Eugene Volokh's Blog, page 2626
January 25, 2012
Charles Murray on Elite Ignorance of Ordinary Americans
In his new book, Coming Apart: The State of White America, 1960–2010, Charles Murray argues that a new elite class has emerged that is much more ignorant about the lives of ordinary Americans than were the elites of earlier generations:
As the new upper class increasingly consists of people who were born into upper-middle-class families and have never lived outside the upper-middle-class bubble, the danger increases that the people who have so much influence on the course of the nation have little direct experience with the lives of ordinary Americans, and make their judgments about what's good for other people based on their own highly atypical lives...
Many of the members of the new upper class are balkanized. Furthermore, their ignorance about other Americans is more problematic than the ignorance of other Americans about them. It is not a problem if truck drivers cannot empathize with the priorities of Yale professors. It is a problem if Yale professors, or producers of network news programs, or CEOs of great corporations, or presidential advisers cannot empathize with the priorities of truck drivers. It is inevitable that people have large areas of ignorance about how others live, but that makes it all the more important that the members of the new upper class be aware of the breadth and depth of their ignorance.
If Murray is right, this kind of elite ignorance is the flip side of the general public's political ignorance. Public ignorance is dangerous because it reduces the quality of voting decisions; elite ignorance because it reduces the quality of the decisions made by elites once they get into positions of power.
To illustrate his point, Murray includes in the book a 25 question quiz that is intended to test readers' knowledge and exposure to mainstream non-upper middle class culture (he assumes that most of the readers are members of the upper middle class elite). I managed a middling 37 on his 0–99 point scale.
As Murray recognizes, one can easily quibble about the details of many of the questions. For example, I not only have "attended" a Rotary Club meeting, but actually gave a speech at one when I was 17. Maybe I should get extra credit for the latter. I would also have achieved a higher score if there were more sports-related questions. Other readers will have different complaints. Even so, there is no reasonable version of this test on which I would have come out looking like a Man of the People. More generally, Murray is surely right that there is a culture gap between the new upper middle class and the rest of the public, and that the former is often ignorant about the lives of the latter.
At the same time, I am skeptical that the gap is much greater than it was fifty years ago. Murray claims that the elite of the early 1960s was much more in touch with mainstream culture than today's upper middle class (which he defines, roughly, as people in various professional occupations who are in the top 5% of the income distribution). He only offers a modest amount of evidence to support that claim, and on some points his evidence cuts the other way. For example, one of the differences between the upper middle class and the mainstream that Murray cites is that the former are much more likely to engage in foreign travel. But that gap was even greater in 1960, when foreign travel was much more an elite preserve than it is today, in the age of relatively cheap jet flights.
More importantly, I am far from certain that the kind of knowledge Murray describes is actually important in improving the quality of public policy. Yes, elites who make policy that affects the lives of truck drivers should have some knowledge of "their priorities." But it's not clear to me that knowledge of TV shows, foods, preferred sports, etc., of truck drivers is all that useful to understanding those priorities. Even the experience of living with a low income or working at a job where your body hurts at the end of the day (both stressed by Murray s especially important) may be overrated. You don't have to do either to realize that poverty imposes substantial constraints on your life, or that physical pain is extremely unpleasant. I actually did qualify for the points you get from having had a job where the body hurts at the end of the day. But I doubt that my attitude towards manual labor would be much different if I hadn't. Overall, I'm not convinced that a political elite composed of people who scored a 99 on Murray's test would do much better by the truck drivers than one composed of people who scored 19 or 29. At the very least, Murray offers little if any proof of it in the book.
To be sure, there is an important sense in which elite ignorance reduces the quality of public policy. In a complex society where people have a wide variety of preferences, not even the most knowledgeable elite experts can really have enough information to impose efficient paternalistic regulations that preempt individual choice. But this problem would persist even if all our elites had a deep and extensive knowledge of non-elite culture. The solution is not so much an elite that is better-informed about the culture of the masses, but an elite whose power over those masses is more limited and decentralized.
That said, I'm certainly open to the possibility that diminishing some types of elite ignorance would improve our society. But I'm skeptical that what we need to have a better elite is the kind of knowledge Murray emphasizes.
Scalia's Votes in Bond and Jones
In United States v. Jones, Justice Scalia wrote a majority opinion holding that when the police trespass onto property enumerated in the text of the Fourth Amendment with the purpose of obtaining information, they commit a search. In Bond v. United States, however, Justice Scalia dissented — more specifically, he joined Justice Breyer's dissent — when the Court held that it is a Fourth Amendment search for the police to grab a suspect's duffel bag and squeeze it with intent to see what it contains inside. According to Justices Breyer and Scalia, this was not a Fourth Amendment search.
Does anyone have ideas for how to reconcile Scalia's votes in Bond and Jones? One answer is that in Jones, Justice Scalia is engaging in equilibrium-adjustment — he's trying to maintain Fourth Amendment protection in light of technological change, so he favors broader Fourth Amendment protection to counter new powers by the Government. Equilibrium-adjustment isn't necessary in Bond, which just involved the old-fashioned facts of grabbing a bag. But are there other ways to reconcile those two votes? Is manipulating a bag not a common law trespass? Does a bag not count as "effects"? Does Justice Scalia see Bond as only asking about the Katz test, not whether the conduct is a search generally?
UPDATE: Some commenters contend that Bond obviously only involved the Katz test, not the broader question of what was a Fourth Amendment search. But here's the Question Presented in Bond:
Whether a search occurs when a law enforcement officer manipulates a bus passenger's personal carry-on luggage to determine its contents.
It's true that the briefing in Bond talks a lot about the Katz test; until Monday, no one was aware that the Katz test was only one among two or more tests for what counts as a search. But a lot of the briefing in Bond talks generally about whether a search occurred, not just about a reasonable expectation of privacy.
Constitutional Cliffhangers: Mutiny!
The next chapter of Constitutional Cliffhangers I'd like to present is Chapter 3, on the presidential disability provisions in the Twenty-Fifth Amendment. This is an unusual candidate for a cliffhanger for two reasons. First, one side of the constitutional debate seems to me to be clearly wrong, with no chance of prevailing in court. Second, the "repair" here is rather easier than in other chapters, requiring no legislation.
Here's the scenario. See how many Caine Mutiny references/analogies you can spot:
Frances Philips is halfway through her second term as president. Her management style, which was always "hands off," has become downright lax. She skips meetings, neglects decisions that need to be made, and shows little interest in being president. Some members of her cabinet and staff worry that she is clinically depressed, but — swayed by the increased power that comes with having a figurehead for a boss — none of them does anything about it.
Then President Philips starts alternating her periods of utter inertness with bursts of aggressive and arbitrary micromanagement. At a cabinet meeting, she rants for ten minutes about the use of blue pens instead of black ones. Next, without explanation, she announces that she is killing a carefully developed policy initiative in which she had previously taken no interest.
Several cabinet secretaries become convinced that the president is unable to perform her job. They start to discuss Section 4 of the Twenty-Fifth Amendment, which allows the vice president and a majority of the cabinet to declare the president "unable to discharge the powers and duties of [her] office," and transfer power to the vice president. Crucially, though, Vice President Merrick opposes the effort. Although he worries that President Philips's mental condition is deteriorating, he is reluctant to lead what could be perceived as a coup.
Things come to a head when war unexpectedly breaks out in the Middle East. After hearing the initial reports, President Philips paces in the Oval Office, muttering to herself but issuing no orders and taking no action. After several excruciating hours pass like this, Vice President Merrick has had enough, and he gathers the cabinet to file a Section 4 declaration. He is joined by a solid majority: eleven out of fifteen cabinet members.
President Philips is blindsided, but her chief of staff Tom Cooper (who Merrick erroneously thought would support the Section 4 declaration) is not. When Philips asks what her options are, Cooper reads to her from Section 4: if the president sends a counter-declaration to Congress that "no inability exists," she can "resume the powers and duties of [her] office." Cooper notes, however, that Section 4 allows the vice president and cabinet to reassert the president's unfitness within four days, sending the matter to Congress for a final decision, and giving power to the vice president in the meantime.
With renewed focus, Philips executes Cooper's plan. First, she signs a letter declaring herself fit and transmits it to Congress. Next, she summons the cabinet and addresses the eleven mutinous members: "If you don't think I can discharge the powers and duties of my office, watch this. You're fired." Finally, she replaces them, naming eleven of her most trusted subordinates as acting cabinet secretaries.
In response, Vice President Merrick rallies the old cabinet, and he and the original eleven challengers sign a second declaration of Philips's disability. Merrick claims that Philips has misread Section 4: Philips never retook power, her firings are invalid, the second disability declaration is valid, Merrick is the acting president, and Congress must now step in. Unfortunately, as advised by Chief of Staff Cooper, Philips refuses to back down. She says that she is in control, with the unanimous support of the "legitimate" cabinet, and that Congress has no basis to act.
The nation is in crisis. There are two presidents and two cabinets. The situation in the Middle East is spinning out of control, and nobody knows for sure who the rightful commander in chief, secretary of state, and secretary of defense are. Congress assembles while dueling sheaves of legal pleadings and memoranda flood the federal courts.
President Phillips and her chief of staff are clearly in the wrong here. The problem is that Section 4 is written in a way that allows them — in the heat of this tense situation — to misread it. In the chapter, I talk more about how their misreading could happen, including instances of smart people making the same mistake.
Part of the problem is that the main source of clarity is the legislative history: a statement in response to one of those smart people making the same mistake. Later in the chapter, it leads to this exchange:
White House Counsel Keith: Madame President, the legislative history of Section 4 is clear as a bell. You do not get to come back until this goes through Congress, unless the cabinet went four days without re-challenging you. But the cabinet did re-challenge you. I'm sorry, Ma'am, but Vice President Merrick is in charge and you cannot fire anybody.
President Philips: [Expletive] the legislative [expletive] history, [expletive] Merrick, and [expletive] you, you [expletive] traitor [expletive]!
The drafters of the Amendment operated in an era in which legislative history was assumed almost to be part of the text. There is a striking (unrelated) passage in the legislative history in which Senator Bayh states that the legislative intent is that the amendment be construed as if a passage that had appeared in an earlier draft was still there! But mistakes are most likely to be made in precisely this sort of situation, in which tensions and stakes are extraordinarily high, and there are powerful incentives pushing the president and some of her staff in this direction.
Consider the immediate aftermath of the shooting of President Reagan in 1981. The administration was unprepared to discuss transferring power, and "the men gathered in the Situation Room [did not] know what action they were authorized to take or expected to take." Away from the White House (and to no effect), lawyers in the Justice Department studied the legislative history of the Twenty-Fifth Amendment as President Reagan was in surgery.
Largely as a result of that episode, presidents have much better contingency planning. Still, nothing is guaranteed. This cliffhanger is a good example of the importance of careful, clear constitutional drafting. Presidential disability and succession rules are no places for the slightest uncertainty. They should be certain and swift — there should never be doubt about who the president is at any given moment.
This cliffhanger exposes flaws in the drafting process, because earlier drafts of the amendment were written in a way that would have prevented the Phillips scenario from ever occurring. The book offers some thoughts about improving the amendment-drafting process to prevent these sorts of things from happening. (The Twenty-Fifth Amendment is also the only one I am aware of with a typo in it. Ten points to the first commenter to find it.)
In the meantime, as I said at the outset, the fix here is relatively easy. Presidents and their legal staff need to make it clear — right now, when there is no crisis — that they understand that the vice president is in charge during the four-day waiting period.
As mentioned above, contingency plans aren't always followed. Nevertheless, if the proper interpretation of Section 4 gets engrained regularly enough, the chances of someone getting in wrong in a crisis will fade away.
January 24, 2012
Ban on Ministers' and Other Group Leaders' Election-Related Advocacy in Private
From Montana Code § 13–35-218, titled "Coercion or Undue Influence of Voters," first enacted by referendum in 1913 and still in effect:
A person who is a minister, preacher, priest, or other church officer or who is an officer of any corporation or organization, religious or otherwise, may not, other than by public speech or print, urge, persuade, or command any voter to vote or refrain from voting for or against any candidate, political party ticket, or ballot issue submitted to the people because of the person's religious duty or the interest of any corporation, church, or other organization.
Today, this would be pretty clearly seen as an unconstitutional speech restriction, but apparently in 1913 it was seen as a good government measure. Similar laws were enacted in Nevada and Oregon around the same time.
An Interesting Gore Speech
That's by Christopher Gore, Massachusetts Governor, speaking in 1809, and reminding us that there is nothing new under the sun:
Already, we have but too much reason to deplore the violence and animosity of party spirit. It has gone far to destroy social intercourse, and all the endearing charities of life, between ancient friends and neighbours, and to substitute political opinions for virtue, intelligence, and patriotism. Already the wise and good of all parties, entertain apprehensions, lest the interests of the people and the duties of government, might be forgotten in the solicitude for party power, and the hatred of political opponents.
Blank Federal Search Warrant Forms
Fill in your own, for fun and education! Entertainment for the whole family. Ages 4 and up.
Encryption and the Fifth Amendment Right Against Self-Incrimination
I blogged a lot about this topic a few years ago when the Boucher case was pending; although an appeal was filed in that case in the First Circuit, the appeal was dropped so the appellate court never decided it. In any event, several readers point me to a new decision on the topic, United States v. Fricosu, out of the District of Colorado.
Based on a quick read of the opinion, the legal analysis in the Fricosu opinion is not a model of clarity. But it strikes me as a replay of the district court decision in Boucher: The Court ends up ordering the defendant to decrypt the hard drive, but only because the court made a factual finding that in this specific case, the government already knew the information that could be incriminating — and as a result, was a "foregone conclusion" that dissipated the Fifth Amendment privilege.
If I'm reading Fricosu correctly, the Court is not saying that there is no Fifth Amendment privilege against being forced to divulge a password. Rather, the Court is saying that the Fifth Amendment privilege can't be asserted in a specific case where it is known based on the facts of the case that the computer belongs to the suspect and the suspect knows the password. Because the only incriminating message of being forced to decrypt the password — that the suspect has control over the computer — is already known, it is a "foregone conclusion" and the Fifth Amendment privilege cannot block the government's application.
UPDATE: A reader asks what happens if a person refuses to comply with the order or claims to have forgotten the password. Here's the Second Circuit's summary of the law in In re Weiss, 703 F.2d 653 (2d. Cir. 1983):
Testimonial obduracy by a witness who has been ordered by the court to answer questions may take any of a number of forms. The witness may refuse categorically to answer. Or he may respond in a way that avoids providing information, as, for example, by denying memory of the events under inquiry, denying acquaintance with targets of the inquiry, or denying knowledge of facts sought to be elicited. Or he may purport to state informative facts in response to the questions while in fact testifying falsely.
Any of these three forms of obduracy may be met with the imposition of one or more judicial or governmental sanctions. For example, when the witness has refused to answer questions, he may be adjudged in civil contempt and ordered to answer, e.g., Shillitani v. United States, supra, 384 U.S. at 370, 86 S.Ct. at 1535; In re Grand Jury Investigation of Giancana, 352 F.2d 921 (7th Cir.), cert. denied, 382 U.S. 959, 86 S.Ct. 437, 15 L.Ed.2d 362 (1965); or he may be adjudged in criminal contempt and punished for his past failure to answer, e.g., Brown v. United States, 356 U.S. 148, 78 S.Ct. 622, 2 L.Ed.2d 589 (1958). In some cases both coercive and punitive sanctions have been imposed. See, e.g., Yates v. United States, 355 U.S. 66, 74, 78 S.Ct. 128, 133, 2 L.Ed.2d 95 (1957); United States v. Petito, 671 F.2d 68 (2d Cir.1982); In re Irving, supra.
If the witness has responded falsely to the questions propounded, he may be subject to prosecution for a criminal offense in violation of, e.g., 18 U.S.C. § 1621 (perjury), or 18 U.S.C. § 1623 (false declarations before grand jury or court). If the witness's false testimony has obstructed the court in 663*663 the performance of its duty, the witness may be met with sanctions for civil contempt, see Ex parte Hudgings, 249 U.S. 378, 383, 39 S.Ct. 337, 339, 63 L.Ed. 656 (1919), or criminal contempt, see In re Michael, 326 U.S. 224, 227–29, 66 S.Ct. 78, 79–80, 90 L.Ed. 30 (1945).
The middle category of testimonial obduracy, i.e., the witness's equivocal responses or disclaimers of knowledge or memory, has also been dealt with as contemptuous conduct, warranting sanctions that were coercive, punitive, or both. It has long been the practice of courts viewing such testimony as false and intentionally evasive, and as a sham or subterfuge that purposely avoids giving responsive answers, to ignore the form of the response and treat the witness as having refused to answer. See, e.g., In re Schulman, 167 F. 237 (S.D.N.Y.1909), aff'd, 177 F. 191 (2d Cir.1910); United States v. Appel, 211 F. 495 (S.D.N.Y.1913); United States v. McGovern, 60 F.2d 880, 889 (2d Cir.), cert. denied, 287 U.S. 650, 53 S.Ct. 96, 77 L.Ed. 561 (1932); Schleier v. United States, 72 F.2d 414 (2d Cir.), cert. denied, 293 U.S. 607, 55 S.Ct. 123, 79 L.Ed. 697 (1934); In re Eskay, 122 F.2d 819 (3d Cir.1941); Howard v. United States, 182 F.2d 908 (8th Cir.), vacated and remanded as moot, 340 U.S. 898, 71 S.Ct. 278, 95 L.Ed. 651 (1950); Richardson v. United States, 273 F.2d 144 (8th Cir.1959); Martin-Trigona v. Gouletas, 634 F.2d 354, 357–59 (7th Cir.), cert. denied, 449 U.S. 1025, 101 S.Ct. 593, 66 L.Ed.2d 486 (1980); In re Battaglia, supra, 653 F.2d at 422; In re Bongiorno, supra.
In In re Schulman, for example, the district court found that a bankrupt's repeated responses of "I don't remember" and "What do you mean?" to questions concerning the disposition of his assets in the six months preceding his declaration of bankruptcy were disingenuous and evasive. The court thus construed the responses as refusals to answer and imposed a combination of civil and criminal contempt sanctions by ordering the witness imprisoned for six months, with the proviso that if the witness chose, after five days, to provide nonevasive answers, he would be released from prison. This Court affirmed, stating as follows:
The testimony as it appears in the record evinces a deliberate purpose to conceal the truth and prevent the trustee from becoming possessed of facts which would lead to a recovery of the missing property. The witness was being asked regarding transactions directly within his knowledge and facts which he must have known. When, therefore, he answered repeatedly "I don't remember," it is obvious that he was deliberately withholding information to which the trustee was entitled. In effect his attitude was one of defiance. He did not affirmatively tell the referee that he refused to disclose the facts which would enable the trustee to follow the property, although these facts were well known to him, but his conduct produced the same result as if he had stated his purpose openly.
177 F. at 193.
Constitutional Rights Against the States Before the Incorporation of the Bill of Rights Against the States
A commenter on the thread about the 1901 case in which the court rejected (on statutory grounds) a prosecution for expelling someone from church based on how he voted writes:
It goes almost without saying that religious freedom was not at issue in this case because the First Amendment would not be incorporated against the states until Gitlow v. New York, 268 U.S. 652 (1925), a quarter of a century later.
Actually, that's not so (even besides the detail of exactly when the Free Exercise Clause was incorporated against the states). Throughout American history, each state has had its own Constitution and, almost always, its own Bill of Rights; before incorporation, the chief protection against state government action was precisely those Bills of Rights. The 1776 North Carolina Constitution, for instance, provided that "all men have a natural and unalienable right to worship Almighty God according to the dictates of their own conscience" and that "all persons shall be at liberty to exercise their own mode of worship: Provided, that nothing herein contained shall be construed to exempt preachers of treasonable or seditious discourses, from legal trial and punishment."
As a result, courts before incorporation could and did consider whether state government action violated its state religious freedom provisions, state free speech provisions, and so on. So if the litigants could well have raised a religious freedom argument in this case; if they had, and if the court had concluded that statute did indeed purport to limit church expulsion decisions, the court would have had to consider the constitutional objection.
Whether the challengers of the statute would have succeeded under this counterfactual is a different question. But while nearly all free speech, free press, and religious freedom challenges were generally rejected by early courts, I suspect that this was largely because the restraints were usually well-established and endorsed by tradition, which counted a lot to early courts (and still counts a lot to courts today). A restraint on churches' ability to break off relations with their members would have been so unusual that I think it might well have been held unconstitutional under the North Carolina Constitution. But of course the court avoid this by concluding that there was indeed no such highly unusual restraint.
Constitutional Cliffhangers: Speaker v. Secretary of State
In my first post I said that my "cliffhangers" range from the merely interesting all the way up to full-blown constitutional crises. My favorite chapter in Constitutional Cliffhangers, Chapter 4, definitely qualifies as a crisis. Here is the opening:
The United States is deeply divided over the war. Everyone agreed that we needed to fight back when Ruritania attacked our bases, but after two years of intensive combat, things are not going well. Addressing the nation, President Joanna Lewis announces her intention to seek a negotiated settlement. The half of the country that agrees with her breathes a sigh of relief.
The other half boils with rage. Responding to the president, Speaker of the House Peg Wilton says, "We are losing this war — not because our cause is hopeless, but because we have a cowardly commander in chief. We should never surrender to fascist aggression." "Coward" is a mild epithet compared to what other hawks call President Lewis.
Complicating matters is that a few weeks ago, the vice president suffered a fatal heart attack. President Lewis nominated a candidate to fill the vacancy, but the hawks in Congress have stalled the vote. They are motivated by their distaste for the nominee's unsurprisingly dovish position on the war, but everyone notices that while the vice presidency is vacant, Speaker Wilton is next in line for the presidency (followed by the president pro tempore of the Senate, and then members of the cabinet, starting with the secretary of state).
As President Lewis arrives at a public event one morning, an assassin detonates a huge bomb, killing the president and dozens of others. In a homemade video produced before the assassination, the bomber decries "the coward Lewis" and announces his intention to kill Lewis so that the stalwart Wilton will become president and continue the war. Within two hours of the assassination, the video has saturated television and the Internet.
The assassin seemingly gets his wish. Wilton condemns the assassination in the most strident terms, obviously, but she takes an oath of office that morning as acting president. Her political position is tenuous. Supporters of the martyred President Lewis blame Speaker Wilton for fueling the rhetoric that led to Lewis's assassination, and for her role in stalling to keep the vice presidency vacant. In other words, they feel as though the country has just suffered a coup d'état. They latch onto a legal argument that, just hours earlier, had been an academic one: that it is unconstitutional for the succession law to include members of Congress. Wilton's opponents argue — with the support of several prominent legal experts — that the dovish secretary of state, John Allen, is the legitimate acting president.
Secretary Allen decides to contest Wilton's claim to the presidency. He too takes an oath of office as acting president and, without using force, he assumes physical control of the White House. "The struggle over our war policy has been ugly, but it's a political struggle," he says in a national address from the Oval Office. "In America, we don't settle political questions by mass murder."
It has only been ten hours since the assassination — a shocking and surreal day. No violence has broken out yet, but it feels like only a matter of time before it does. No one is in the mood to compromise, and control of the government and the military hangs in the balance as Allen and Wilton vie for control.
This is my favorite chapter for many reasons. The first is that I can't resist the potential drama of the story (a novel is in the works). The second (and my main focus in this post) is that it highlights the interaction between law and politics.
The legal issue here is complicated, but to summarize briefly: The Constitution's Succession Clause empowers Congress only to place "officers" in the line of succession, and the Speaker of the House and the President Pro Tem of the Senate (whom the statute places second and third in line, respectively) are arguably not "officers" as the Constitution uses the term. The secretary of state clearly is an officer. (I am guessing the commenters might get into the details more...)
The role of politics here is key. Even though the weight of scholarly opinion is (by my measurement) on the secretary of state's side here, I concede that the Speaker could assume office without controversy in most cases. The general public would accept the result. Those that did not would either lack standing to challenge the succession law, or (like the secretary of state, who would have standing) would lack the political and personal will to do so.
But in a situation like the one in my opening scenario — in which the Speaker is of a different party, had a hand in maintaining the vacancy in the vice presidency, and arguably incited the vacancy in the presidency — the secretary of state might make a play for control and the country could be in real trouble.
We cannot be sure that the winner of this struggle would be the side with the stronger constitutional arguments. We can be sure that the struggle itself would shake the foundations of our government.
This odds of this happening might be long, but the stakes are incalculable. On the other side, the benefits of the status quo are minimal. The justification usually offered for Speaker succession (that the Speaker is a top elected official, representing the whole country, while cabinet members are mere appointees) doesn't amount to much when compared to the potential peril it represents.
Even though this makes it a good candidate for reform from a cost-benefit standpoint, politics again make it hard to see this getting fixed. For various reasons, Congress is better at addressing problems that have already occurred than it is at preventing future ones. Congress is also driven by interests and the "cliffhanger-reform" movement is politically weak, while the "preserve the prestige of the Speaker" movement has a natural constituency at the Capitol.
Law, politics, and the Speaker and secretary of state trying to strangle each other. All of this and more in Constitutional Cliffhangers.
Constitutional Cliffhangers
Hello Volokh Conspiracy readers! I'd like to thank Eugene for this opportunity to guest blog here about my new book, Constitutional Cliffhangers: A Legal Guide for Presidents and Their Enemies.
Today I'll have one post with a brief introduction, and another with an excerpt/discussion from one chapter. I'll discuss a couple more chapters tomorrow and Thursday, and conclude with some general lessons on Friday. I look forward to your comments, and I'll try to post some responses to them too.
My book is about what I call constitutional cliffhangers, all of them of the presidential variety. I define these cliffhangers as "scenarios in which the fate of the president or presidency is in doubt as politicians, courts, and the people argue over the proper interpretation of the Constitution." They range from the merely interesting all the way up to full-blown constitutional crises.
In the middle six chapters, I sketch out hypothetical situations in which (1) a president is criminally prosecuted; (2) a president pardons himself; (3) cabinet members try to oust an allegedly disabled president, who in turn tries to oust them; (4) the secretary of state and the Speaker of the House fight for control of the presidency after the president and vice president are killed; (5) an ex-president is impeached; and (6) a two-term president attempts to stay in power.
In each case there are legal arguments on both sides, complicated by intense politics. The politics are often decisive in cases like these, so it might seem pointless to spend too much time debating the legal niceties. I'll address that important issue on Friday.
In the remainder of this introductory post, I'll address a common question that topics like mine evoke: "Why worry about a bunch of crazy stuff that will never happen?"
The short answer is that crazy stuff like this happens quite often. The scenarios in my book were chosen because they haven't happened yet, but some of them have come close. More to the point, other examples abound in American history: The Jefferson-Burr tie in the Election of 1800 is probably the first; the Harrison-Tyler "acting president" question from 1841 is probably the most significant; and the Paula Jones case is probably the most recent. The Constitution has too many wrinkles and slick spots in it for us to avoid tripping or slipping on them once in a while.
It's worthwhile to try to identify problems before they happen, and to discuss and possibly fix them. Indeed, some of them are too obvious to ignore, yet we still manage to do so until it's too late. Consider this passage from my introductory chapter about the lessons we can learn from our most contentious presidential election:
The whole election turned on a few hundred disputed votes in Florida. There had been ultra-close presidential elections before, and there had been ambiguous results in individual states before; it was only a matter of time before both happened at the same time. Unfortunately, no steps had been taken to prevent it.
The problem was that there were no rules for resolving a dispute like this. The quintessential American mixture of politics and litigation filled the void. The Republicans fought to defend their initial lead; the Democrats fought to open things back up and recount the votes. The Republicans controlled key posts in the state government; the Democrats won key victories in Florida state court. The Republicans took their case to Washington, D.C., where Republican-appointed Supreme Court justices declared that there was no time for recounts, handing the election to the Republicans. And so, in 1877, Rutherford B. Hayes became our nineteenth president.
You might recall some similar things that happened in 2000. The underlying quandary — an electoral system in which it is easy for the margin of error to greatly exceed the margin of victory — was no secret before 1876, let alone in 2000. And yet it dangled out there unsolved, waiting to snag both elections. For the most part, it dangles still.
That's the spirit of Constitutional Cliffhangers.
I'll be posting again later today with a look at my favorite cliffhanger (Chapter 4 in the book), a succession crisis in which the secretary of state and the Speaker of the House wrestle, figuratively, for control of the White House.
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