The principles are simple to enumerate: No income taxation (except during the Civil War), Social Security, Medicare, Medicaid, welfare, economic regulations, licensure laws, drug laws, immigration controls, or coercive transfer programs, such as farm subsidies and education grants.  —  Jacob G. Hornberger, “Liberal Delusions about Freedom“

He notes, too, the lack of regulatory agencies like the EPA and OSHA, and the right for everyone “to pursue an occupation or trade without seeking the permission of the government.”

The first, and simplest response to this, of course, is “who is ‘everyone’”? African-Americans were mostly enslaved until after the Civil War — were they free “to pursue an occupation or trade”? Did the Jim Crow laws of the late nineteenth-century South provide extra liberty for those former slaves?

Women could not vote and were — at various times, more or less — the property of their husbands. Were they “free”? (See David Boas, “Up from Slavery,” for more on this.) Thus, any nineteenth-century libertarian “utopia” is immediately undermined by the lack of freedom for so many.

But beyond this simplistic and obvious critique lies a deeper reality: Americans in the nineteenth century did not live without rules, regulations, and laws, and did not rely strictly on private contract and personal responsibility to conduct business or to handle social relations.

William J. Novak, in The People’s Welfare: Law and Regulation in Nineteenth-Century America, writes:

[It] was a public society in ways hard to imagine after the invention of twentieth-century privacy. Its governance was predicated on the elemental assumption that public interest was superior to private interest. Government and society were not created to protect preexisting private rights, but to further the welfare of the whole people and community.[2]

I have previously written, for example, about the extensive use of the state police power (which has little to do with modern “police”) to impose coercive quarantine requirements in colonial America:

Quarantine … was state-sponsored. It would be applied to incoming ships if smallpox was suspected, but there was no articulated provision for allowing any particular to leave quarantine early. The concept was to protect the public as a whole, not to preserve individual liberties.  —  Kristopher Nelson, “Smallpox inoculation and quarantine in colonial America.”

Novak lists the variety of New York laws passed between 1781 and 1801, all focused on regulating life in the young state. Regulations focused on “lotteries; hawkers and peddlers; the firing of guns; usury; … rents and leases; … counselors, attorneys, and solicitors; … strong liquors; … debtors and creditors; poor relief” and much more.[3] This was not Hornberger’s nineteenth century, free of “welfare, economic regulations, licensure laws, [and] drug laws.”[4]

Again under the aegis of “police power”, Novak notes, “railroads were ordered to reconstruct bridges for the public welfare … and private dwellings were summarily destroyed when found inimical to the public health or safety” — and without compensation to the owners.[5]

Still, this was different than modern regulation in a key sense: it was local and state-based, not federal and nationwide. The reach of an individual law was typically only as far as the city, county, or state line. But they were small, localized invasions, not national ones. And as the federal reach grew, so the importance of the federal Constitution and its protections grew too.

The failure of this local jurisdictional model (which is not equivalent to the “small government” call of modern conservatives) came with the explosion of interstate commerce towards the end of the nineteenth century, when corporations (led by railroads) grew beyond the jurisdictional reach of any individual locality or state. Thus, by the late nineteenth century, robber barons set their own rules, and monopolies grew more powerful than governments.

The coalescing of economic — and thus effective political — power in the hands of a few monopolists set the state for the twentieth-century growth of the modern, federal, nationwide regulatory and administrative state that libertarians rail against.

The big twentieth-century shift was not from an unregulated life to a regulated one, but rather from thousands of local rules that differed across the country to concentrated, interstate rules that applied everywhere — all in response to problems that themselves crossed state lines and jurisdictions.

The nineteenth century was different than the twentieth, but it was not a libertarian utopia of liberty and freedom from rules and regulations — those were everywhere, and could easily be more invasive (laws regulating morals, like forced Sunday closers of business are a good example) than anything the twentieth century brought us.

Porter quotes Richard Hammond’s observations:

In a country where mistrust of government is rife, the temptation to substitute supposedly impersonal calculation for personal, responsible decisions … cannot but be exceedingly strong. (195)

Porter goes on to refer to Sheila Jasanoff‘s observation that “Americans fear expertise … yet insist that administrative decisions be depoliticized” and thus “oscillate ‘between deference and skepticism toward experts’” (195). The United States — which “continues to nourish a distinguished tradition of anti-intellectualism” — paradoxically seeks “experts who are not intellectuals or men of culture at all” (195). Porter writes:

Procedures have become as important as outcomes, and rules may be maintained even though they are unable to accomodate new kinds of relevant scientific information (197).

The Courts

American courts generally emphasize process, too, encouraging the application of rules by courtroom experts: “science should mean the straightforward application of general laws to particular circumstances” (195). Attorneys attack courtroom experts for having personal opinions and unique approaches to their studies. “General acceptability” was the core component of Frye, and the modern standard for acceptance of expert testimony (Daubert) emphasizes this factor too (though it expands beyond it).

The Supreme Court’s “hard look” doctrine emphasizes this, too. That doctrine requires judicial review of agency decisions are “arbitrary and capricious.” It requires administrative agencies to maintain a proper record of evidence and actions, adequately consider evidence and various analyses, and explain their reasoning. The doctrine is not intended to emphasize outcomes, but rather to encourage objective process. Even this doctrine, aimed as it is at process and not outcomes, has been attacked as too political (i.e., not objective enough):

Administrative law doctrines for reviewing agency rulemaking currently give judges a significant amount of discretion to invalidate agency rules. Many commentators have recognized that this has politicized judicial review of agency rulemaking, as judges appointed by a president of one political party are more likely to invalidate agency rules promulgated under the presidential administration of a different political party. Unelected judges, though, should not be able to use indeterminate administrative law doctrines to invalidate agency rules on the basis that they disagree with the policy decisions of a presidential administration. Keller, Scott A., “Depoliticizing Judicial Review of Agency Rulemaking,” 2009.

United States vs. Europe

The American approach — the way agencies make decisions and the way courts review those decisions — is distinctly different from how it’s done in Europe. Although they vary in their details, in general, all European approaches “are capable in some measure of formulating policies and determining how to apply them through negotiation with the interested parties, behind closed doors” (197). For good or ill, European states tend to institutionally trust their elite experts and the agencies they staff — but American agencies today lack this kind of citizen trust:

American regulatory agencies are forced to seek refuge in ‘objectivity,’ adopting formal methodologies for rationalizing their every action (197).

It hasn’t always been this way in the United States. American administrative agencies really only grew as outgrowths of the New Deal’s attempt to rationalize, control, and improve the economy during the Great Depression. These agencies — and the few that preceded them — were staffed by experts, driven by numbers, and depended on expert judgment and expertise in ways that are quite similar to their modern European counterparts (198).

Citizen Standing and Openness

The 1960s brought a new focus on citizen involvement in agency decisions. “Openness” was the “antidote to self-interest and to corruption masquerading as expertise” (198). The 1966 case, Office of Communication of United Church of Christ v. FCC, 359 F. 2d 994, exemplified this trend:

This was the case that began the process of opening the regulatory and judicial processes to everyday citizens by granting legal “standing” to citizens. The expansion of standing enabled regular citizens to be heard before regulatory agencies and to bring actions in court, amplifying the amounts and types of political issues taken up in the public arena. Horwitz, Robert, “Broadcast Reform Revisited: Reverend Everett C. Parker and the ‘Standing’ Case,” The Communication Review, Vol. 2, No. 3 (1997), pp. 311-348.

Problems and Contradictions

The attempt to bring openness and greater democracy to agency decision-making succeeded in bringing greater citizen scrutiny and input to the exercise of expertise. It came as a reaction to behind-the-scenes decisions that appeared to favor established interests. Thus, citizen-activists fought against agencies that appeared too close to the companies they regulated — and often succeeded in opening up their processes.

But this didn’t necessarily result in better decisions.

Agencies responded with a greater use of, in Porter’s terms, “mechanical objectivity” in place of expert judgment. Additionally, the critiques used to attack agency expertise began to be turned against scientific and medical expertise more generally. Thus, anti-vaccination campaigners accuse medical experts of profiting from vaccines and acting as “willing conspirators cashing in on the vaccine fraud’ or pawns of a shadowy vaccine combine.” What was once an attack on an FCC that consisted of former broadcast executives has become an attack on doctors who favor broad public-health mandates and on climate scientists who warn about the dangers of human-induced climate change.

What is a liberal democracy?

First, of course, it’s important to define what a “liberal democracy” is. The term liberal, unfortunately, has acquired a negative connotation for many today, especially amongst conservatives in the United States.

But “liberal” in this sense is not the opposite of “conservative”; liberal instead is aligned with governance through public decision-making and public discussion. “Liberal democracies” are thus democracies where the majority of people are eligible to vote and where, generally, the “rule of law” is established through some form of constitution.

It is, in Stephen Turner’s definition, “government by discussion.” There is one exception: religion, because of lessons learned after centuries of religious warfare, is generally removed from the discussion as being incompatible with civil debate. This has been done either through explicit state neutrality (the First Amendment) or through the establishment of a single, state religion along with tolerance for other faiths. The United States is a liberal democracy; Saudi Arabia is not.

An illiberal democracy might be a society in which citizens vote, but the terms of the debate are constrained through propaganda, censorship, or theology. Thus, many illiberal states, like North Korea, claim to be “democratic,” but most citizens of liberal democracies would disagree.

The problem of expertise

If free discussion and debate is core to liberalism — as Turner, backed by old-school liberal theorists like John Stuart Mill, argue — then anything that interferes with public debate and decision-making also moves a society away from liberalism (note, once again, that this is not the opposite of conservatism in the modern sense).

In a classic liberal democracy, public opinion — influenced through civil discourse and debate — is the basis of political action. But how can one have an effective political discourse when only experts understand the terms of the debate? We can all understand and participate in — at least in Turner’s view — debates over, for example, the extent of the voting franchise (“votes for women!”), but how can the lay public effectively decide if tobacco ought to be classified as a drug? Or if the MMR vaccine causes autism or not? Or whether global climate change is real?

These kinds of questions require scientific evidence to fully answer, but that evidence is difficult for non-experts to fully assess. Without the subject-area knowledge, lay participants frequently over- or under-value key evidence, confuse correlation with causation, or simply fail to follow the science.

However, turning such decisions over to experts in the subject conflicts with a core ideal of a liberal democracy: that a public debate ought to determine public policy.

Trust

If we simply trusted experts, then practically, at least, this conflict would largely disappear. We could simply establish commissions or groups of experts to evaluate problems and then provide solutions — much as the European Union does it (though not without criticism).

But a number of factors have combined to create a sense of distrust of experts by the American public. DDT, Three Mile Island, and Bhopal damaged the trust in science of progressives; a rise in religiosity, growing dislike of government regulation, and an increasing perception that scientists are “liberal” (in the contemporary sense) correspondingly degraded conservatives’ trust in science.

As a result, it has become untenable to leave decisions on issues like global climate change in the hands of experts — but as a result, rational, logic-based discussion and debate by educated and informed participants — another core value of a liberal democracy — has become rare.

Solutions

Turner suggests that creating pseudo-juridical, adversarial debates by experts might increase trust in the results. After all, we trust a similar approach to administer the death penalty — but we certainly don’t trust the lawyers who control the process! It’s an interesting, if impractical, concept, partly implemented already through the tort system, but unlikely to be extended elsewhere.

Alternatively, Turner suggests we adopt European-style commissions, but that we make them accountable to the public for their decisions in some fashion. This is effectively the path that has been adopted domestically and internationally, although it is not without its controversies — and does little to resolve the tension inherent in experts making decisions instead of the lay public.

To re-include the public in expert decision-making — or at least to create a public capable of effectively reviewing and scrutinizing expert commissions — the only real solution I see is education. While this may be inadequate to turn average citizen into domain experts, it would at least help make citizens capable of evaluating and assessing experts themselves, along with the logical reasoning of their decisions, more effectively.

Conclusions

Although it feels like this conflict is new the tension between experts and public decision-makers is not unique to today’s liberal democracies. But I think Turner might be correct that the incredible complexity of today’s science and evidence has compounded the tension into a crisis.

Additionally, the long-standing exclusion of religion from anything but moral decision-making — or, alternatively, the extension of science into the realm of theology — has created a new level of crisis. Free discussion in the Millean mode is simply impossible when faith and theology fully determine the outcome for a sizable percentage of participants.

There is no simple solution for any of this. Education is helpful, but not decisive; transparent mechanisms of science and government also help, but are not determinative; and letters to the editor from distinguished scientists can only go so far in re-establishing scientific authority.

Additionally, if a core reason that copyright has always been compatible with the First Amendment is that it is a property right, then perhaps a way out of the conflict between privacy and freedom of speech and the press is to conceive of privacy in the same way — as a property right. Certainly it is already on its way there, as the “right of publicity” in many jurisdictions already implicitly does so, since it provides control over unauthorized commercial use by others.

What follows are three approaches the outline some of the benefits of doing exactly this.

Dissolving the Inkblot: Privacy as Property Right

Unsurprisingly, this is an approach libertarian thinkers have already explored. In a 1993 report for the Cato Institute, Sheldon Richman argues for a vision of privacy “that derives privacy rights from a Lockean framework based on each person’s property in his own life, liberty, and estate.” Richman grounds his vision of the right to privacy as a property right embedded in the Constitution:

That the propertarian model of privacy has the full force of the Constitution behind it is evident in the purposes listed in the preamble to the Constitution, in the recurring express references to property, and in the protection of unenumerated rights in the Ninth Amendment.

He additionally argues that viewing privacy as property is supported by older case law as well:

[I]n Boyd v. United States (1886), a search and seizure case involving a businessman, Justice Joseph Bradley wrote that the constitutional guarantees securing people in their persons, houses, papers, and effects transcend the concrete case and “apply to all invasions on the part of government and its employes of the sanctity of a man’s home and the privacies of life. It is not the breaking of his doors, and the rummaging in his drawers, that constitutes the essence of the offense; but it is the invasion of his indefeasible right of personal security, personal liberty and private property.”

Richman argues that “propertarian privacy” provides a consistent philosophical and moral grounding for property rights that protects privacy without giving judges too much leeway:  ”To determine whether one has a right of privacy with respect to some act, a judge need only ask what the property rights are.” As a result, contraceptive use is protected through his right to privacy because “each party owns himself or herself. … The same is true … for persons who engage in consensual homosexual sodomy.” Child abuse — even in one’s own home — is not protected “because the child is a self-owner.” Abortion is generally protected because “the fetus comes into existence inside the body of a self-owner.” On the other hand, employers may ban smoking — even in an employee’s home — without violating their right to privacy because the “prospective employee can turn down the job.”

In regards to data privacy legislation, Richmond’s approach would generally not protect privacy unless contractual obligations were violated (this might be seen as protecting confidentiality):

A private firm compiles a computer data base on consumers in order to rent it to direct marketers. Privacy violation? Not if the information was originally provided freely by the consumers (or otherwise lawfully obtained) and all contractual restrictions are observed. But if information was given confidentially, divulgence should be actionable. To be sure, data can be misappropriated, stolen by computer hackers, or used in ways that violate contractual obligations. That is why there are criminal and civil courts.

The Property Rights Origins of Privacy Rights

In The Property Rights Origins of Privacy Rights, Mary Cholpecki explores the historical connections between property and privacy. She points to two English cases as examples of this. First, in Yovatt v. Winyard (1820), what I might call an early trade-secrets case, the court “extended property rights protections to cover personal secrets,” namely, secret formulas for medicines used by a competitor. Cholpecki writes:

Yovatt brings to light the interesting and important fact that “what we now call ‘unfair competition’ and ‘plagiarism’ and ‘privacy’ were all wrapped together, in Yovatt’s time, under the principle of ‘property.’” It was only later that these concepts were separated.

She then discusses Prince Albert v. Strange, a case from 1849 in which Strange is prohibited from selling copies of etchings he had catalogued for Prince Albert:

According to one commentator, the most significant aspect of this case and its underlying philosophy is that it rested on a right of privacy, which the court considered a type of property right. In fact, it appears that until 1890, no English court recognized the right to privacy independent of property rights.

Cholpecki blames Samuel Warren and Louis Brandeis’ 1890 law review article for “divorcing privacy from its historical and intellectual partner, property rights.” Because of this, she argues, in subsequent cases the courts have “muddled the parameters of the right and allowed critics to argue that the right to privacy does not exist in the Constitution.”

She sees hope in the 1977 case of Moore v. City of East Cleveland, where a plurality of justices united in the ruling, some of the basis of a right to privacy and some on the basis of property rights:

The Moore case illustrates the interconnectedness between privacy and property rights. Given the same set of facts, four members of the Court believed privacy rights were jeopardized, while another believed property rights were threatened. Ultimately, the two segments came together to protect the rights at stake. … The most enduring protection for both rights is to view each as indispensable to the other.

Privacy As Intellectual Property?

In “Privacy As Intellectual Property?,” Pamela Samuelson explores the potential benefits and pitfalls of adopting a property-based approach to privacy protections.

First, she writes, viewing data about oneself as private property matches an intuition many of us already have. Since people already have the legal right to exclude people from access (journals locked in a desk drawer, papers stored at home in a file cabinet, etc.), “they may have a sense that they have a property right in the data as well as a legal right to restrict access to it” (1130). Data protection laws reinforce this intuitive sense.

This intuitive sense of property persists even though ownership of data is not the core legal framework in American law for dealing with privacy: “Indeed, the traditional view in American law is that information as such cannot be owned by any person” (1131). Although property rights are involved with Fourth Amendment protections, it is not a property right in the information per se, but rather a property right against trespass. The Fifth Amendment (against self-incrimination) protects a liberty interest in a kind of privacy right, but it is not a property right. If a doctor reveals confidential medical information to a newspaper, a patient’s rights “would arise under contract or privacy law, not from the existence of any property rights in this information” (1131).

Samuelson suggests that granting individuals property rights in their own data might force companies to internalize the costs of privacy — if individuals retain property rights over their own information, even if gathered without their intervention, the companies would need to compensate them (and get permission) for the use by buying the rights, or forgo using the personal data. It would also have the side benefit of potentially increasing the quality of data collected, since individuals and companies would each have an incentive to make sure data is accurate (1133).

Perhaps most importantly, taking a property rights approach would allow market forces and market efficiencies handle privacy concerns, without neglecting the particular desires of individual people, and without extensive (and potentially expensive) government regulations (1135-36).

Conclusions

Both Cholpecki and Richmond write from a libertarian perspective, and both believe that connecting the right to privacy with property rights will helps unify conservative and liberal positions into one that can have positive outcomes for everyone. Samuelson approaches the issue from a critical perspective, but outlines many of the important benefits that a “privacy as property” approach might give — and notes that, especially as many American today dislike government-run anything, a system of privacy rights that leverages and extends existing property rules and regulations would likely achieve significant support.

"Property of the Hess Estate" by Flickr user Jason Eppink. CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

In Copyright and the First Amendment: The Unexplored, Unbroken Historical Practice, Terry Hart does an excellent job of exploring why the First Amendment has never been held to interfere with the enforcement of copyright, including pre-publication injunctive relief. A few quick highlights:

• Until the late 1960s, the idea that there exists any tension between the First Amendment’s prohibition on government restrictions of expression and copyright law’s encouragement of expression was nearly nonexistent.
• There were some who noted, at the least, a prior lack of recognition of the potential conflict, as in this Columbia Law Review note from 1913 on “Freedom of the Press and the Injunction.”

The main reason Hart identifies as to why legal thinkers did not consider there to be a conflict?

The first reason is that legal thinkers primarily conceived of copyright as a property right. Property is on the same footing as life and liberty. Freedom of speech, or freedom of the press, ends where deprivation of property begins.

Hart points out that the earliest (1839) case — Brandreth v. Lance, from New York — ruling on the constitutional grounds of free speech noted the following when denying an injunction for potential libel:

There is, perhaps, but one instance in the books, of any judge having maintained the existence of a power in the court of chancery of restraining publications on any other ground, but that of property and copyright.

(Note: there is another key ground on which judges — including the Supreme Court — have said that injunctions can be granted in regards to copyright: the fact that copyright is granted in the Constitution itself. See New York Times v. U.S., from 1971.)

Allgeyer v. Louisiana

As I discussed earlier, Allgeyer v. Lousiana, 165 U.S. 578 (1897) expressed the unanimous opinion of the Supreme Court that freedom of contract was a fundamental right protected by the due process clause of the Fourteenth Amendment. While this case itself was applied to limitations of out-of-state businesses operating in Louisiana, its valorization of the “liberty of contract” was extended to employment regulations as well (Hall 398).

Holden v. Hardy

Still, despite this valorization of contract as liberty the year before, hints emerged of limitations on contract that would emerge more fully in the twentieth century. In Holden v. Hardy, 169 U.S. 366 (1898), Justice Henry Billings Brown “accepted the idea that employer and employee do not stand on an equal bargaining footing” (Hall 399):

the proprietors of these establishments and their operatives do not stand upon an equality, and … their interests are, to a certain extent, conflicting. … In other words, the proprietors lay down the rules and the laborers are practically constrained to obey them.

As regulations limiting children’s working hours in factories are a valid exercise of a state’s police power — which also includes enforced vaccination, quarantine, and other protections of the public’s general welfare — so too is an act that seeks to protect workers in a particularly dangerous occupation (mining).

Lochner v. New York

At the turn of the century, the “triumph of contract” was effectively constitutionalized: Lochner v. New York, 198 U.S. 45 (1905) held that the “liberty of contract” was a fundamental right protected by the Fourteenth Amendment. Lochner invalidated legislation limiting the workweek to 60 hours on the theory that

the general right to make a contract in relation to his business is part of the liberty of the individual protected by the Fourteenth Amendment of the Federal Constitution.

The Lochner Court construed the law as an absolute interference “with the right of contract between the employer and employees,” then declared that “the general right to make a contract in relation to his business is part of the liberty of the individual protected by the Fourteenth Amendment of the Federal Constitution.” The Fourteenth Amendment’s Due Process Clause — originally intended to overturn Dred Scott and to prohibit so-called “Black Codes” — prohibits states from depriving any person of life, liberty, or property without due process of law. To the Lochner Court, the right to buy and sell labor through contract was a “liberty of the individual,” and was thus constitutionally protected.

The end of Lochner

Lochner was finally challenged successfully during the Depression, in West Coast Hotel Co. v. Parrish, 300 U.S. 379 (1937), which finally allowed for a general minimum wage in Washington State — and thus overturned the maximalist version of freedom of contract.

The black codes often required “persons of color” to sign year-long labor contracts, with wages payable at the end of the year, and punished “vagrants” found in public with mandatory labor. Newly freed slaves were often prohibited from working in many occupations and from acquiring land. But even when not forced by law or force to sign such contracts, many African-Americans — with limited options — signed such contracts voluntarily.

Despite their unfair terms and limited voluntariness, Southern courts enforced these contracts. (It was, in truth, extremely difficult for African-Americans to challenge their terms, since the codes also limited access to the courts by former slaves.)

The Freedmen’s Bureau, established by Congress in 1865 as part of the Department of War, tried to mitigate the black codes. It attempted to “provide food, shelter, education, and legal protection to the recently emancipated slaves” (Hall 266), and even heard cases where the state judicial system was inadequate or lacked due process (266). According to Paul Cymbala, the Bureau also supervised contracts — although that might well have reinforced the power of “contract slavery” by encouraging freedmen to voluntarily sign such contracts.

Regardless of the racial basis of such contracts, the law continued to pretend, at least into the twentieth century, that labor contracts were the result of free bargaining between equal parties. In Allegeyer v. Louisiana, 165 U.S. 578 (1897), the Supreme Court explained that the Fourteenth Amendment guaranteed “liberty of contract” — 

the term is deemed to embrace the right of the citizen to be free in the enjoyment of all his faculties; to be free to use them in all lawful ways; to live and work where he will; to earn his livelihood or avocation, and for that purpose to enter into all contracts which may be proper, necessary and essential to his carrying out to a successful conclusion the purposes above mentioned.

Thus, the Fourteenth Amendment had shifted from a device to free enslaved labor, to one that consigned laborers to effective enslavement and terrible working conditions — provided there was a contract to that effect.

Breaking the Vicious Cycle, Stephen Breyer

In Breaking the Vicious Circle, Justice Stephen Breyer tackles the problem of regulation and risk in the American context:

Justice Breyer identifies several systemic problems that plague the regulatory process in the United States. He discusses how public (mis)perceptions, congressional (over)reaction, and technical (un)certainty create a “vicious circle” that increasingly undermines the legitimacy of the regulatory process.  —  Eric J. Gouvin, A Square Peg In A Vicious Circle: Stephen Breyer’s Optimistic Prescription For The Regulatory Mess

Breyer complains that the current approach to risk regulation is irrational. Because the perception of risk drives voters, and therefore public officials, to focus on specific potential harms, there is little appropriate “risk-benefit” assessment employed.

For example, regulators may seek to clean up every aspect of a potential agent — like asbestos — while neglecting to consider whether the benefit of complete cleanup is worth the risk, either monetary or physical:

For example, “cleaning up” asbestos in public buildings causes asbestos fibers that would have remained harmlessly in place to become airborne, increasing significantly the chance of those fibers lodging in workers’ lungs and creating medical problems. (Gouvin, n. 11, 475)

Breyer puts together a table showing that some regulations with costs of $10 million to $5.7 trillion per life saved. In short, the “marginal cost of extra health may daunt all but the most zealous” (Stephen F. Williams, “Risk Regulations and its Hazards,” 1499).

1995′s approach is also uncoordinated. Breyer points out that regulations on space heaters cost $100,000 per life saved, while bans on DES in cattle feed cost roughly $125 million “per statistical life” (22). Stephen Williams explains that Breyer sees this as a “wasteful allocation of resources” that over invests in certain areas and neglects others (1498). In other words, with limited resources available, such uncoordinated and disconnected spending fails to save the maximum number of possible lives per available dollar — and little has changed in 2012.

Regulations also overlap in unanticipated (but likely not unanticipatable) ways:

Proposed rules concerning disposal of sewer sludge, designed to save one statistical life every five years, would encourage waste incineration likely to cause two statistical deaths annually (22).

In other words, disparate agencies assessing and regulating risk tend to focus on their own peculiar zones of risk, and fail to appreciate the big picture of interacting regulations.

In summary, Breyer categorizes the various regulatory failures like those described above as (1) tunnel vision, (2) random agenda selection, and (3) inconsistency.

The Source of the Problem

Irrational regulations emerge from a triumvirate of sources: (1) inaccurate public perceptions; (2) congressional action and reaction, instead of planning; and (3) uncertainties in the regulatory process.

First, even if lay people do think rationally about possible risks — and Breyer thinks they tend to — they “are unlikely to acquire a full grasp of the relevant facts” (Williams, 1500). The lay public typically gets its information from press sources, and the press focuses on the dramatic. A focus on toxic-waste dumps, for example, along with a presentation of higher-than-average cancer rates in nearby areas, may conflate causation with correlation and lead to an irrational (if viewed from a societal perspective, anyway) demand to regulate toxic-waste dumps to reduce the incidence of cancer.

Second, Congress tends to be reactive to what they perceive as voter’s current demands — since these demands are what get them re-elected. (The House, which its short, 2-year election cycle, is even more prone to this than the Senate, which grants 6 years between elections). And with changing Congressional representation, agencies may receive vastly different, and potentially incompatible, regulatory missions.

Third, the regulatory process itself is uncertain, because the science of risk is uncertain. It is essentially impossible to set up a double-blind, controlled study of the effects of small amounts of benzene on humans over a 60-year period. Instead, researchers use short-term, high-dose animal studies and then extrapolate to the long-term effects on humans.

But rats are not humans, and high-doses of chemicals do not necessarily cause the same effects as low-doses. As Breyer observes, there is “no consistent scientific rational for assuming a linear relation between dose and response” (44).

Statistical and epidemiological studies can get around these particular problems, but introduce their own potential issues — especially around the problems of distinguishing between causation and correlation. Also — impossible to isolate all variable. Variables are never truly independent. Best to look for lots of study — meta-studies — an rather inductive science.

Breyer’s Solution

Breyer has no real solution to the technical problems of the science, other than to let technically trained people — those who understand the problems with the science — make the decisions. He does have many suggestions about how to structure a bureaucracy/technocracy that can better weigh, assess, and decide on policies based on the data that can be generated with today’s science.

His overall solution is quintessentially technocratic, and very much reminiscent of a more European model of regulatory authority. He wants, in the words of Todd Zubler, “an elite and insulated cadre of civil servants” (244) — experts in both science and government — to “unite[] political power with wisdom.” (Breyer, x) This Socratic unity, as opposed to the voting booth, is what creates trust; it “must be central in any effort to create the politics of trust” (81).

More specifically, Zubler says,

Breyer wants to establish a new and prestigious career path by which civil servants could develop regulatory expertise across a number of different governmental agencies. These experienced bureaucrats could then form a small, centralized administrative group that could coordinate and rationalize the nation’s regulatory agenda. Such an organization, according to Breyer, would combine the expertise, broad vision, political insulation, and interagency jurisdiction which are all so lacking in the current system. (244)

Issues

Zubler worries that Breyer’s new centralized bureaucracy goes too far. Other forces can also protect people from risk, including the market and the judicial system:

But … regulation is only needed when market and common law mechanisms fail. To push bureaucratic regulation beyond those situations threatens individual liberty and freedom. (247)

Put differently, Breyer’s European-style, top-down, technocratic system brings efficiency and rationality to bear of the problem of risk. But — interestingly for a lawyer and judge — it neglects the bottom-up tools that are core to the American approach, such as tort law and free-market competition. He proposes a grand, top-down restructuring that does nothing to adjust and improve an individual’s ability to assess and manage risk, such as improved labeling and consumer information and better access to the courts.

The Judiciary

What would be the role of the judiciary in an America where technocratic elites are making regulatory decisions?

Medical device manufacturers have already argued — and won — the case that FDA-approval of medical devices preempts tort lawsuits (Riegel v. Medtronic, 552 U.S. 312 (2008)). On the other hand, drug manufacturers lost their bid for preemption in Wyeth v. Levine, 555 U.S. 555 (2009).

Would — or should — Breyer’s approach preempt lawsuits? For maximum efficiency, it should — but the American system is not about efficiency at all. It’s about checking the power of any one part of government. The judiciary’s role since Marbury v. Madison, at least, is to check the rest of government. But while eliminating this check would fundamentally alter the balance of power, not doing so would severely undermine many gains in efficiency.

Interestingly, Breyer’s unelected, technocratic elite are reminiscent of the federal judiciary itself. It too consists of specialists (in law) who are unelected (they appointed by the President) and unaccountable (except via impeachment, federal judges serve for life). But the judiciary is considered the third branch of American government, and these special attributes serve as its means of checking and balancing the executive and legislative branches. Extending these attributes to Breyer’s new cadre might well create the equivalent of a fourth branch — and would anything less prove effective enough to be worth the effort?

Liberal or Conservative?

Finally, I wonder how to characterize Breyer’s proposal: is it liberal, conservative, or something else? In many respects, his solution is extremely conservative: it presumes a distrust of the public that is reminiscent of conservative distrust of poor voters, for example. But it invokes a liberal (in the modern sense), governmental solution to the problem, one that is opposed to contemporary Republican views that government is the problem, not the solution. On the other hand, a more efficient regulatory system could eliminate government waste, reform tort law, and free business from burdensome, pointless regulations. A more efficient government is a cheaper government that would require fewer taxes — a popular conservative goal.

Depending on the details, then, Breyer’s reforms could appeal to both Democrats and Republicans — but certainly not to modern libertarians, or to anyone opposed to government on principle. It is, in a sense, anti-individualist, and deeply dismissive of old liberal notions of market-based corrections and individual responsibility.

Conclusions

Still, gains in efficiency and effectiveness would not require such radical changes. Improved cross-agency coordination and more inclusion of scientific experts — perhaps with a more limited version of Breyer’s technocratic bureau — might provide major gains without requiring fundamental readjustments of the American system.

My short opinion? Breyer effectively identified major systemic problems with the American regulatory system, but his full proposed solution is simply impractical in the United States (perhaps especially in 2012) — but more limited versions would still provide useful reforms. But any of this would require greater trust and respect in science — and a philosophical uniting of virtue and wisdom by scientists is not enough to overcome the current anti-intellectual and anti-science beliefs prevalent today in the American Right:

“The dangers of carbon dioxide? Tell that to a plant, how dangerous carbon dioxide is.”  —  2012 GOP presidential candidate Rick Santorum.

Specifically, the Supreme Court ruled 5-2 against the old Charles River Bridge Company, saying that Massachusetts had not violated the federal constitution’s Contracts Clause — a victory, it was held at the time, for state’s rights (as was Dred Scott). Justice Taney, generally very conservative and pro-property rights (and incidentally in favor of preserving slavery, as abolition would deprive owners of property), ruled against the contracts claim of the private corporation in favor of the public good:

While the rights of private property are sacredly guarded, we must not forget that the community also have rights, and that the happiness and well-being of every citizen depends on their faithful preservation. Charles River Bridge, 36 U.S. at 548.

Taney aligned the “public good” with progress and technological improvements. Ruling in favor of the entrenched Charles River Bridge Corporation would mean that the country would “be thrown back to the improvements of the last century, and obliged to stand still.” Id. If an exclusive monopoly were upheld, then incumbent highway corporations would hold back development of new railroads and canals, which were booming as the new technologies of the nineteenth centuries.

New developments and new approaches had permitted a new corporation to build a new bridge at a lower cost — and to make it free within a few years of its opening, while still turning a profit for its investors. But in doing so, the profit-making potential of the old bridge was destroyed (although investors had already made back their initial investment multiple times over).

But hadn’t the old company taken a risk initially? Didn’t its investors deserve to reap their new profits because they had taken the risk initially? Wouldn’t setting a precedent that their state-granted monopoly could be limited later actually inhibit future investment?

If these questions all seem rather familiar in the 21st century, it’s because these are the same kinds of arguments advanced by patent and copyright holders today. Pharmaceutical companies want their patent monopolies to extend further, and argue that failing to grant a sufficient monopoly would inhibit development and investment. Music and movie companies argue that their copyright monopolies should extend even further than it does now — because otherwise creation and investment would suffer.

Taney said “no” to this argument in 1837. I’ll ask the obvious question, then: did this decision to limit a monopoly contract reduce investment and technological development in the nineteenth century? The (equally obvious) answer is, “no”: the nineteenth century gave us railroads, the telegraph, the telephone, and much, much more. If there’s anything we can learn from Taney’s 1837 decision, it’s that minimizing monopoly rights does not inhibit development — and, I think, the reverse is even more likely.

It’s a lesson we would do well to keep in mind when considering the length and extent of patent and copyright monopolies.

Before the Civil War, the states and the federal government were locked in an uneasy balance of power. The federal constitution listed certain areas (treaties, post offices, patents, interstate commerce, constitutional interpretation, and more) where federal supremacy was clear (via Article VI, Clause 2), but other areas defaulted to the states (made explicit by the 10th Amendment).

Southern planters generally favored state government power, as they were afraid that the foundation of their raw-material economy would be undermined if the federal government — especially a federal government led by Northern manufacturing interests — gained the power to abolish slavery in the South. Their interests were directly represented in the Constitution itself in several places: Article 1, Section 9 forbid banning the slave trade until at least 1808, the “Enumeration Clause” counted slaves as 3/5ths of a person for the purposes of the census (though they could not vote, of course), and the “Fugitive Slave Clause” required escaped slaves to be returned ”on Claim of the Party.”

Despite these protections, Southern slaveholders grew increasingly nervous that their economic system — which they increasingly argued was not just a “necessary evil,” but rather constituted a “positive good” — would either be directly challenged by the North, or would die out if it could not expand westward.

In the face of growing Northern power, arguments for state’s rights grew in the South — after all, if state government was at least equal to the federal government in power, then it would be difficult for the federal government (even if eventually dominated by the North) to restrict or eliminate slavery.

But despite these growing states’ rights arguments — including Georgia and President Andrew Jackson’s refusal to follow the Supreme Court ruling that federal treaties trumped state action in the Cherokee cases — Southerns appeared to embrace a different view of the balance between federal and state power in 1850.

Before 1850, Northern states had become increasingly reluctant to return runaway slaves to the South, denying planters their property without recompense. Laws to add more legal protections before alleged escapees would be returned meant that the burden on Southerns seeking the return of their property grew. One reaction was vigilante-style kidnapping of blacks in the North, some of whom turned out to be free blacks, not escaped slaves. Northern laws punished kidnappers, and Southerners were unhappy.

The Fugitive Slave Act of 1850 was designed to allay the anger of the South. It created a new federal agency and new federal commissioners who acted much as had U.S. Marshalls previously. These new commissioners could deputize and track escaped slaves, and were paid by the federal government and also for each slave returned. Soon, this new agency became the largest federal employer, exceeding the number of postal employees soon after it was passed.

The Fugitive Slave Act was anything but pro-state’s rights. To assist commissioners in apprehending slaves, troops were even sent into Boston to quell dissent and escort a captured slave from the city. Northern state laws on due process were ignored, and alleged escapees received no jury trial, no were they able to testify on their own behalf — despite Northern laws. In other words, the South embraced the law and the exercise of federal power.

But this new balance only postponed the battle between North and South for eleven more years. Western states were increasingly adopting anti-slavery positions (although they also sometimes banned African-Americans from moving there), and the South felt increasing pressure. Even the 1857 Dred Scott decision by the Supreme Court, led by the Southern Chief Justice Roger B. Taney, and intended to settle the slave question “once and for all” only delayed the Civil War by another few years.

By 1861, with the election of Abraham Lincoln on a platform that opposed the expansion of slavery westward (though not the abolition of slavery in the South — that came later, during the war), the South had decided that secession was the only option to protect their economic and political system.