Wry Craigslist ad created in the aftermath of the Malheur takeover acquittal.
My first reaction upon hearing of the acquittal of the defendants involved in the armed takeover in Oregon was probably similar to yours, gentle reader: I saw no legal argument for acquittal and it was plain as day to me that what happened here was jury nullification (despite what this juror says here, I find myself incredulous that it was difficult to deduce intent from what transpired there.) It was a powerful reminder of the unchecked and untamed potential that lies beneath the legal structures we have built. The right to a jury of your peers also has a built-in, hidden-from-sight extension, which is the right to vie for the kind of peers who might be sympathetic to you even when the law is not.
The web is ablaze with cynical commentary and comparison memes, and arguments of white privilege. But what has happened here is no different–legally speaking–than what happens when people follow The Wire creator David Simon‘s call, or, for that matter, critical race theory scholar Paul Butler‘s call, to nullify in drug cases, or in cases involving defendants of color.
The constitutional trial rights we all have apply universally: there is no boilerplate section in the Bill of Rights that restricts them only to defendants and causes we like and support. This is, in part, why I opposed the ban on grand juries in police violence cases and signed a letter against Judge Persky’s recall: When we take away justice and discretion “only” in cases of defendants we dislike, like police officers or entitled frat boys, we shouldn’t be surprised when these rights disappear for defendants we do like and support.
Nullification is not a constitutional trial right, but it is an implicit power that comes with the secrecy of jury deliberations, their exemption from providing reasons for their decisions, and the inability to appeal acquittals in the U.S. criminal justice system. With great power comes great responsibility, and when we call for the use of this power for causes we believe in, it shouldn’t be too shocking that people who vastly disagree with us use the same power for causes they believe in.
So, is nullification the tool of armed white supremacists, lynchers, and antigovernment insurgents, or of racial justice protesters and war-on-drugs opponents? There’s no way to measure who uses it more, because jurors interviewed after trial are very unlikely to admit that they nullified. Everyone wants their decisions to be perceived as legitimate. Without actually knowing what happened in the jury room and inside the head of each juror, we can never know with absolute certainty–even when it seems obvious–whether they nullified, misunderstood the law, misunderstood the (often badly phrased) jury instructions, or any combination of these factors. We are also unlikely to be able to reproduce and measure this in mock jury experiments, because I think jurors nullify in cases that matter to them a lot emotionally, and experimental conditions will not produce that amount of passion and anguish. In the absence of data on this, we have to assume that juries do this, and keep in mind the knowledge that it can be used by anyone, for any goal, to support any political agenda.
The one thing to learn from this, I think, is that the outcome in highly political contested cases depends on the skills, science and juju that went into the jury selection process, more than on those that went into the trial–and that holds true for all of these cases, sympathetic and antipathetic alike. Which is an excellent reason for every lawyer, on either side of the adversarial process, to learn the art and science of voir dire.
Today, the California Supreme Court decided People v. Franklin in a way that probably had both the defendant and the state feeling unsatisfied.
The story is tragic in the same way that too many stories are: Tyris Lamar Franklin, 16 years old, was in conflict with other teenage boys, whom they referred to as the Crescent Park Gang. Shortly before the crime, the Crescents fired multiple shots into the apartment where Tyris lived with his grandmother and brothers, and attacked Tyris’ 13-year-old brother. In retaliation, Tyris shot and killed Gene, a boy who was associated with the Crescents but who had nothing to do with the attack on the little brother.
Under California law at the time, the judge had no choice: he had to sentence Tyris to 25-to-life for the murder and to a consecutive 25-to-life for the weapon enhancement. The math is easy: Tyris would come up for parole for the first time after 50 years, at the age of 66. But the judge felt very uncomfortable with this decision. His explanation of the sentence echoes not only his grief and frustration with the unnecessariness of the crime AND the punishment, but also his thinking, which was influenced by the new Supreme Court line of cases, starting with Roper v. Simmons and continuing with Graham v. Florida. These cases relied on new findings in neuroscience and developmental psychology, which suggest that juvenile brains continue developing well into their mid-20s, and that until their prefrontal cortex is fully developed, they are less capable of thinking about consequences, factoring in long-term considerations, and resisting peer pressure. Reflecting this “rediscovery of childhood” perspective, the judge said:
The sentence is the sentence that‘s prescribed by law, not one that the Court chooses. And I will impose it in this case, but first I just want to say a couple of words to both families. I see a lot of pain in this courtroom all the time. And so often it‘s because of senseless things that happen. And if there‘s a senseless case, this is a senseless case. We‘ve got two young men‘s lives destroyed. . . . We‘ve lost two young men. And for what? It‘s so senseless. I would have loved to have seen these two young men grow up to be people, to be the people they‘re supposed to be, both of them. And neither of them is going to have that opportunity. It‘s because of unspeakably stupid choices that you made, Mr. Franklin. And I just hope that something can come out of this that‘s productive. I‘m impressed with Gene[‘s] . . . family‘s dignity going through this. Their empathy for Mr. Franklin‘s family and even Mr. Franklin. And I‘m impressed with Mr. Franklin‘s family‘s understanding and empathy for [Gene]‘s family. And if we can take something from this, I would love for it to be, get the guns out of Richmond, get the violence out of Richmond, and don‘t have these young black men going after each other because we see it so much in this courthouse. And what ends up happening is we have some young men going to prison for the best years of their lives at the least, and other young men who don‘t get to grow up. And how crazy is this? How crazy. So if both families can do anything to try to make some sense and find some good out of this, work together to try to get the guns out of Richmond, get the guns out of the pockets of these young men who haven‘t got the frontal lobes yet to figure out how to deal with their issues.
Shortly after Tyris Franklin was sentenced to 25 + 25, the Supreme Court decided Miller v. Alabama. Under Miller, mandatory life-without-parole schemes for juveniles are unconstitutional. Even before the Supreme Court’s subsequent decision in Montgomery v. Louisiana, which applied Miller retroactively, California was already searching for ways to fix these problems. One such way was through SB 260, later codified as Penal Code 3051, which provides a special “youth offender hearing” before the parole board. For someone serving a sentence like Tyris Franklin’s, that would mean a parole hearing after 25 years, in lieu of the 50 that the law provided before the amendment. Moreover, under the new law, the board is encouraged to take the person’s age when the offense was committed into account in a serious way. For evidence that the parole board takes the “rediscovery of childhood” perspective seriously, see their recent decision recommending Leslie Van Houten’s release.
The California Supreme Court found today that the “youth offender parole hearings” provided by Penal Code 3051 preempted Franklin’s argument that his sentence violated Miller, because he is already eligible for the “fix” via an earlier parole date. Nonetheless, the Court remanded the case to determine whether Franklin was able to fully present evidence as to his level of maturity, which won’t make a difference for the sentence but will make a difference twentysomething years from now on parole. It’s a bit of a “neither here nor there” decision. The state representatives would say: if the sentence is fine, and if there’s evidence in the judicial explanation that the judge was aware of youth issues, why not take that into account? And Franklin would say: if the judge clearly was unhappy with the mandatory sentence, and the mandatory sentence was unconstitutional, why not give the judge a chance to fix this at resentencing, rather than waiting twenty-five years?
Part of the discomfort with relying on the parole “fix” in this case relates to the proximity between Miller and Franklin. Even though, legally, it doesn’t matter whether the case we’re remedying with a parole hearing happened one day or fifty years before Miller, it somehow feels different. When the Supreme Court decided Montgomery, Henry Montgomery was in his late 60s, having served fifty years behind bars for a crime committed when he was a teenager. A parole hearing to release him could be held immediately. Here, by contrast, the result is that with the “fix”, which was just held to preempt the constitutional channel, Franklin has to wait more than twenty years to argue something that we know the judge felt very strongly about as recently as 2011.
Whether or not you think the result in Franklin was constitutionally permissible, the deeper questions about the parole “fix” emerge. We’re very good at ratcheting up sentences and we’ve done a masterful job at forgetting that children were children. And now that we’ve remembered the difference between youth and adults, it’s taking us a very long time to fix things using very small steps, which put a dent in ultra-severe sentences, but are still very far from undoing their destructive effects.
This morning, the Supreme Court decided Foster v. Chatman, a case involving race considerations in jury selection proceedings in Georgia.
There are two types of challenges that the prosecution and the defense may use to disqualify prospective jurors from the panel: for cause challenges, in case there’s evidence that the prospective juror is biased and might not be able to decide the case fairly, and a limited number of peremptory challenges, which either side can use for no express reason at all. There is one limitation on the use of peremptories: under a 1986 Supreme Court decision, Batson v. Kentucky, race is not an appropriate reason for a peremptory challenge (J.E.B. v. Alabama extended this decision to gender.)
In cases in which a party suspects that the other party is disqualifying jurors due to their race or gender, that party needs to prove a prima facie case that there is a systematic pattern of disqualification. If successful, the ball moves to the other party’s court, and they have to provide a race-neutral (or gender-neutral) reason for the disqualification. The reason need not be a good one; after all, if there were a good reason they could have used a for-cause challenge. It just needs to be unrelated to race or gender. Then, the court has to decide whether the challenges were race or gender based.
Foster, an African-American man, was charged with the sexual assault and murder of a 79-year-old white woman. The prosecution, which under Georgia law has ten peremptory challenges, used nine of them, and four of those were used to strike all four black prospective jurors. Foster immediately lodged a Batson challenge, which the court rejected. And here is where things get dicey.
At the time of trial, the prosecutors provided various race-neutral reasons for their use of peremptory challenges, relying partly on their perception that some of the black jurors were hesitant about the death penalty (which was on the table, given the severity of Foster’s crime.) However, on appeal Foster was able to produce the papers on which the prosecutors scribbled notes for themselves. You can see a section of one of those at the top of these post. The prosecutors marked black jurors with a “b” next to their name. In one occasion, a prosecutor scribbled, “no black church” next to a juror’s name. The author of those “b” letters and other comments could not be ascertained, but it had to be someone in the prosecutor’s office.
The Supreme Court decision analyzes carefully the race-neutral reasons the prosecutor provides, and shows that these were pretextual. Chief Justice Roberts’ method of analysis is to compare the black jurors to white counterparts on the panel who had similar circumstances and, yet, were not disqualified. In the Opinion of the Court, he therefore finds these reasons pretextual, “reek[ing] of afterthought”, or in short: a mere coverup for the real reasons for the disqualification: race, the reason expressly prohibited in Batson.
From a doctrinal perspective, the decision in Foster is the correct one. I have no doubt in my mind that they got the facts completely right. There is a clear contradiction between the reasons the prosecutors proffered for the disqualifications and the reasons that their paperwork clearly suggests. Their complicated race-neutral explanations easily fall apart when comparing jurors to each other. The court’s thorough analysis is a great example for why we need federal review of state practices: federal courts are removed from the judicial and legal climate on the states, and this is especially important in the context of racially controversial proceedings.
It’s also a decision that supports solid values, and one that heralds back to the reason the death penalty was temporarily abolished in Furman v. Georgiain 1972: jury selection and trial processes designed to disfavor African American defendants.
So what is really going on? Prosecutors, defense attorneys, and judges, all know what social science clearly tells them: that racial identity, and racialized life experiences, are one important and influential way in which people form opinions about the world. They will not excise this piece of information from their memory. What they have learned this morning from the Supreme Court is that they need to find better ways to hide what they know. Indeed, post-Foster, we probably won’t see better race-neutral explanations; we just won’t see racial notations on papers, and whatever texts the prosecutors might send each other under the table will be deleted before discovery proceedings find what’s there. Maybe the prosecution will recur to various real or perceived proxies for race (neighborhood, income, family structure), and maybe, as is increasingly the case, professional trial consulting firms and software will come up with some corporatespeak or sciencespeak that will appear to be racially neutral. Because that’s what we do every time a word becomes offensive and unsayable: we put it through the laundromat and it comes out worded differently, within the realm of the sayable, and the discrimination creeps underground.
This is even more depressing considering that the legal system itself has a massively ambivalent approach to the social science truth that demographics impact opinions. Under Taylor v. Louisiana, when the legal process excludes a distinctive social group (again, the clearest cases are race and gender), we don’t like this, and the court says that we lose a “distinctive flavor” or a special perspective. In that context, we’re perfectly comfortable admitting that a person’s experiences–including her race and gender–might impact the way she sees a criminal justice issue. But when the day comes to pick the actual jury, when lawyers draw the exact same conclusion, and use it in a partisan fashion, we get upset and would like them to do a better job pretending that they’re not doing that. The difference is that blocking groups of people from the venire and disqualifying individuals, whom you can presumably question to detect bias, are two different types of enterprise. And yet, how much can you possibly learn about a stranger’s inner life and worldview in open court?
The bottom line: this decision, while correct and certainly better than the opposite, is a mere band-aid on a problem that is intractable. I cannot see, in the current climate or in any future version of it, a time in which people’s racial identity will not be inexorably linked to their criminal justice opinions. Teaching prosecutors to do a better job hiding these considerations from view does not make them less racially motivated; they’ll keep their opinions, which happen to be aligned with scientific findings, and become so good at covering their tracks that post-Foster defendants will have a difficult time uncovering them. Holding our nose doesn’t make something smell better; it just helps better disguise the smell. If the current presidential campaign teaches us anything, it’s that hiding our ugly racism problem under the rug, in the realm of the unsayable, has done little to improve racial equality in the United States. What we’re seeing now, when Trump makes the unsayable sayable, is merely the ugly truths that were there all along.
In 1963, Henry Montgomery killed a police officer. His murder conviction in Louisiana, for “guilty without capital punishment”, carried a mandatory life without parole sentence. That is, under Louisiana law, Montgomery could not present mitigating evidence–he was automatically sentenced to life without parole. At the time the crime was committed, Montgomery was 17 years old. Today he is 70 years old, and he’s been in prison ever since.
In 2009, decades after Montgomery’s sentence, the Supreme Court decided Miller v. Alabama, which rendered mandatory life without parole statutes unconstitutional insofar as they apply to juveniles. The decision was one of several decisions, starting with Roper v. Simmons, which incorporated insights from developmental psychology into criminal justice. We now know that the brain continues developing well into our mid-twenties, and that impulse control, resistance to peer pressure, and the ability to consider long-term goals are not quite there yet for juveniles. So, sentencing them to a lengthy period of time, without option to reconsider, now seems unjust in light of what we know of their cognitive capabilities.
But what about people who were sentenced to automatic life without parole beforeMiller v. Alabama? Thousands of these folks, who were teenagers when they were sentenced, are now middle-aged or even elderly (certainly by prison standards.) Many of them have spent most of their life in jail. Should their sentences be reconsidered? In other words, does Miller apply retroactively? This morning, the Supreme Court ruled that it does–and that states who used to apply these schemes to juveniles should now award them remedial parole hearings to reconsider their possible release.
The technical question at the heart of Montgomery has to do with the retroactivity rules. Imagine a situation in which a criminal justice rule is changed in a way that could benefit defendants.
Under constitutional doctrine in a case called Teague v. Lane, defendant no. 1, whose case hasn’t even started yet, will of course benefit from the new rule, which applies prospectively. Defendant no. 2’s case is still alive–that is, it’s undergoing an appellate process or the time to appeal hasn’t run out yet–and because the case is not “final” yet, she will also benefit from the rule change. But Defendant no. 3, whose case has already become final–which is to say, she exhausted her direct appeals, or the time to appeal has run out–will not be able to benefit from the rule change. There are two exceptions to this doctrine: the new rule will apply retroactively if it is either a “substantive rule of Constitutional Law”, which includes “rules forbidding criminal punishment of certain primary conduct,” as well as “rules prohibiting a certain category of punishment for a class of defendants because of their status or offense” or a “watershed rule of criminal procedure”, which is to say, a very momentous change (most rules are not that important; when SCOTUS thinks of such a rule, they think about things like the right to counsel and somesuch.)
According to the today’s ruling, Teague v. Lane applies not only to federal defendants on habeas, but also to defendants like Montgomery, who have been using their state’s collateral proceedings. Or, as Justice Kennedy stated for the majority,
The Court now holds that when a new substantive rule of constitutional law controls the outcome of a case, the Constitution requires state collateral review courts to give retroactive effect to that rule. Teague’s conclusion establishing the retroactivity of new substantive rules is best understood as resting upon constitutional premises. That constitutional command is, like all federal law, binding on state courts.
The rule in Miller is, according to the majority, a “substantive rule of Constitutional Law”, as it doesn’t merely address process–it addresses the question whether a certain category of punishment (in this case, mandatory life without parole) is applicable to a certain category of people (in this case, juveniles.) It stems from the string of cases that recognized that children are different from adults in their “diminished culpability and greater prospects for reform.” These differences mean that imposing automatic LWOP on children “poses too great a risk of disproportionate punishment.” While the decision has a procedural component–the need to hold a hearing before imposing LWOP on juveniles–it is, in essence, a substantive statements that juveniles should simply not be subject to that category of punishment. The Court is not concerned about the extent to which this hinders finality–in this case, the state really can no longer exercise its punitive power by sending juveniles to prison for the rest of their lives without discretion, and once there is a social agreement there, finality arguments really do not apply.
The Court also gives states that used to have mandatory LWOP schemes for juveniles a corrective path: they should award people who are currently serving time under these schemes for crimes committed when they were juveniles an appropriate opportunity to be heard and to provide evidence for their rehabilitation, in which their young age at the time they committed the crime (and all we know about the implications of age to development) shall be taken into account.
Justices Scalia, Alito, and Thomas dissented, on the grounds that the Court had no jurisdiction to decide the case and that its classification of the Miller rule as a substantive rule was overbroad beyond the original intent in Teague.
This morning, the Ninth Circuit (Judges Graber, Rawlinson and Watford) heard oral argument in Jones v. Davis (formerly Jones v. Chappell). As you may recall, the original case was decided by District Court Judge Cormac Carney, who found the death penalty in California unconstitutional because of the severe delays in its application. The decision was appealed by the Attorney General, and nothing much happened since then in terms of addressing the delays on death row. What did happen more litigation relying on Jones–notably, Andrews v. Davis before the Ninth Circuit and People v. Seumanu before the California Supreme Court. At today’s hearing, the Government representative argued that Jones was barred from benefitting from the delay in his case for two reasons: 1. It is a claim purporting to create a new rule, not brought up before, and as such is barred by Teague v. Lane.
A little bit of background: New substantive rules apply retroactively. For example, if a certain behavior ceases to be a criminal offense, whoever is still doing time for that offense will probably be let out immediately. But for new procedural rules, appellants can benefit from them only if these rules come into being while their case is still “alive”, that is, still under direct review. In the diagram to the left, the rule change can benefit people in situations (1) and (2), but not (3). Note that, if the new rule came into being when (2) was still under direct appeal, but now (2) is arguing for it in a habeas proceeding, (2) still gets to benefit from the rule. (3), however, does not–his case became final before the rule change.
What about announcing a new rule on Habeas? According to Teague v. Lane (1989), the dilemma is as follows: the defendant who is asking for the new rule is, essentially, (3) from the previous diagram. That is, he would not be able to benefit from the new rule if it were announced today in someone else’s case. Which also means that all the people who are similarly situated to this defendant–whose cases are final and on habeas–will not benefit from the new rule. Since the court doesn’t want to just announce the rule and not enforce it, or to enforce it only in the particular case and not in those similarly situated (inequality), it reached the bizarre conclusion that it will simply not announce new rules on Habeas–unless these rules fundamentally change criminal justice, either in terms of legalizing previously prohibited behavior or being a “watershed rule of criminal procedure.” Jones’ representative, Michael Laurence from the Habeas Corpus Resource Center, argued that the issue at stake here is substantive, not procedural. That is, the application of the death penalty is not merely a change in procedure, but rather a fundamental issue of applying the death penalty, as it was regarded in Furman v. Georgia (1972), Atkins v. VA (2001), and Schriro v. Summerlin (2003), the latter specifying that “rules that regulate the manner of punishment” are considered substantive, rather than procedural. Even if it is a procedural rule, it is essentially a reframing of the problem of arbitrariness, which led to the death penalty abolition in Furman, and therefore not a “new one” but merely the application of an old one. In response, the government’s representative argued that the arbitrariness claim, in this context, is a “new rule”, and moreover, a procedural one. There hasn’t been precedent directly on point claiming that arbitrariness can manifest itself in delay, and since this is a new question, it cannot result in a new rule on Habeas under Teague. There was some back and forth about whether the court’s decision in Andrews, which rejected a Jones-based claim, should be used to interpret whether the rule is new or old. 2. Even if it’s a claim relying on an old rule, Jones has not exhausted his argument in state court (in fact, never brought this up in state court) and is therefore barred from raising it in federal court under the Habeas provisions in section 2254. As 2254(d)(1) says, (d) An application for a writ of habeas corpus on behalf of a person in custody pursuant to the judgment of a State court shall not be granted with respect to any claim that was adjudicated on the merits in State court proceedings unless the adjudication of the claim—
(1)
resulted in a decision that was contrary to, or involved an unreasonable application of, clearly established Federal law, as determined by the Supreme Court of the United States[.]
This was not the case here, claims the government; Jones didn’t even go to state court, and cannot therefore challenge the sentence at the federal court. Jones’ representative argues that Jones benefits from an exception to the exhaustion clause, which appears in 2254(b)(2)(b)(ii): (b)
(1)An application for a writ of habeas corpus on behalf of a person in custody pursuant to the judgment of a State court shall not be granted unless it appears that—
(A)
the applicant has exhausted the remedies available in the courts of the State; or
(B)
(i)
there is an absence of available State corrective process; or
(ii)
circumstances exist that render such process ineffective to protect the rights of the applicant.
This may seem very technical, but there’s actually a lot of anger beneath the technicalities. As Jones argues through Laurence, the California Supreme Court would not have provided a cure to the delay, but rather delayed things even further. In 1997, the Ninth Circuit found that 140 people on death row were unrepresented, and released them from the timely submission obligations under AEDPA. Now, there are 358 unrepresented people. The wait for an attorney can be 16 (!!!) years, and after that, litigation can last 8-10 years (!!!)–all this time, obviously, spent by the applicant on death row. Amazingly, the only office limited in its number of lawyerly hires, the Habeas Corpus Resource Center, can only hire 34 (!!!) lawyers, which is a woefully inadequate number of people to handle 758 (!!!) cases. Before and after Jones, the California Supreme Court did nothing to remedy this situation, argued Laurence, and therefore there was no point in trying to “exhaust” the claim in state court. That would be, literally, exhausting. In response, the government representative said that the prospective delays in state resolution of such issues is speculative. There was also a bit of back and forth on the merits, with the government resisting the assertion that death penalty in California is “arbitrary” but rather that cases are carefully examined. I’m hoping that, no matter the result in the Ninth Circuit, this case will go to the Supreme Court, where the dysfunctional application of capital punishment in the state might find a receptive ear in Justice Kennedy and in Justice Breyer, who explicitly said, in Glossip v. Gross, that he would welcome an opportunity to address the constitutionality of the death penalty on the merits.
Just in time for the fiftieth anniversary of the Voting Rights Act, a legal team comprised of various rehabilitation and reentry organizations has triumphed in returning the right to vote to 50,000 men and women who are under mandatory supervision!
A little bit of background: The California Constitution disenfranchises felons who are “imprisoned or on parole”. In League of Women Voters of California v. McPherson, the First District Court of Appeal ruled that these categories did not include people who were in jail as a consequence of violating felony probation. After Realignment, thousands of non-serious, non-violent, non-sexual felons were sentenced to jail terms. A prior litigation effort on their behalf was unsuccessful (though we raised some important questions that were left unanswered.)
The current litigation effort was more modest, but also perhaps more realistic, seeking to restore the right to vote not to all realigned felons, but only to those under mandatory supervision. Folks under supervision serve time on the outside, under conditions strongly resembling probation. The prospective voters’ advocates were successful on the first round. The former Secretary of State appealed, and just as the parties were ready to go forward, the current Secretary of State, Alex Padilla, withdrew his appeal, with the outcome that voting is restored. And here’s what Secretary Padilla had to say–here at CCC we wholeheartedly concur:
“Passage of the Voting Rights Act was not easily won,” Secretary Padilla said. “People marched. People struggled. People died. They bravely sacrificed for each other – for friends, family, for our country so that each of us could be empowered with the opportunity to participate meaningfully in our democracy.” “Civic engagement and participation in the election process can be an important factor helping former offenders reintegrate into civil society. If we are serious about slowing the revolving door at our jails and prisons, and serious about reducing recidivism, we need to engage—not shun—former-offenders. Voting is a key part of that engagement; it is part of a process of becoming vested and having a stake in the community,” Padilla added. “The United States Supreme Court eloquently proclaimed, “No right is more precious in a free country than that of having a voice in the election of those who make the laws under which, as good citizens, we must live. Other rights, even the most basic, are illusory if the right to vote is undermined.” “Our California Supreme Court has made similar pronouncements: “No construction of an election law should be indulged that would disenfranchise any voter if the law is reasonably susceptible of any other meaning.” “Today’s announcement is in line with these statements, the arc of California history, and the spirit of the Voting Rights Act,” Padilla said.
The case involves the federal Armed Career Criminal Act, a habitual offender law that provides a sentencing enhancement upon committing the third violent offense. The residual clause of the law defines “violent offense” as any offense that “involves conduct that presents a serious potential risk of physical injury to another.”
In Johnson’s case, the sentence was enhanced because his third offense was possession of a firearm (Johnson is a felon, and the firearm in question was a sawed-off shotgun. If you want more background, Johnson was being monitored for belonging to a white supremacist organization and being a source of concern re terrorism, and confessed to some pretty scary plans in that regard–so you can be sure thta this decision is not about his niceness).
The initial question put before the court was whether possession of a firearm fits the definition in the residual clause, but the Supreme Court asked the parties to brief on a broader issue: the definition of “violent offense” itself. Today, the Court sided 8-1 with Johnson, finding that the definition of “violent offense” was too vague and did not provide sufficient warning about conduct.
The vagueness, according to Justice Scalia who wrote for the majority (!!!), lies in the fact that the clause provides no guidelines for what counts as “risk” posed by the crime (statistics? similarity to enumerated offenses? precedents have taken various and different tacks) and for assessing the amount of “risk”. Even seemingly easy issues turn out to be difficult to call. Notably, Scalia gives the example of “prison rioting”, which he is willing to say is an offense that is defined so broadly that it doesn’t necessarily generate “risk” of injury (!!!). Moreover, it is not necessary that a vague statute be “vague in all its applications”.
The court also rejects the suggestion that “risk” be interpreted based on what each defendant actually did, rather than based on the average case. This is important in the facts of Johnson itself: It may well be that many felons in possession of a firearm don’t pose as much risk as Johnson, a white supremacist with violent plans against progressives and minorities, but Johnson needs to be judged by the overall risk of the offense, not by his particular plans.
Finally, the court states that its decision is prompted by the massive confusion among lower federal courts on how to interpret the clause.
Justice Thomas arrives at the same conclusion via a different path–finding that possession of a firearm does not the definition in the residual clause. He agrees with the sole dissenter, Justice Alito, that the statute is not so vague as to merit its invalidation.
A few thoughts:
It’s hard to ignore the particular facts of this case given the tragic events of last week in South Carolina. Johnson’s plans were similar to those that Roof put into action. Is the 8-1 decision here explainable, politically, via pro-gun sentiments among the conservative Justices?
This decision might suggest that the Court has lost its appetite for sentencing enhancements. In Criminal Procedure II, I teach cases that have bent over backwards to uphold enhancements–including, in the case of California’s Three Strikes, the ability to add two strikes at the same time (which obviously can’t be justified by the need to deter–just by the wish to incapacitate.) Here we see that the Court pays a lot of homage to the idea of behavior modification, invoking the principle of legality. If I were teaching first year criminal law next year, I’d teach this case on the first day of class.
The decision also highlights a disenchantment with the language of risk and panic, which has characterized so much of American criminal justice in the era of the “New Penology“.
Many commentators on the new state of criminal justice, including me in Cheap on Crime, have pointed out that much of the new project of scaling back mass incarceration addresses nonviolent offenders, and retrenches opinions about violent offenders by lumping them all in the same category. I find it remarkable, and heartening, that this decision strikes at the heart of the issue, arguing against an overbroad category of violent offenses. I’m not sure Johnson should necessarily be on that side of the distinction, but as the Court states, this is about the offense, not about the offender.
Finally, I find it notable that Justice Scalia–who, in Brown v. Plata referred to inmates as “speciments”–chose, as one of his examples, prison rioting, explicitly stating that the definition of rioting is so broad that it is not necessarily a violent offense. Attorneys in Ashker v. Brown, the lawsuit against long-term solitary confinement, should take note of this comment. I think it’s important. It’s the third Supreme Court statement this week that is sympathetic to prisoners.
The Sixth Amendment requires that defendants be tried by a jury of their peers; this raises serious questions when partisan interests bring racial considerations into the choice. Batson v. Kentucky, decided by the Supreme Court in 1986, limited the ability to use peremptory challenges (which allow each party to disqualify jurors without providing an explanation) when the pattern of challenges indicates racial (or, as later decided, gender) bias. The procedure under Batson requires three steps: the other party (typically the defense) points to a systematic pattern of racial exclusion; the excluding party (typically the prosecution) provides race-neutral explanations for the exclusion; and the court decides, based on totality of the circumstances, whether the challenges can stand.
Shortly after Batson, in 1989, Hector Ayala was convicted of a triple murder in the context of a robbery in San Diego. At the voir dire stage of his capital punishment trial, his attorney objected three times to repeated use of peremptory challenges by the prosecution against black and latino prospective jurors. Each time, the prosecution asked that the defense leave the room, arguing that they didn’t want to expose trial tactics to the defense. Their actual race-neutral explanations for the peremptory challenges were concerns about criminal record, concerns about unwillingness to apply the death penalty, and personal history in following and being involved in controversial trials. The judge agreed to let the peremptory challenges stand. Ayala was convicted and sentenced to death.
Today, the Supreme Court decided Davis v. Ayala, siding 5:4 against Ayala.
The Court was willing to accept, as a basic premise, that Ayala’s constitutional rights were violated; but that is not enough to merit a reversal. Under the law governing post-conviction remedies, Ayala had to also overcome the “harmless error” doctrine.
Here’s how harmless error works: On appeal or on habeas, when someone successfully establishes that their constitutional rights were violated, the court also cares about whether, had everything gone well, the result of the proceeding would have been different. The first distinction the court makes is between “structural errors” and “trial errors”. The former lead to immediate relief; with the latter, we’re concerned about how the error might’ve affected the outcome. It’s easier to prove that it did on appeal (where you only have to create reasonable doubt that it might have) than on habeas (where the burden of proof is higher.) Here’s a basic illustration (click on the graphic to enlarge):
If this was not complicated enough, let’s throw in an extra issue: in federal courts, where collateral review (habeas) happens, the procedure is also governed by AEDPA, which says, among other things, that the federal courts will not intervene in state court decisions unless they were “contrary to, or involved an unreasonable application of, clearly established Federal law, as determined by the Supreme Court of the United States.” This standard is said to incorporate the heightened test for collateral reviews set in the diagram above.
The Court then examined whether the county court in the original trial was right in deciding that the challenges to the jurors were neutral. Here, it goes into the questioning of the jurors, finding that, even if there were white jurors who answered similarly to the voir dire questions, there were still differences in terms of how willing they were to apply the death penalty. Or, more accurately, these similarities are not enough to meet the burden of proof that the challenges were racial and resulted in a different verdict than if they hadn’t been allowed.
It is important to flag an important issue here: Under Witherspoon v. Illinois, it is perfectly okay to dismiss for cause jurors that are absolutely, 100% opposed to the death penalty, though it is not okay to dismiss for cause jurors that are merely reluctant to impose it. But, tactics-wise, if you have a juror that seems reluctant, albeit not reluctant enough to allow for a Witherspoon strike, you can certainly use your peremptory challenge on him. It’s not good enough for a for-cause challenge, but it is a race-neutral, and thus legitimate, excuse for a peremptory challenge.
But what about the defense attorney’s absence when the prosecutor articulated these race-neutral reasons for exclusion? The Court argues that, during the interrogation of the witnesses, the defense had ample opportunity to impact the record in a way that would indicate that the peremptory challenges were based on race. Before the prosecutor offered the explanation, the defense had an exchange with the court in which they sought to prove that the prospective jurors’ reactions did not differ from those of their fellow prospective jurors.
So, Ayala loses. But what is interesting here is that Justice Kennedy files a concurrent opinion, in which he talks about the “side issue” of Ayala having been in solitary confinement (“administrative segreagation”) on death row for more than twenty-five years. He says:
[I]f his solitary confinement follows the usual pattern, it is likely respondent has been held for all or most of the past 20 years or more in a windowless cell no larger than a typical parking spot for 23 hours a day; and in the one hour when he leaves it, he likely is allowed little or no opportunity for conversation or interaction with anyone. . . It is estimated that 25,000 inmates in the United States are currently serving their sentence in whole or substantial part in solitary confinement, many regardless of their conduct in prison. . . . [D]espite scholarly discussion and some commentary from other sources, the condition in which prisoners are kept simply has not been a matter of sufficient public inquiry or interest. To be sure, cases on prison procedures and conditions do reach the courts. . . Sentencing judges, moreover, devote considerable time and thought to their task. There is no accepted mechanism, however, for them to take into account, when sentencing a defendant, whether the time in prison will or should be served in solitary. So in many cases, it is as if a judge had no choice but to say: “In imposing this capital sentence, the court is well aware that during the many years you will serve in prison before your execution, the penal system has a solitary confinement regime that will bring you to the edge of madness, perhaps to madness itself.” Even if the law were to condone or permit this added punishment, so stark an outcome ought not to be the result of society’s simple unawareness or indifference. Too often, discussion in the legal academy and among practitioners and policymakers concentrates simply on the adjudication of guilt or innocence. Too easily ignored is the question of what comes next. Prisoners are shut away—out of sight, out of mind. It seems fair to suggest that, in decades past, the public may have assumed lawyers and judges were engaged in a careful assessment of correctional policies, while most lawyers and judges assumed these matters were for the policymakers and correctional experts.
After citing numerous scholarly articles about the horrors of solitary confinement, Kennedy continues:
Of course, prison officials must have discretion to decide that in some instances temporary, solitary confinement is a useful or necessary means to impose discipline and to protect prison employees and other inmates. But research still confirms what this Court suggested over a century ago: Years on end of near-total isolation exa cts a terrible price . . . [including “anxiety, panic, withdrawal, hallucinations,self-mutilation, and suicidal thoughts and behaviors”]. In a case that presented the issue, the judiciary may be required, within its proper jurisdiction and authority, to determine whether workable alternative systems for long-term confinement exist, and, if so, whether a correctional system should be required to adopt them.
Over 150 years ago, Dostoyevsky wrote, “The degree of civilization in a society can be judged by entering its prisons.” . . . There is truth to this in our own time.
This commentary, combined with his compassionate majority opinion in Brown v. Plata, in which he cited horrific neglect in California prisons and included photos, marks Kennedy as the guardian of dignity whenever prisons are concerned. In his recent book Mass Incarceration on Trial, Jonathan Simon predicts a “dignity cascade” that would hopefully lead to change in prison conditions. If that is true, Kennedy will be the herald of this cascade, and this segment indicates his intention to welcome such cases and provide real succor to those who need it most.
Two major themes emerge in Episode 3 of Aquarius: the two main characters as embodiments of the two criminal justice models and the fragmented and complicated image of Manson painted by the show.
The first half of the episode, and some scenes in the second half, see Hodiak helping Shafe solve the murder of Art Gladner, for which Shafe’s informant was falsely arrested. The investigation takes Hodiak into the noir-like environment of a strip club (“burlesque theater”, the owner corrects him). There, he uncovers a drug connection, which leads him to the culprit. It turns out that Hodiak himself contributed to the chain of events that led to the murder: by writing “snitch” on Gladner’s forehead, he marked him for execution; and, by breaking the new suspect’s arm, he advertised to the other players in the drug business that the suspect was under police control and surveillance. Hodiak does not seem to harbor any guilt or discomfort about his complicity, and his confrontation with Shafe floats this to the surface:
Shafe: He was a person. Hodiak: Who sold drugs. Shafe: You’re unbelievable. Whatever you want, you do it.” Hodiak: It’s true. I can be a tad brusque”.
This dialogue, again building on the buddy-cops trope, highlights for 21-century viewers the transformative moment in American policing. Two important developments clash in the years immediately preceding this scene: the emergence of Mapp, Miranda, andGideon, part of the Warren Court’s criminal procedure constitutional revolution, and the arrival of Richard Nixon to the Presidential seat, and with it efforts at bolstering and funding local police stations to counter the revolution.
If you will, the two officers are personal embodiments of Herbert Packer’s Two Models of the Criminal Process. Hodiak embodies Nixon’s commitment to the crime control model, where the police and prosecution are imbued with immense power and discretion and anything goes as long as crimes are solved and criminals brought to trial quickly and efficiently. By contrast, Shafe embodies the Warren Court’s commitment to the due process model, both in terms of adherence to constitutional requirements like the Miranda warnings and in the commitment to equality, illustrated also by his personal life (in this episode, an unknown neighbor paints the words “nigger lover” on his garage, intimidating his wife and child.) For Shafe, the worst thing that can happen is a procedural mistake leading to a wrongful arrest. For Hodiak, it’s delay in solving a crime.
These political perspectives are generational, too. Hodiak is a WW2 veteran, with a clear idea of right and wrong, leading him–three years before Daniel Ellsberg would leak the Pentagon papers–to assume that the war in Vietnam is justified and that his son, gone AWOL, is a war criminal. Shafe seems to be a Vietnam or Korea veteran, capable of seeing more shades of gray.
These aspects of the show, at this point, strike me as more interesting and convincing than the Manson family scenes. It seems that the show has a difficult point pinpointing Manson’s image: is he a religious leader? a common pimp? how much of his eventual terrifying violence is already in evidence through his malevolence? We see Manson enchanting girls with two-bit New Age speeches that might have been more effective in the Sixties; we also see him controlling and domineering them, treating them as property. But we also see him performing great violence, often with his signature knife. At the same time, some of the lines given to Manson have him effectively expose the destructive hypocrisy of the 1960s; his words to Ken, who comes to him at the bottom of his spiral of shame and self-hatred, are apt. After a particularly heartbreaking and distressing search for furtive sex in a park bathroom (a good reminder of how far we’ve come), Ken accuses Manson of making him a homosexual:
Ken: You did this to me. Charlie: I freed you. Ken: You broke me. Charlie: You were already broken, Ken. I just pulled you out of your shell.
Manson’s perspective, of course, is far more in tune with our modern perspectives on homosexuality. One has to conclude that even a broken clock shows the right time twice a day.
Today, the Supreme Court decided San Francisco v. Sheehan, 6:2 sort-of-in favor of the city (Justice Breyer recused himself–his brother decided the case in a lower instance.) The facts, taken verbatim from the case syllabus, are as follows:
Respondent Sheehan lived in a group home for individuals with mental illness. After Sheehan began acting erratically and threatened to kill her social worker, the City and County of San Francisco (San Francisco) dispatched police officers Reynolds and Holder to help escort Sheehan to a facility for temporary evaluation and treatment. When the officers first entered Sheehan’s room, she grabbed a knife and threatened to kill them. They retreated and closed the door. Concerned about what Sheehan might do behind the closed door, and without considering if they could accommodate her disability, the officers reentered her room. Sheehan, knife in hand, again confronted them. After pepper spray proved ineffective, the officers shot Sheehan multiple times [seriously injuring, but not killing her–H.A.].
What should the cops do under such circumstances? Sheehan sued the City, arguing that when dealing with a mentally ill patient, the cops are bound by the Americans with Disabilities Act.
In lower courts, the city tried to argue that the ADA does not apply to police dealings with an armed and dangerous individuals. However, before the Supreme Court, the city presented and argued a brief merely stating that there was no way to accommodate Sheehan under the ADA due to the circumstances, in which she was not “participating” in an activity from which she might “benefit”. The dissent, written by Justice Scalia, would deny the city relief because of this change of tactics.
But the majority opinion, written by Justice Alito, stated that the police officers had qualified immunity from Sheehan’s lawsuit, because their actions did not clearly violate her Fourth Amendment rights; Fourth Amendment doctrine at the time did not include a clear and explicit mandate to accommodate suspects with disabilities, and the question whether it should has been left open.
Bottom line: 1. The city does not have to pay; the cops have immunity. 2. We have no answer whether the ADA covers armed and dangerous individuals. 3. We have no answer whether an arrest is an “activity” covered by the ADA. 4. We have no answer whether not accommodating an armed, violent, mentally-ill suspect is a Fourth Amendment violation.
Some thoughts:
1. These sorts of situations are going to be really difficult to parse out constitutionally, because the devil really is in the details. The degree to which the police might be aware that the suspect is mentally ill and the extent of the threat she or he pose would vary from situation to situation, and whatever Fourth Amendment standard is adopted will have to take that into account.
2. Let’s set aside constitutional doctrine for a minute and look at sound judgment. If you were the cops, what would you do? Presumably, your decision whether to let things calm down inside before going in might depend on whether there are innocent people inside that are being threatened by the suspect, no?
3. It’s also important to keep in mind that this decision occurs in a context of overall public lack of trust in the police, and particularly in its discretion using lethal force. It’s interesting that the timing didn’t bait the Supreme Court into saying something about this more generally, or even attempt to answer the question of mentally ill suspects for the future. Perhaps this reluctance stems from their willingness to give the police a wide berth of discretion.
