation to act in good faith to help his or her judge get the law right.  (One might say that it would be covered by a different promise that every law clerk makes on the first day of the job: the one in which he or she swears to uphold the Constitution.)  To be sure, Possibility 2 doesn’t require that the law actually cohere fully with Heritage’s interests: it requires only that the law clerks think it does.  But if it doesn’t actually and the law clerks think it always does, well, that’s a problem, too.

It’s pretty clear that the Heritage Foundation doesn’t believe in Possibility 3.  An organization that believed that applying the skills taught at the training academy would have no tendency to produce more decisions that were to its own liking would not invest in the training academy in the first place.

The uncomfortable inference is that we may be left with Possibility 1.  Which is uncomfortable because Possibility 1 is a subversion of the rule of law.

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