The REINS Act presents an opportunity for those interested in administrative law to look into their assumptions and values. A few ideas immediately come to mind: efficiency, accountability, expertise, and good government. The prospect of a process in which the political branch passes a law, then passes it along to agencies to promulgate rules, then brings back in those rules for approval before agencies may start enforcing them presents a shift in the administrative process, the fascination of which I’m not sure either side in the debate really trumpets.

The supporters seem to think the rulemaking process is a part of process of making the statute in the first place; so it makes perfect sense that Congress should sign off on the rules promulgated pursuant to its own initiatives. Supporters also assume the elected representatives’ quick votes on the rules provide a measure of democratic accountability. They are generally skeptical of the competence and accountability of bureaucrats.

Objectors seem to think rulemaking is a function by which Presidents impose policy and assert power as a useful opposing branch to Congress. Objectors assume voters can hold agencies accountable every four years during the Presidential elections. They are generally skeptical of the political motivations and monetary capture of Congresspeople.

I haven’t seen as much discussion on what REINS means for the process of governing, and the values we attach to the various actors within government. So, below are a few questions.

Should a current Congress be able to prevent the promulgation of statutes passed by a prior Congress, without actually repealing the statute?

Say the GOP won both houses in 2010 with a veto proof majority and promptly passed laws requiring the Occupational Safety & Health Administration to revise its regulations to prevent only the workplace hazards causing “severe or frequent injuries.” OSHA works on the new rule for a few years, researching the severity and frequency of each occupation’s injuries, and finally produces the rule to Congress in 2013. Meanwhile, Democrats swept back into control of the House in 2012. The Democrats don’t have the votes to repeal the 2010 “NOSHA Act,” but when presented with OSHA’s rule, reject it by resolution. And they do so on every revised rule.

Is it desirable to allow a representative to vote in favor of a popular bill, but against its implementation?

Obstruction by resolution might not be by a later Congress against its predecessor. As I mentioned in a prior post, a representative might vote for the “Everyone Likes it in Theory” Act, but against the “Actually Putting it into Practice” regulation. REINS, then, might afford our elected officials another tool in the trickery of campaign ads.

Certainly it is possible that a representative will sincerely believe an agency got something wrong in its rule, and want to send it back for revision. That presents its own danger–the sometimes endlessness of noodling in minutia. Until now, we’ve left it for agencies to do the fine tuning, which takes years. REINS invites politicians into that process.

What does it mean to interpret a vague piece of legislation; when agencies add the necessarily tremendously detailed rules to statutes, are they in fact legislating or implementing existing legislation?

On one end of the spectrum, if a court believes that an agency actually changed a statute through rulemaking, the rule will be overturned. On the other end, a rule carrying out a specific statutory directive will stand.

In between are those rules that inspire the most written about doctrine in administrative law, Chevron, in which the statute was a little fuzzy and the agency decided on a particular interpretation.

Or rules that apply expertise where Congress asked for such expertise: like, Congress instructing the EPA Administrator to prescribe emission standards for air pollutants “which in his judgment cause, or contribute to, air pollution which may reasonably be anticipated to endanger public health or welfare.” 42 U.S.C. 7521(a)(1).

Is a rule an executive or legislative function?
Writers commonly describe agencies as performing quasi-legislative (rulemaking) and quasi-judicial (enforcing, adjudicating) tasks. I’ve wondered whether it’s appropriate to allow the “quasi-legislative” description to place agencies within the legislative branch in a separation of powers argument. Indeed, in my mind, rulemaking is neither an executive nor legislative function.

Rulemaking is simply an agency’s placing into executable rules already existing legislation. If an agency changes the legislation in the process of making a rule, the rule is invalid.

Execution, I think, is better left to those activities that enforce rules in effect. Note, of course, that a great deal of interpretation (guidance, decisions on when to enforce, allocation of resources) goes on in the act of enforcing.

Rulemaking, though, involves an effort to take a law and apply a framework with which it will apply to the real world. The idea has long been that Congress is institutionally unable to prescribe every detailed rule, so it delegates to experts that last step, teeing up one more question for now:

What is the best structure for, and by what process can we assure, an appropriate balance of expertise and accountability in the final rules governing our day-today lives?

The Constitution failed to provide a framework for the administrative state, even though (thanks to Professor Mashaw we know that) the framers should have seen it coming. Thus, statutory law (the APA) provides our structure, and that is what REINS aims to alter.

Far more than the canards of jobs, red tape, or the benefit of having regulations generally, the discussion REINS should be inspiring is of the basic processes of lawmaking and rulemaking. Will better (whether your opinion of “better” means fewer, more, or more effective) regulations result from providing Congress an up or down vote on every promulgated rule?

Will that process add significantly to the time it takes to put any given rule into effect, and is that good or bad? Will that process push agency rulemaking staff to work with Congressional staff and lobbyists far more while drafting rules, and is that good? Will they pay more attention to politics and less to economists and scientists? Will the need to pass Congressional approval become a response to public comments?

I tend to think REINS allows for political cover and massive regualtory delay. I doubt it will ever make the President’s desk, and if it does it’ll be vetoed. However, in another time, if such a change indeed comes along, I will dream of a world in which voters pay attention to how their representatives vote (on both the bill and the rule); in which every representative has the philosophical capacity to vote for or against general principles and the technocratic capacity to vote for or against the subsequent rule; and in which every representative can speed read sufficiently to fully understand and give a fair assessment of a rule within 15 to 30 days.

Finally, a correction: when I first posted on REINS I’d only read Section 1. REINS requires both houses of Congress to approve by joint resolution any new major rule. I thought a vote wasn’t required, which would have problematically allowed Congress to kill rules through inaction. That’s not the case, but the actual provisions, which do require an up or down vote, pose some problems.

The process is roughly this, for major rules: an agency submits to Congress its rule; the majority leaders of the House and Senate introduce resolutions accepting the rule, and then pass it on to the relevant committee; that committee then has 15 days to allow the joint resolution to stand, or propose amendments to the underlying statute; the joint resolution then goes tot he calendar for an up or down vote that must happen within 15 session days, with debate limited to 2 hours.

Jonathan Adler praises REINS’ expedited review and mandatory vote, but it is a strange comfort. Agencies take several years to develop major rules, and Congress is to vote on the thing in about 30 days. If one house plays more safe than sorry, and rejects the rule, it is back to the perdurable drawing board.

So you think Griswold taught judicial reviewers to read between the lines?  It seems, rather, to’ve been Demosthenes.

Textualists, intentionalists, and spiritualists (of the law) have long debated how we ought apply the lines of our Constitution and statues to specific cases.  Can we, for instance, infer a basic privacy right from the first ten amendments.

Here’s a glimpse of our American debate, via an exchange at the Ashbrook Center:

Peter W. Schramm: Another question. Justice Thomas, could you comment on the reasoning of Griswald, and tell us what you believe it could lead to in terms of the expansion of privacy rights?

Justice Thomas: Griswald has been around a long time. I will comment on it only to this extent. Of course you know that there the rights were supposedly emanated from these penumbras. So when I got to the court, a friend of mine, who will remain nameless, sent me a custom made sign that’s on display in my office that says, “Please do not emanate into the penumbra.” And I’ve tried to steadfastly avoid doing that.

I don’t know what it would lead to. I think that the scholars have reached different conclusions, but we of course know that that was one of the precursor decisions for Roe v. Wade. And of course, we’ve changed that reasoning a bit inCasey. But we’re already beginning to get, and I’m just talking about a class of cases–I’m moving a little bit away from privacy a second–we’re already beginning to get the reliance in the right to die cases, on some of those cases, certainly on Casey, and language in Casey. So I think you can begin to see that the big cases, and I’ve said this to others, that you’re going to begin to see, I think, some cases now talking about who gets to live, who gets to die, who gets to be born and all sorts of things like that. And that’s going to be hard, and I think they’re going to rely on some of these precursor cases. And how we come out, I don’t know.

So it was neat tonight to read Adriaan Lanni’s article on judicial review in ancient Athens.  The article describes the legal arguments that Athenians made against newly passed decrees and laws.  Mostly, the arguments used two lines of reasoning – (1) the law’s inception violated the process through which laws are supposed to come about; and (2) the law directly violates a previous law.  But then there was this:

Wolff’s landmark study, “Normenkontrolle” und Gesetzesbegriff in der attischen Demokratie, added a third category of legal argument: the statute under review contravened general principles that could be logically derived from existing statutes, as opposed to directly contradicting a specific provision.  Wolff viewed this third category of argument as most central to Athenian notions of constitutionality, and carefully traced the Athenians’ increasing sophistication at extracting fundamental principles from statutes over time. Two additional aspects of Wolff’s theory are important for our purposes: first, the fundamental principles involve moral and social values and institutions … as well as democratic political and legal norms … and, second, the general principles are always derived from statutes and are never appealed to as independent, abstract values.
Got that?  It seems to me Justice Douglas might have just as well phrased his penumbra as “general principles logically derived” from the Bill of Rights.
Another thing’s interesting here – note this about the Athenian principles and the penumbra: both avoid Natural Law, as Lanni points out at the end of the above quote.  It is a judicial review based on text and construction, rather than divining meaning from without.

the quick thought:

I’m currently leafing through a book that argues our arguments over Constitutional interpretative methodology are a regrettable distraction from “substantive reasoning in support of one interpretation or another.”  The little book ,Keeping Faith with the Constitution, is the American Constitution Society’s vision of Constitutional interpretation, as delivered by Goodwin Liu, Pamela Karlan, and Christopher Schroader; and it serves to unveil a new phrase: Constitutional fidelity.  ”Keeping faith” might mean sticking to plain textual meaning, like the requisite age of a President; or, it may mean adapting broad text to context, like including non-physical searches within the scope from which we are protected in the Fourth Amendment.

Without going any further with the book, though (as I’m only a few pages in), I bring it up now because it got me thinking about interpretation.  Yes, the book urges against the endless loop of debate on interpretations – but it is a book about interpretation, so we can be forgiven to indulge a bit here on OR.

I started drawing out a diagram today – I’m thinking out loud whether dedication to original intent and dedication to text are two extreme positions between which most judges reason.  We will re-work this based on comments.

interpretation diagram

All that aside, this showed up on my google reader today:

toothpastefordinner.com
toothpastefordinner.com

By the end of the 19th Century, Gilmore writes, several “rules” of Contract law had been attached to what were once specific cases.  The rules “had been generalized into abstractions that had little or nothing to do with the cases themselves.”  (Ch. 1).

In the case of Stilk v. Myrick, two seamen deserted a ship and the master promised the remaining men the divided wages of the deserters if those remaining would continue on without additional help.  When the master ultimately refused that promised payment and the seamen sued, the judge ruled that the plaintiffs were entitled to no more money than they originally signed on for.

In 1920, Professor Williston, in his treatise on Contracts, used the case name to label a rule on contract modifications, stating that no new contract can be formed based on work already required by a contracting party.  Gilmore complains that Williston’s rule from Stilk v. Myrick makes no sense in light of the facts from the case, as, indeed, the seamen presumably took on much more difficult and different roles down two men.  Gilmore dedicates 7 pages to the question: How did the name from one case came to stand for an abstract and un-fully-related rule?  He explores maritime law and the “vagaries of early nineteenth century English case-reporting.”  My impression from Gilmore’s telling is that something like a conventional wisdom built up around the reasoning in Stilk.  By the time Williston used the case, the facts had dissolved and a common understanding remained – a nugget-sized principle that sparked in heads when hearing the case name arose.  Sort of like Marbury‘s sparking the notion of judicial review.

In any event, Gilmore runs the reader through a couple more case-to-rule transformations.  As the cases become rules, the forgotten facts seem to rub akwardly against the rules.  Also, the rules conform with the theory of consideration that Williston believed essential to contract formation.  In his second lecture, Gilmore discusses Justice Holmes’ belief that “the inevitable process of legal development” was from subjective to objective; from particular cases to generaly applicable rules.  The trend amplifies what Gilmore noted in his first lecture as he described cases becoming rules.  It is also clear that, if subjective/specific cases become objective/general rules, someone does the synthesizing – someone objectifies the legal principles.  Gilmore makes that point, though I didn’t notice him making the point outright.  Rather, we see consideration, a general avoidance of damages, and a hesitation to contract formation as what must have been biases among those that cemented Contract rules.

The forward’s writer to my edition wonders whether Grant Gilmore might have parodied the central criticism of the book: creating legal theory with oversimplified and fabricated legal history.  To be sure, Gilmore presents, in Death of Contract, an approximately 100-years’ history of the law.  And, his account of contract theory is tidy  (the chapters are telling: Origins, Development, Decline and Fall, Conclusions and Speculations).

Gilmore’s history of contract law sets up, ultimately, his broader statement that the law reflects its socio-political environment.  That, alone, is not spectacularly insightful.  Gilmore couples the thought, though, with his observation that legal theoretical structure swings between classical and romantic trends–between, that is, tidy categorization (classical) and improvised chaos (romantic).  In the law of “civil obligation,” Gilmore believes contract law was shaped into a classically organized theory beginning shortly after the Civil War, and then, after that order decayed, reached the height of romanticism in the late 1970s.  The book ends with a predicted return to order.  Gilmore, as I read him, did not appear dedicated to either.  But before we tackle the substance of that debate, it is worthwhile to linger on Grant Gilmore’s account of legal history.  And, as history requires characters to manifest a story, Contract is the protagonist in this tale.

A hundred years before Gilmore’s lectures, “classical” contract theory arose.  That it arose irks Gilmore, and he dedicates the tone and asides in the first two lectures to emphasizing his disapproval.  The first lines refer to Professor Langdell’s casebook on Contracts, published in 1871; the first casebook on the subject, and the beginning, according to Gilmore, of an unnecessary and damaging exercise in legal categorization.  Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. and Samuel Williston carried, cleansed, and made absolute the theory of Contract with publications in 1881 and 1920, respectively.  But, by 1950, Professor Corbin was dismantling the artificial edifice of Contracts theory.

Langdell, then, did little more than launch the idea that there was – or should be – such a thing as a general theory of contract.  The theory itself was pieced together by his successors – notably Holmes, in broad philosophical outline, and Williston, in meticulous, although not always accurate, scholarly detail.  At this point it is necessary to give some content to what we may call the Holmes-Williston construct – which I shall attempt to do impressionistically rather than scientifically.  Having accomplished that chore, we can return to the far more interesting business of speculating on why Langdell’s idea, brilliantly reformulated by Holmes, had the fabulous success it did instead of going down the drain into oblivion as a hundred better ideas than Langdell’s do every day of the week.

Gilmore refers to the Langdell/Holmes/Williston line as “classical contract” theory, and I’ll do the same.  What is classical contract theory, and why jurists create it?  In his chapter, the “Origins,” of classical contract theory, Gilmore goes into the details of a few cases that were picked up in early Contracts treatises “because … the devious process by which the ‘cases’ became the ‘rules’ of the general theory of contract can be understood only microscopically.”  Indeed, that transformation of “cases” to “rules” is crucial element to the artificial building up of contract theory.

(I’ll continue this post presently.)

For folks like me that went into law school following four years in the liberal arts, a tough transition was that from a semester of a couple dozen light paperbacks to only five, heavy, hardback casebooks.  The latter add gravity (in every meaning) to your bookcase, but the former are far more pleasurable to carry into the coffee shop.  Moreover, in college it is your job to read your professor’s several favorite gems – something our lacking diciplines allow too little time for outside the academy.

Fortunately, law school provides as much history, philosophy, and so on that you want to take from it.  Not knowing that, though, I remember my relief in the August before my first semester.  Having picked up the requisite volumes for Torts, Civil Procedure, Criminal Law, and Property, I saw next to the casebook for Contracts that the professor added one familiar gift to liberal arts set: a little paperback.  My hopes were fulfilled upon thumbing through the little book and seeing that it was a book of legal theory.  Not cases, not outlines, and not tips for passing a test; but theory.  And it had a bold title: The Death of Contract.  How, I wondered, was my Contracts professor going to apply this?

He didn’t.  We never read it, and it gathered dust on my bookshelf for the past six years.  My copy has an unappetizing grey/blue cover and I assumed it was simply a book about contract law, which I was happy to avoid.

I picked it up the other day while shifting some books around to make room on the shelf.  Since I was supposed to be cleaning, I naturally began idly reading the forward to the book.  Hmm, so this is a response to Oliver Wendell Holmes’s The Common Law.  This is about how law develops.  This is about law and language’s intertwined relationship.  And it’s so short.

So I brought Grant Gilmore’s The Death of Contract along for plane reading en route to a recent wedding, and have read about half now.  In a nutshell, he uses the rise of the common law of contracts to talk more generally about common law, or, judge-made law.  Really, it is not so right to say “the rise of the common law of contracts,” and this gets to Gilmore’s point.  There has long been plenty of useful law to talk about when arguing over contracts.  Gilmore’s gripe, if I am accurately getting to it, is with the manner in which the history of contract cases was solidified into a common law worthy of solidification into a treatise.

I will come to his attack on Holmes in a later post.  This one is just an introduction – if you have the book handy, have a quick read and join the book club.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 41 other followers