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In this Note I undertake a historical survey of the conceptual predecessors to the Fourteenth Amendment’s Privileges or Immunities Clause, from the sixteenth century through the mid-nineteenth century. By doing so I present a different angle on the potential significance of this provision, which merits revisitation as a clause bearing meaningful judicially cognizable rights, despite its effective foreclosure under the Slaughter-House Cases. Because of the open-ended and adaptive quality of this enigmatic phrase and its preceding variants, it bore a wide range of significances over the centuries. Indeed, as this Note also demonstrates, one can trace critical moments in early American history alongside varying uses of this phrase, further indicating its previously evolutionary quality. In its earliest forms, it implied the British Crown’s support for the development of colonies in the New World, and soon thereafter, it served as a vehicle for establishing individual rights akin to those of the Magna Carta. It also generated newfound rights that provided justification for the American Revolution and was used to advance unity among the states of the new nation, especially for the sake of economic development.

In the decades prior to the Civil War, its meaning was shaped by the pressing issue of slavery. Justice Bushrod Washington’s limiting construction of the Privileges and Immunities Clause in Corfield v. Coryell, I propose, was centrally informed by the debates leading to the Missouri Compromise, in which slaveholding as a protected right under privileges and immunities was a key point of contention. Because Corfield implicitly truncated the basis for asserting a right to slaveholding via privileges and immunities, the Court in Dred Scott, dominated by Southern justices, focused on excluding access to such rights based on immutable characteristics.

The Southern preference for broad rights and narrow access, however, was definitively defeated through war. It is thus uncertain whether a historically informed meaning of the Privileges or Immunities Clause necessarily turns on the disputes in the decades immediately leading to the Fourteenth Amendment’s ratification—which would suggest a fixed and narrow construction aligned with Corfield—or whether the deeper, evolutionary history of privileges and immunities lends a meaningful gloss on the clause, counseling a broader and more expansive interpretation. The Fourteenth Amendment’s legislative history is ambiguous at best, providing fodder for both possible readings.

While confronting these uncertainties, this Note draws from a historical method not previously deployed for the purpose of grasping the fuller meaning of this constitutional provision: It undertakes a longue durée approach, accounting for the variations of this phrase’s significance across time and as affected by a dynamic multiplicity of inputs. Most claims regarding the meaning of this clause tend to pinpoint one or several moments in its long history as the “true” origin point(s). A historical sense of privileges and immunities derived through this method, however, indicates that reaching a determination on the breadth of rights conveyed through this provision entails the resolution of a close call, requiring careful sifting of historical data, perhaps paired with other constitutional principles and policy considerations.

Less than two years after the Supreme Court in Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization overturned Roe v. Wade, the landmark decision recognizing a right to choose abortion, a campaign to reverse Dobbs and reestablish a new right to reproductive autonomy has taken shape. This emerging strategy deploys what this Article calls state constitutional incrementalism: an effort to chip away at a federal precedent by scoring wins in state supreme courts.

This Article explores the promises and perils of state constitutional incrementalism, using reproductive rights, both past and present, as a critical case study. It traces the history of antiabortion incrementalism, with special attention to state courts, and then explores how contemporary abortion-rights advocates have drawn on the lessons of the past (among others) to reverse engineer this campaign in the present day. Two incrementalist strategies have emerged in state court as a result: efforts to secure state constitutional protections for abortion and to highlight the inadequacy of exceptions to state abortion bans. These efforts are incremental in more than one sense. None of them directly challenge federal precedent. In the short term, however, both promise to change the reality on the ground, state by state. And both can set the stage for a later challenge to a federal precedent.

A complicated picture of the costs and benefits of state constitutional incrementalism emerges from this study. State constitutional incrementalism can offer powerful evidence of the internal contradictions and unworkability of state precedents that echo a federal decision or state laws that a federal precedent permits. State constitutional incrementalism also facilitates experimentation with different jurisprudential foundations for constitutional rights. These experiments can afford a rare glimpse of the real-world efficacy of different approaches to liberty and equality. And a critical mass of state constitutional decisions can provide evidence of an “evolving,” popular understanding of the constitutional protections that may also matter in the federal context.

At the same time, however, the success of state reproductive-rights incrementalism, much like the fight to reverse Roe, will depend a great deal on the responsiveness of state courts to popular mobilizations for constitutional change. History shows that the incrementalist campaign to undo Roe owed as much to gerrymandering, efforts to deregulate campaign spending, and strategies to limit access to the vote than it did to lower court victories or incrementalist litigation. A new effort to restore reproductive rights will have to attend as closely to the same kinds of structural change.

Legal scholars have long debated the President’s authority over administrative agencies. However, these narratives have ignored that Presidents have assumed directive control for decades—via the National Security Council. This Note fills that void in two ways. First, it provides a historical account. It reviews available national security directives and assesses their role in instigating administrative action. It reveals that, over time, Presidents have increasingly invoked these directives to mold domestic and economic policy. Second, this Note evaluates national security directives under three models of presidential authority: the unitary executive theory, Justice Elena Kagan’s notion of implied statutory authorization, and Professor Kevin Stack’s requirement of explicit statutory permission. It determines that all three theories sanction the President’s deployment of national security directives to control agencies and shape domestic affairs. This Note concludes that by providing a firm constitutional and statutory footing from which a President can dictate administrative action, national security directives are a powerful and expanding presidential tool.

Over the last fifty years, the Republican Party has gradually claimed a majority of state legislative seats and chambers. What explains this? Scholars point to Republican grassroots mobilization of conservative voters in the late-twentieth century. This Essay adds another explanation: Republicans win disproportionate state legislative seat shares by winning rural districts by narrow, efficient margins and by changing state legislative redistricting practices, sometimes by state constitutional amendment. This Essay recounts this history, noting how in the mid-twentieth century, rural-dominated state legislatures failed to mandate fair, regular reapportionment, prompting the Supreme Court in 1964 to force the states to reapportion their legislatures and entrench fair redistricting and voting rights provisions in their state constitutions. Reapportionment added conservative, suburban districts, expanding Republicans’ state legislative seat share in the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s. With subsequent urban-rural polarization and realignment, Republicans began winning rural districts by narrow, efficient margins, while Democrats won urban districts by wide, inefficient margins, letting Republicans win a greater statewide legislative seat share than popular vote share. Insulated from the popular vote, especially in competitive states, Republican state legislators entrenched their seats by changing elections and redistricting practices, sometimes through state constitutional reform that weakened earlier voting rights and redistricting provisions.

Since the end of the Civil War, courts consistently misread and under-utilized the historical sources available when interpreting the scope and meaning of the Reconstruction Amendments. Even as historians updated their understandings of Reconstruction history, the courts lagged, shackling themselves to incorrect historical accounts and outdated precedents.

Entering the twenty-first century, the Supreme Court engaged in a more thorough historical review of Reconstruction, prompting historians to question whether the Court was beginning to finally utilize Reconstruction history correctly. Students for Fair Admissions answers this question: No. This Note describes the history of the Court’s limited review of Reconstruction sources, notes the perceived shift to increased historical review in more recent cases, and outlines Students for Fair Admissions and its uniquely extensive, yet still underwhelming, review of history. Finally, and most crucially, this Note points to sources that were easily accessible to and missing from the opinions in Students for Fair Admissions to argue that the Court continues to misinterpret the meaning of the Fourteenth Amendment through a flawed approach to Reconstruction history.

This Article frames the problem of capital taxation as a dilemma of the middle of history. At the “beginning of history”—before any wealth inequality has emerged and before individuals have made any saving choices—the much-cited Atkinson-Stiglitz theorem teaches that the optimal capital tax is zero. At the “end of history”—after individuals have made all of their saving choices—the optimal capital tax is generally agreed to be 100%, since a capital tax today cannot distort decisions made in the past. Neither result tells us how to proceed in the “middle of history”—after significant wealth inequality has emerged but while the shadow of the future still looms large. Yet absent an imminent apocalypse, the “middle of history” is the temporal reality with which our tax policies must contend.

The central question for capital taxation in the middle of history is how governments today can respond to accumulated inequalities while credibly committing to future tax trajectories. This Article focuses on three factors—institutions, inequality, and ideas—that mediate the relationship between past and present policy and expectations of future policy. Exploring these three mediating factors in deep detail can enrich our positive understanding of capital taxation’s real-world effects while refining our normative views about optimal capital tax design. Economic reasoning proves useful to this inquiry, but the Article also emphasizes the importance of integrating perspectives from history, political science, sociology, and—not least—law into a holistic account of capital taxation and credible commitment.

The analytical payoffs from such an approach are far-reaching. For example, a middle-of-history perspective complicates the conventional wisdom regarding the relationship between capital taxation and investment incentives: Capital tax cuts—which are typically thought to incentivize investment—may have the reverse effect when they undermine public confidence in the political stability of a low-capital-tax regime. Beyond the implications for tax, a middle-of-history perspective can yield lessons for—and derive lessons from—fields ranging from criminal justice to intellectual property, which face credible commitment problems comparable to tax’s dilemma. The challenge of sustaining credible commitment when policymakers’ incentives are time inconsistent is not just a problem of capital taxation in the middle of history but a more general problem of law in the middle of history.

The American carceral state has grown exponentially over the last six decades, earning the United States a place of notoriety among the world’s leaders in incarceration. That unprecedented growth has been fueled by a cultural addiction to carceral logic and its tools—police, prosecution, jails, prisons, and punishment—as a one-size-fits- all response to the myriad vectors of socioeconomic disadvantage that drive people into the jaws of the criminal legal system. The system operates in the shadow of endemic racial inequality, feeding on the conflated amalgam of race, criminality, and dangerousness. For those who experience the worst of what the system has to offer, it is little more than a purveyor of harm and injustice, deepening the inequality that characterizes America.

The modern public defender was born before the rise of mass incarceration and criminalization and has evolved ever since, from helpmate to the criminal system to a zealous advocate for the accused. The last major evolutionary turn transformed public defenders into a bulwark against America’s penal impulses, defending people against the state while working holistically to address the range of legal and social needs that drive criminal legal system involvement. Recent years have witnessed a growing willingness to grapple with abolition as a strategy and vision, and with it an increasing recognition that being a bulwark—while an essential feature of public defense—is simply not enough to upend the status quo. In this Article, I contend that public defense can and should embrace an abolitionist ethic. I do so because I believe that an abolitionist ethic orients the work of public defenders more pointedly at the interlocking structural causes that lead people into the clutches of the criminal system, and it directs sustained energy at its oppressive nature, ultimately benefitting the people and the communities that public defenders serve.

What does an abolitionist ethic mean for a public defender? Fundamentally, it is a merger of retail-scale zealous criminal defense with wholesale structural change aimed at dismantling the criminal system. Beyond that, it means building a world in which police, jails, and prisons are obsolete. And it employs frameworks and advocacy tools that are accessible to public defense. A public defender’s abolitionist ethic combines a racial justice lens informed by Critical Race Theory to understand the forces that animate the criminal system; zealous holistic defense of individuals infused with the spirit of resistance lawyering; movement lawyering to support social justice advocacy aimed at reducing the size, scope, and scale of the system on the way to dismantling it; and organized efforts to render the carceral state dispensable.

Shifting the paradigm of public defense and the work of public defenders is no easy task. Indeed, it is laden with challenges. Inadequate funding, the skepticism that travels with abolition, the sheer difficulty of criminal defense work, and the seemingly intractable nature of the criminal system can make the turn to an abolitionist ethic seem like a fruitless pursuit. For the public defender, those challenges cannot be the end of the story. The lessons that flow from the centuries-long struggle for racial justice, where abolition was born, teach us that—as organizer and activist Mariame Kaba says—“hope is a discipline.” By nature, public defense work rests on that discipline. Defenders fight against long odds in an unforgiving system. They do so for a host of reasons, among them the hope that what they do will make a difference in the broader fight for the dignity and humanity of those they represent. Defenders must draw on that same sensibility in pursuit of the world that those whom they defend—and all of us—deserve.

Since the 1950s, the major American labor unions have pursued a strategy of cooperation rather than competition. Under Article XX of the AFL-CIO Constitution and similar “no-raid” agreements, unions may not encroach on one another’s established collective bargaining relationships. Some labor scholars have argued that these agreements likely harm unionized workers by diminishing union officials’ incentives to lower dues payments, innovate, or otherwise provide the best possible services for their members. To varying degrees, scholars have also blamed the long-term decline in private-sector union membership on a lack of competitive pressure.

This Note analyzes Article XX and similar agreements from an antitrust perspective, analogizing them to anticompetitive market-division agreements. Unlike prior antitrust analyses of labor unions—which focus on the welfare of end consumers—I view workers as consumers of labor unions’ services and consider only their welfare as relevant. Counterarguments based on union democracy and labor history have some merit, but the current status quo of zero antitrust enforcement seems difficult to justify when, in most industries, an agreement like Article XX could be considered illegal per se.

The federal antitrust agencies and classes of unionized workers might be able to challenge these agreements under the Sherman Act. Although labor’s statutory exemption from the antitrust laws is sometimes said to generally protect “self- interest[ed]” union activities, a preliminary reading of the text and legislative history shows that the exemption might not protect activities that demonstrably harm workers. Although courts have not directly confronted the issue, at least some of the case law is compatible with this interpretation. In such cases, courts should balance any evidence of anticompetitive harm against evidence of benefits to workers, including benefits that are not normally cognizable in antitrust such as increased union density.

This Note is not intended to downplay the uphill battle that unions currently face nor to argue that interunion rivalry is always desirable. Nonetheless, I am confident that targeted and careful application of the antitrust laws in specific markets could help increase the dynamism of organized labor and make unionization look like a better bet for unorganized workers.

Well before the Supreme Court’s decision in Loper Bright, the Solicitor General laid the groundwork for treating the outcome of the case as irrelevant for immigration law. In recent cases, the Solicitor General has argued that 8 U.S.C. § 1103(a)(1) provides a freestanding basis for deference by the judiciary due to a phrase that the Attorney General’s views are “controlling.” This Essay shows that the Solicitor General’s argument is deeply flawed. Building on textual critiques, this Essay shows that for one hundred years Congress has considered how to manage multiple executive departments administering immigration laws. From 1924 until 1952, Congress did not preclude intrabranch disagreements, and in at least one case such disagreements were presented to the Supreme Court. In 1952, Congress acted to have the executive speak with one voice and placed that power with the Attorney General in § 1103(a)(1). Until recently, the Solicitor General recognized that § 1103(a)(1) was nothing more than a method for resolving intrabranch conflicts. The Solicitor General’s new effort to turn § 1103(a)(1) into a separate basis for judicial deference to agency views has no basis in the text or history of the provision. The Solicitor General’s argument should be abandoned before it leads to a new wave of circuit conflicts about deference in immigration cases in the wake of the Supreme Court’s decision this Term overturning Chevron.

We like to think that courts are, and have always been, the primary and final interpreters of statutes. As the conventional separation-of-powers wisdom goes, legislatures “make” statutes while judges “interpret” them. In fact, however, legislatures across centuries of American history have thought of themselves as the primary interpreters. They blurred the line between “making” and “interpreting” by embracing a type of legislation that remains overlooked and little understood: “expository” legislation—enactments that specifically interpreted or construed previous enactments.

In the most exhaustive historical study of the subject to date, this Article—the first in a series of Articles—unearths and explains that lost tradition of legislative statutory interpretation from an institutional perspective. To do so, it draws on an original dataset of 2,497 pieces of expository legislation passed from 1665 to 2020 at the colonial, territorial, state, and federal levels—the first effort of its kind. It shows how expository legislation originated as a colonial-era British import that Americans came to rely on beyond the creation of new constitutions. Lawmakers used expository statutes to supervise administrative statutory interpretation and to negotiate interpretation in the shadows of courts. Judges accepted and even encouraged legislative statutory interpretation. In the mid-nineteenth century, judges increasingly fought back, emboldened by growing calls for judicial independence. Yet even as the backlash entered into treatises, and even as some lawmakers began to balk, legislatures and judges continued to accept and use legislative interpretations of statutes well into the nineteenth century.