The Coming Crisis in Law Enforcement and How Federal Intervention Could Promote Police Accountability in a Post-Ferguson United States[1]

Kami Chavis Simmons*

Introduction

Officer Darren Wilson’s fatal shooting of Michael Brown has reignited a fierce debate about the issue of racial bias in law enforcement.[2] Although tensions between racial minorities and police officers have long existed in our nation, the civil unrest in Ferguson, Missouri following Michael Brown’s death has catapulted the issue to the forefront of the criminal justice reform agenda. The small St. Louis suburb has become synonymous with tanks, tear gas, and rubber bullets after many people gathered in the street and marched to express outrage at the shooting of the unarmed teen.[3] In the days that followed, supporters of Michael Brown, and even the journalists covering the unfolding events, experienced first hand the aggressive police tactics that many inner city urban residents have complained about for years.[4] The proliferation of aggressive, and sometimes militarized, police tactics represents the “coming crisis” in law enforcement, although many residents of these communities might argue that the crisis arrived long ago. Even more disturbing is that these heavy-handed police strategies are employed almost exclusively against racial and ethnic minorities.[5]

This crisis in policing will not only negatively impact police departments and hinder their efforts to keep the public safe, but this crisis will also have negative and lasting effects on the communities experiencing these tactics.[6] After decades of discussion devoted to “community policing,” the events surrounding Michael Brown’s shooting and the police treatment of supporters in the initial days following the shooting are symptoms of a larger endemic within local police departments in the United States.[7] Criminal justice advocates would agree that police brutality, racial profiling, and over-militarization of police forces represent core civil rights issues of the twenty-first century and deserve immediate attention.[8] Aggressive police strategies are typically reserved for marginalized members of society, and there is a consensus that minorities experience a greater rate of police brutality and misconduct than their white counterparts.[9] For example, one expert explains that “police are more likely to engage in force when dealing with members of outgroups (those who are poor or minority or gender non-conforming) than when dealing with members of ingroups.”[10] The existence and severity of biased policing and its detrimental impact on racial minorities are well documented.[11]

The recalcitrance of local police departments and municipalities to implement meaningful changes is equally well documented, and many jurisdictions with serious police accountability issues have required federal intervention.[12] Policing experts have identified several characteristics of organizational police culture, including group loyalty, aggressive police tactics, and ineffective supervision and discipline of police officers, that lead to a lack of accountability and exacerbate police-community tensions.[13] These institutional factors make it difficult to properly investigate allegations of wrongdoing, including racial profiling and police brutality.

This Essay argues that in order to alleviate racial bias in policing and gain the trust and legitimacy of police officers in racially and ethnically diverse communities, local police departments must not only ensure that they are hiring police officers capable of implementing community policing, but must also focus on institutional reforms of the larger police organization. Increased transparency and accountability, as well as meaningful involvement of community members, will be hallmarks of any reform agenda aimed at curing the coming crisis in law enforcement. This Essay also addresses the important role that the federal government can and should play in achieving these goals.

I. The Importance of Addressing Bias in the Criminal Justice System

A.     Perceptions of Biased Policing Create Distrust

Given the history that our nation’s racial and ethnic communities have had with law enforcement, it is not surprising that there is widespread distrust among racial minorities when it comes to law enforcement.[14] Nearly every major moment of civil unrest in the last sixty years—including those in the Watts section of Los Angeles in 1965, Los Angeles in 1992, Cincinnati in 2001, Oakland in 2009, and most recently Ferguson, Missouri—can be linked to an incident sparked by allegation of police misconduct. Even more sobering is that each of the victims of the purported misconduct has invariably been a black male.[15] These historical events live alongside the countless anecdotal experiences with police officers that many blacks share with each other.[16] These experiences undoubtedly contribute to the negative views that blacks have regarding law enforcement. For example, a 2014 study showed that seventy percent of blacks say that police officers do a poor job of treating racial and ethnic groups equally.[17] An identical percentage of blacks say police departments around the country do a poor job in holding officers accountable for misconduct.[18] Unfortunately, even police officers themselves have acknowledged some degree of racial bias among their colleagues. For example, the Christopher Commission found that in Los Angeles, 24.5% of the 650 officers surveyed believed that “racial bias on the part of officers toward minority citizens currently exists and contributes to a negative interaction between police and the community.”[19] There is also empirical evidence to suggest that these biases are not merely perceptions, given that racial minorities are disproportionately the victims of police brutality.[20]

B.     Negative Implications of Distrust

The recent unrest in Ferguson underscores the need to address the underlying issues that sparked the community’s outrage. Unfortunately, the issues surrounding the Michael Brown shooting are not unique to Ferguson, and many residents of racially diverse communities have perceptions of racial bias in policing. For example, in New York, the stop-and-frisk policy has faced fierce criticism with many arguing that the policy is implemented in a racially discriminatory manner.[21] The full impact that this practice has had on police-community interactions is yet to be seen, but there is evidence that stop-and-frisk, as implemented by the New York Police Department, has alienated many residents of neighborhoods where it has been enforced.[22] A recent study by the Vera Institute for Justice found that young people who have been stopped more than once are less willing to report crimes to police, even when they are the victims.[23] Also, only four in ten people surveyed for the study said that they would be comfortable seeking help from the police if they were in trouble.[24] These troubling findings show that the people in communities where stop-and-frisk policies have been implemented not only distrust police when they are the subjects of stops or investigations, but they also do not even trust police to adequately help them when they are in need.

Furthermore, numerous studies demonstrate how poor police-community relations may negatively impact a community. In order to engage in effective crime detection and prevention, police officers need the trust and cooperation of residents.[25] It can be difficult to form those helpful partnerships if residents have no faith in the legitimacy of the law enforcement institution.[26] In addition to the negative implications for the communities as a whole, perceptions of racial bias in policing negatively impact individuals as well. The stigma and marginalization of the victims of racial bias exact a heavy psychological toll.[27] Despite many studies and the findings of several independent commissions charged with examining and addressing the issues of racial disparity in law enforcement,[28] the realities and perceptions of racial bias in policing persist. However, there are several concrete policy solutions the federal government could use to alleviate police-community tension and increase the transparency that is often lacking in law enforcement agencies.

II. The Federal Government’s Critical Role in Police Reform

In the wake of the Michael Brown shooting in Ferguson, there were calls for the federal government to initiate an investigation. The symbolism of a federal investigation into allegations of police misconduct and civil rights abuses should not be underestimated.   Criminal justice issues are typically viewed as “local issues,” but federal intervention is sometimes necessary where the local government has neither the resources, nor the resolve to ensure a fair proceeding or the implementation of sustainable reforms.[29] Furthermore, federal intervention can be particularly symbolic where the local community does not trust the local officials to conduct a complete investigation.[30]

While federal intervention can have a powerful symbolic impact in restoring faith and trust, there are several tangible solutions the federal government could offer to alleviate racial bias and increase transparency. The federal government could be a powerful engine to encourage reform by offering technical assistance to local jurisdictions, ensuring they meet minimum standards of accountability, and by providing monetary support to local communities, incentivizing innovation in the development of effective and sustainable reforms.

A.     Federal Dollars Should Incentivize Local Police Departments to Improve Hiring Practices and Promote Diversity

Community policing requires more than just investigating and responding to crime. This form of policing requires police officers to engage the community to set criminal justice priorities and to form partnerships that serve public-safety goals.[31] One of the primary tenets of community policing is for the community and police to work alongside each other toward the mutual goal of improving public safety.[32] Therefore, local police departments should pay attention to the types of officers they hire, and should focus on whether these officers have the “soft” skills necessary to engage with the community, while still providing effective law enforcement. This model of policing requires a different skill set than just effectuating arrests and arming someone with paramilitary equipment. Effective community policing requires good communication, interpersonal skills, and the ability to engage in problem solving.[33]

Furthermore, it is important that police departments make efforts to diversify their ranks such that the department reflects the diversity of the community it serves. During the unrest in Ferguson, many commentators focused on the fact that while the city was sixty-seven percent black, there were only three nonwhite members of the police force.[34] Such lack of racial diversity unsurprisingly sends the wrong message to residents. For example, as Paul Frymer and John D. Skrentny have noted, “to police a minority community with only white police officers can be misinterpreted as an attempt to maintain an unpopular status quo rather than to maintain the civil peace.”[35]

Thus, there has been much focus on increasing the diversity of local police departments. The view is that “minority officers can break down prejudice and stereotypes in the minds of majority officers, and . . . minority officers are better able to police a minority community because of their familiarity with the culture.”[36] Moreover, studies show that black officers “get more cooperation than white officers from black citizens and that black officers are less prejudiced against blacks and know more about the black community.”[37]

The federal government has provided funding to local law enforcement agencies for developing innovative programs designed to recruit and retain police officers to implement community policing, and many of these efforts have specifically funded projects that engage community members in the hiring process. Hiring in the Spirit of Service (“HSS”) was a federally funded project in which police departments recruited community residents to assist the department in the hiring process.[38] Participating agencies included: Burlington, Vermont; Sacramento, California; Detroit, Michigan; Hillsborough County, Florida; and King County, Washington.[39] The HSS program should be reevaluated and present in other jurisdictions to encourage police departments to involve community members in the hiring process. Involving the community at this early stage might encourage strong partnerships and help rebuild trust and legitimacy where it is lacking.

However, it is important to note that there is also conflicting evidence on whether more diverse police forces actually improve police-community relations. For example, there are studies finding that

black officers shoot just as often as white officers; that black officers arrest just as often as white officers; that black officers are often prejudiced against black citizens; that black officers get less cooperation than white officers from black citizens; and that black officers are just as likely, or even more likely, to elicit citizen complaints and to be the subject of disciplinary actions.[40]

This evidence suggests that black officers are subject to the same strong institutional factors that other officers experience. Therefore, it is important to ensure that the police organizational culture reflects standards of integrity and accountability regardless of the level of diversity within a police department.[41]

B.     The Federal Government Must Vigorously Enforce Its Pattern or Practice Authority to Require Reform of Local Law Enforcement Agencies

There is widespread consensus among police experts that police officers are operating within a larger organization, and that the organizational culture of a local police department can have a powerful impact upon individual officers.[42] Prior to 1994, it was not legally possible for the government to require a local police department to institute reforms directed at the organizational culture.[43] However, with the enactment of 42 U.S.C. § 14141, the federal government now has the authority to address the institutional factors that lead to distrust and a lack of public accountability. The “pattern or practice” authority of the U.S. Department of Justice (“DOJ”) has been used to implement organizational reforms in several jurisdictions, and the government currently has an investigation pending in Ferguson.[44] DOJ has reached agreements with several local police departments, and many of these agreements specifically include provisions to develop and implement written policies against discrimination in policing, including: nondiscrimination in traffic stops; documentation of all traffic stops by recording the driver’s race, ethnic origin, and gender; the reason for the stop and the nature of any post-stop actions; improved supervisory review of traffic stops; implementation of early warning tracking systems to identify officers who receive multiple complaints; and development and review of “use of force” policies.[45] These reforms are all aimed at increasing transparency and accountability within the department. In addition to training and developing policies to increase transparency, future agreements should squarely address issues related to promoting a diverse police department, as well as to implementing community policing.

One critique of this legislation, because it is enforced at the discretion of the Attorney General, is that enforcement may vary based upon changes in political whims, enforcement priorities within DOJ, or resource allocations.[46] Similarly, it is practically impossible for the small group of attorneys at DOJ to investigate, sue, or negotiate agreements with all of the departments nationwide that might warrant this intervention. Typically, the government has initiated investigations after a high-profile case brings attention to underlying problems. For example, the Michael Brown shooting death, although perhaps the most serious allegation of police misconduct, was not the first in Ferguson. Prior to the shooting, there had been evidence that the department disproportionately stopped black residents.[47] However, it was not until the public outcry that the federal government initiated the investigation.

While the federal government can wield a powerful weapon in the battle against police misconduct, it should not bear the sole responsibility for holding local police departments accountable. States should be encouraged to enact pattern or practice legislation based upon the federal pattern or practice legislation. In the absence of such legislation at the state level, the federal government can still play a vital role in encouraging reform and experimentation at the local level. Since 1994, the Office of Community Oriented Policing Services (“COPS”) has distributed over $12 billion of federal money to states.[48] Similarly, the federal government can also use its spending power to withhold federal funds from departments that consistently demonstrate patterns of unconstitutional conduct. Furthermore, COPS funding can be used to incentivize local police departments to create innovative training, recruitment, and reform agendas.[49]

Conclusion

While it is important to increase diversity within local police departments, it is perhaps more important to have officers who demonstrate the skills necessary to implement a policing model that engages rather than alienates the community. Police departments must focus on the types of officers they hire. It is logical that psychological testing of police department candidates should include tests that seek to determine the level of implicit biases an officer may harbor against particular groups. Police departments should also focus on the interpersonal skills of their officers. For example, can the officer communicate effectively with residents? Will the officer develop, or at least attempt to implement, creative solutions for crime detection and prevention? Most importantly, regardless of the officers a department hires, it is imperative that these officers are working in an organizational culture that does not tolerate or cultivate police misconduct.

            *Professor of Law and Director of the Criminal Justice Program at Wake Forest University School of Law. J.D., Harvard Law School. B.A., The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. The Author would like to thank Ashley Brompton and Kelsey Kolb for their invaluable research assistance.

[1].   I have borrowed a portion of my title from the 1998 essay by Dan M. Kahan and Tracey L. Meares published in the Georgetown Law Journal entitled The Coming Crisis of Criminal Procedure. Dan M. Kahan & Tracey L. Meares, Foreword: The Coming Crisis of Criminal Procedure, 86 Geo. L.J. 1153, 1153 (1998). In this essay, Kahan and Meares argued that the continued adherence to antiquated rules of criminal procedure that initially were developed to protect previously disenfranchised groups represented the “coming crisis in criminal procedure.” Id. Kahan and Meares argued that it was no longer necessary to adhere strictly to certain rules in criminal procedure because these groups had achieved an increased level of political power and now could determine the scope of their own rights. Id. at 1154. Nearly fifteen years later, I contend, instead, that the crisis in criminal procedure has arrived and it can be characterized by aggressive police tactics, racial bias in policing, and a lack of accountability of law enforcement officers, all of which are largely due to a continued lack of political power of underrepresented groups.

      [2].   On August 9, 2014, Officer Darren Wilson fatally shot an unarmed teen, Michael Brown, in Ferguson, Missouri, sparking several vigorous protests and clashes with police. See Julie Bosman & Emma G. Fitzsimmons, Grief and Protests Follow Shooting of a Teenager, N.Y. Times, Aug. 11, 2014, at A11; Adeel Hassan, Your Friday Briefing, N.Y. Times (Aug. 15, 2014), http://www.nytimes.com/2014/08/15/us/your-friday-briefing.html (identifying the officer responsible for the shooting).

      [3].   Monica Davey et al., Missouri Tries Another Idea: Call in Guard, N.Y. Times, Aug. 19, 2014, at A1.

      [4].   Abby Phillip, Police in Ferguson Arrest and Threaten More Journalists, Wash. Post (Aug. 18, 2014), http://www.washingtonpost.com/news/post-nation/wp/2014/08/18/police-in-ferguson-arrest-and-threaten-more-journalists/.

      [5].   For example, it is widely known that “[r]esidents of poor neighborhoods are more frequently subject to searches of their person in the form of overly aggressive stop and frisk tactics.” Amelia L. Diedrich, Secure in Their Yards? Curtilage, Technology, and the Aggravation of the Poverty Exception to the Fourth Amendment, 39 Hastings Const. L.Q., 297, 317 (2011).

      [6].   See Kami Chavis Simmons, Beginning to End Racial Profiling: Definitive Solutions to an Elusive Problem, 18 Wash. & Lee J. Civil Rts. & Soc. Just. 25, 41–43 (2011) (detailing the harms of racially biased policing and aggressive law enforcement tactics).

      [7].   Community policing has been defined as a form of policing that “emphasizes problem-solving and partnerships between police and the communities they serve.” Kami Chavis Simmons, Stakeholder Participation in the Selection and Recruitment of Police: Democracy in Action, 32 St. Louis U. Pub. L. Rev. 7, 8 (2012).

      [8].   See, e.g., Michael R. Smith, Depoliticizing Racial Profiling: Suggestions for the Limited Use and Management of Race in Police Decision-Making, 15 Geo. Mason U. C.R. L.J. 219, 219 (2005) (arguing that “racial profiling, a term virtually unheard of five years ago, is now part of the national lexicon” being that “[t]he last several years have seen a growing crescendo of voices concerned over racial discrimination by America’s law enforcement agencies”); Sheila A. Bedi, Seeking Transformative Justice in Ferguson, Dearborn, and Beyond, Huffington Post (Sept. 3, 2014, 12:07 PM), http://www.huffingtonpost.com/sheila-a-bedi/seeking-transformative_b_5755076.html#HuffingtonPost (finding that both “the over-militarization of our police,” and “cops around the country behav[ing] with impunity, despite national movement-based efforts to integrate transparency and accountability into policing” are to blame for the events in Ferguson); Kara Dansky, The Real Reason Ferguson has Military Weapons, CNN (Aug. 19, 2014, 6:03 PM), http://www.cnn.com/2014/08/19/opinion/dansky-militarization-police/index.html (“What we’re witnessing is the militarization of policing,” which “has become commonplace in towns across America.”). Another related issue is the school-to-prison pipeline, which represents a phenomenon where students go directly from school into the prison system, as well as the vast racial disparities in the U.S. education and criminal justice systems. Chauncee D. Smith, Deconstructing the Pipeline: Evaluating School-to-Prison Pipeline Equal Protection Cases Through a Structural Racism Framework, 36 Fordham Urb. L.J. 1009, 1018–20 (2009).

      [9].   See, e.g., Human Rights Watch, Race as a Factor, in Shielded from Justice: Police Brutality and Accountability in the United States (1998), available at http://www.hrw.org/legacy/reports98/police/uspo17.htm; Charles J. Ogletree, Jr. et al., Beyond the Rodney King Story: An Investigation of Police Conduct in Minority Communities 6–7, 16–17 (1995) (discussing police officers’ disproportionate use of excessive force against inner city residents and minorities, which has become “commonplace” and is often caused by “the forces of racism and police militarism”); Ronald Weitzer & Steven A. Tuch, Race and Policing in America: Conflict and Reform 71–72 (2006) (finding that “blacks and Hispanics are at heightened risk of mistreatment by police,” with “[y]oung minority males [being] significantly more likely” to report having experienced mistreatment by police than their older minority male, same-age minority female, and white male counterparts); Clifford L. Broman et al., The Experience and Consequences of Perceived Racial Discrimination: A Study of African Americans, 26 J. Black Psychol. 165, 174–75 (2000) (examining data that suggests younger blacks are more likely to experience discrimination from the police than older blacks, and black males are more likely than black women to perceive discrimination from the police); Craig B. Futterman et al., The Use of Statistical Evidence to Address Police Supervisory and Disciplinary Practices: The Chicago Police Department’s Broken System, 1 DePaul J. for Soc. Just. 251, 283 (2008) (finding that among a sample of police officers from the Chicago Police Department, abuse against civilians was more prevalent with those who were working in “certain parts of the City—generally lower-income African American and Latino communities”); Tracey Maclin, Race and the Fourth Amendment, 51 Vand. L. Rev. 333, 388–90 (1998) (providing an example of the New York City police force, which claims to be “the nation’s most professional and well-trained police force,” and yet “deadly force, brutality, and abuse of power by officers remains a problem in [the city’s] minority communities”).

    [10].   I. Bennett Capers, Crime, Surveillance, and Communities, 40 Fordham Urb. L.J. 959, 982 (2013) (citing statistical evidence presented in Tennessee v. Garner, 471 U.S. 1 (1985), that showed “significant disparities in the use of deadly force based on the race of the shooting victim/suspect and that virtually all of this disparity occurs as a result of the Memphis policy that allows officers to exercise their discretion to shoot fleeing property crime suspects”).

    [11].   For example, in 1968, The National Advisory Commission on Civil Disorders (also known as the Kerner Commission), found that “[a]lmost invariably the incident that ignites disorder arises from police action. Harlem, Watts, Newark and Detroit—all the major outbursts of recent years—were precipitated by arrests of Negroes by white officers for minor offenses.” Otto Kerner et al., Report of the National Advisory Commission on Civil Disorders 93 (1968). As a result, “to many Negroes police have come to symbolize white power, white racism, and white repression.” Id. Yet, “many police do reflect and express these white attitudes. The atmosphere of hostility and cynicism is reinforced by a widespread perception among Negroes of the existence of police brutality and corruption and of a ‘double standard’ of justice and protection—one for Negroes and one for whites.” Id.

    [12].   The U.S. Department of Justice has intervened in Seattle, New Orleans, Los Angeles, and Oakland, among others. Justin Worland, These 4 Cities Show What Federal Intervention Could Look Like in Ferguson, Time (Aug. 15, 2014), available at http://time.com/3114010/ferguson-st-louis-missouri-obama/.

    [13].   See Kami Chavis Simmons, New Governance and the “New Paradigm” of Police Accountability: A Democratic Approach to Police Reform, 59 Cath. U. L. Rev. 373, 381–89 (2010) (describing police organizational culture).

    [14].   I. Bennett Capers, Rethinking the Fourth Amendment: Race, Citizenship, and the Equality Principle, 46 Harv. C.R.-C.L. L. Rev. 1, 2 (2011) (noting that underenforcement, overenforcement, and “testilying” in cases involving minority defendants is pervasive and that these methods of policing contribute to racial tension and continuing high levels of distrust between minorities and police).

    [15].   See Cynthia Lee, “But I Thought He Had a Gun”: Race and Police Use of Deadly Force, 2 Hastings Race & Poverty L.J. 1, 23 (2004) (noting that the 2001 riots in Cincinnati were incited by citizen indignation of perceived brutality against African American males after six years of police shootings killed fifteen African American males); Bryce Clayton Newell, Crossing Lenses: Policing’s New Visibility and the Role of “Smartphone Journalism” as a Form of Freedom-Preserving Reciprocal Surveillance, 2014 U. Ill. J.L. Tech. & Pol’y 59, 66–67 (noting that riots in Oakland, California started after a white officer was convicted of involuntary manslaughter, rather than murder, in the shooting death of Oscar Grant, a young, black man, who was shot for “resisting restraint”); L. Darnell Weeden, Johnnie Cochran Challenged America’s New Age Officially Unintentional Black Code; A Constitutionally Permissible Racial Profiling Policy, 33 T. Marshall L. Rev. 135, 148 (2007) (noting that the Watts Riots started after eye witnesses reported that white police officers used excessive force in arresting two African American suspects).

    [16].   See, e.g., Michaela Angela Davis, Black Moms Shouldn’t Have to Have ‘The Talk,’ CNN (Aug. 25, 2014, 10:03 AM), http://www.cnn.com/2014/08/20/opinion/davis-michael-brown-mother/index.html?iref=allsearch.

    [17].   Pew Research Ctr., Few Say Police Forces Nationally Do Well in Treating Races Equally 2 (2014), available at http://www.people-press.org/files/2014/08/8-25-14-Police-and-Race-Release.pdf.

    [18].   Id.

    [19].   See Indep. Comm’n on the L.A. Police Dep’t, Report of the Independent Commission on the Los Angeles Police Department 69 (1991) [hereinafter The Christopher Commission], available at http://www.parc.info/client_files/special%20reports/1%20-%20chistopher%20commision.pdf.

    [20].   See I. Bennett Capers, Crime, Legitimacy, and Testilying, 83 Ind. L.J. 835, 846 (2008) (citing statistical information that blacks and Hispanics are disproportionately victims of police violence); see also Amnesty Int’l, United States of America: Police Brutality and Excessive Force in the New York City Police Department 27 (1996), available at http://www.amnesty.org/en/library/asset/AMR51/036/1996/en/7b6bf842-eb05-11dd-aad1-ed57e7e5470b/amr510361996en.pdf (reporting that nearly all victims who died in New York City police custody between 1988 and 1995 were racial minorities).

    [21].   See Steven Zeidman, Whither the Criminal Court: Confronting Stops-and-Frisks, 76 Alb. L. Rev. 1187, 1195, 1197 (2012–2013) (“[T]he NYPD brazenly uses Terry to defend, and perpetuate, vast numbers of stops-and-frisks and enormous racial disparities in who gets stopped.”).

    [22].   See Jennifer Fratello et al., Coming of Age with Stop and Frisk: Experiences, Self-Perceptions, and Public Safety Implications 16 (Vera Inst. for Justice 2013), available at http://www.vera.org/sites/default/files/resources/downloads/stop-and-frisk-summary-report.pdf (discussing public perceptions of New York City police, in light of the stop-and-frisk policy wherein only fifteen percent of those polled believed that the police were honest and only twelve percent believe that residents of their neighborhood trust the police).

    [23].   Id. at 17.

    [24].   Id. at 15–16.

    [25].   Tom R. Tyler & Jeffery Fagan, Legitimacy and Cooperation: Why Do People Help the Police Fight Crime in Their Communities, 6 Ohio St. J. Crim. L. 231, 233 (2008).

    [26].   Id. at 238–39.

    [27].   See, e.g., Fratello et al., supra note 22, at 19 (citing two studies that found an increase in “deviant persona and behavior” by individuals who were frequently stopped by police officers).

    [28].   See, e.g., William J. Bratton, Neighborhood Policing: A Plan of Action for the Boston Police Department 29 (1992), http://www.popcenter.org/library/unpublished/OrganizationalPlans/17_Neighborhood_Policing.pdf (examining the Boston Police Department and its relation to racial tensions in the community); The Christopher Commission, supra note 19, at 3–4 (explaining that the Christopher Commission was formed in 1991 to study the Los Angeles Police Department in the wake of the Rodney King beating); Milton Mollen et al., Report of the Commission to Investigate Allegations of Police Corruption and the Anti-Corruption Procedures of the Police Department 1 (1994), http://www.parc.info/client_files/special%20Reports/4%20-%20Mollen%20Commission%20-%20NYPD.pdf (explaining how the Mollen Commission was formed in 1992 to study the New York City Police Department and racial tensions that had been a major issue).

    [29].   See 42 U.S.C. § 14141 (2006) (authorizing the Attorney General to conduct investigations and, if warranted, file civil litigation to eliminate a “pattern or practice of conduct by law enforcement officers . . . that deprives persons of rights, privileges, or immunities secured or protected by the Constitution or laws of the United States”); see also Special Litigation Section Cases and Matters, U.S. Dep’t of Just., http://www.justice.gov/crt/about/spl/findsettle.php#police (last visited Sept. 25, 2014) (linking to cases and matters in Los Angeles, the District of Columbia, Portland, East Haven, and several other cities that have experienced federal intervention into criminal justice issues).

    [30].   Robert N. Driscoll, Don’t Expect the Feds to Find Much in Ferguson, Nat’l Rev. Online (Aug. 16, 2014, 4:00 AM), http://www.nationalreview.com/article/385538/dont-expect-feds-find-much-ferguson-robert-n-driscoll (“The community in Ferguson . . .  demand[s] ‘justice,’ including the prosecution of the officer for murder, or in the alternative, prosecution by the United States Department of Justice Civil Rights Division for violation of Brown’s civil rights.”).

    [31].   Simmons, supra note 7.

    [32].   Id.

    [33].   David L. Carter, Human Resource Issues for Community Policing, Mich. St. U. Sch. Crim. Just. 1, 1 available at http://cj.msu.edu/assets/Outreach-NCCP-ES3.pdf (last visited Sept. 28, 2014) (describing some of the characteristics necessary for police officers doing community policing); Ellen Scrivner, Innovations in Police Recruitment and Hiring: Hiring in the Spirit of Service, U.S. Dep’t of Just. 81, 87–96 app. A, available at http://www.cops.usdoj.gov/Publications/innovationpolicerecruitmenthiring.pdf (last visited Sept. 28, 2014) (explaining the various competencies that should be evaluated during the hiring process within police departments, as well as positive and counterproductive behaviors of potential officers, as outlined by the California Commission on Patrol Officer Psychological Screening Dimensions).

    [34].   Glenn E. Rice & Tony Rizzo, Like Ferguson, Area Police Departments Lack Racial Diversity, The Kansas City Star (Aug. 25, 2014, 1:46 PM), http://www.kansascity.com/news/local/crime/article1282013.html.

    [35].   Paul Frymer & John D. Skrentny, The Rise of Instrumental Affirmative Action: Law and the New Significance of Race in America, 36 Conn. L. Rev. 677, 691 (2004).

    [36].   Id.

    [37].   David Alan Sklansky, Not Your Father’s Police Department: Making Sense of the New Demographics of Law Enforcement, 96 J. Crim. L. & Criminology 1209, 1224–25 (2006).

    [38].   See Ellen Scrivner, U.S. Dep’t of Just. Off. of Cmty. Oriented Policing Servs., Innovations in Police Recruitment and Hiring: Hiring in the Spirit of Service 16 (2006), available at http://www.cops.usdoj.gov/pdf/vets-to-cops/innovationpolicerecruitmenthiring.pdf.

    [39].   Id. at 11.

    [40].   Sklansky, supra note 37, at 1124.

    [41].   See Simmons, supra note 6, at 46–47.

    [42].   See Simmons, supra note 13, at 381 (noting that the basis of police misconduct is the organizational culture of police departments); see also Barbara E. Armacost, Organizational Culture and Police Misconduct, 72 Geo. Wash. L. Rev. 453, 455 (2004) (asserting that it is a mistake to view misconduct as the result of the flawed judgments of individual officers rather than as induced by an organizational culture); Samuel Walker, The New Paradigm of Police Accountability: The U.S. Justice Department “Pattern or Practice” Suits in Context, 22 St. Louis U. Pub. L. Rev. 3, 24 (2003) (noting that it is the organizational culture of law enforcement agencies and not the conduct of individual officers that breeds police misconduct).

    [43].   See 42 U.S.C. § 14141 (2006).

    [44].   Pete Williams, Justice Department to Investigate Ferguson, Missouri, Police, NBC News (Sept. 3, 2014, 8:32 PM), http://www.nbcnews.com/storyline/michael-brown-shooting/justice-department-investigate-ferguson-missouri-police-n195271.

    [45].   See, e.g., Memorandum of Understanding Between, The Montana Attorney General, The Missoula County Attorney’s Office, Missoula County, and The United States Department of Justice (June 10, 2014), available at http://www.justice.gov/crt/about/spl/documents/missoula_settle_6-10-14.pdf (listing the different procedures the police department was required to implement pursuant to the written policy).

    [46].   See Kami Chavis Simmons, The Politics of Policing: Ensuring Stakeholder Collaboration in the Federal Reform of Local Law Enforcement Agencies, 98 J. Crim. L. & Criminology 489, 515–19 (2008) (citing lengthy investigation periods, lack of aggressive enforcement, and lack of political will among critiques of § 14141).

    [47].   In 2013, the Ferguson Police Department stopped 686 whites compared to 4632 blacks. Mo. Att’y Gen.’s Office, Racial Profiling data: Ferguson Police Department 1 (2013), available at http://ago.mo.gov/VehicleStops
/2013/reports/161.pdf. According to the Missouri Attorney General’s Office, the disparity index (the proportion of stops divided by the proportion of the population) is .38 for whites and 1.37 for African-Americans. Id. A disparity index value greater than 1 indicates over-representation and a disparity index value less than 1 indicates under-representation. Id.

    [48].   See Drew Diamond & Deirdre Mead Weiss, Dep’t of Cmty. Oriented Policing Servs. U.S. Dep’t of Just., Community Policy: Looking to Tomorrow 38 (2009), available at https://www.ncjrs.gov/pdffiles1/Archive
/227424NCJRS.pdf.

    [49].   See generally Kami Chavis Simmons, Cooperative Federalism and Police Reform: Using Congressional Spending Power to Promote Police Accountability, 62 Ala. L. Rev. 349 (2011) (explaining of how the federal spending power might be used to encourage police reform at the local level).

PDF, Coming Crisis in Law Enforcement, Kami Chavis Simmons

By Lauren D. Emery

Today in United States v. Eades, the Fourth Circuit considered Kevin Eades’s appeal from the district court’s judgment sentencing him to 120 months in prison after pleading guilty to possession of a firearm by a convicted felon.  The court also ruled on the Government’s motion to dismiss which claimed that Eades had agreed to waive his appellate rights during his sentencing.  In a per curiam opinion, the court dismissed the appeal in part–to the extent that Eades contested his sentence–and affirmed in part–because Eades’s ineffective assistance of counsel claim was beyond the scope of the waiver.

First, Eades contended that his waiver of the right to appeal, agreed to at his sentencing, was voidable for lack of consideration. The court rejected this argument saying that, “Eades received valuable consideration when the Government, in good faith, forbore its pursuit of the Armed Career Criminal sentencing enhancement.”  Furthermore, the court declared that the Government’s refusal to pursue such enhanced sentencing does not render the waiver void for illegal consideration.  In contrast to United States v. Williams, 488 F.3d 1004, 1011 (D.C. Cir. 2007), which held that the Government couldn’t agree to plea bargains that circumvented mandatory minimum sentences, the government may lawfully forbear from pursuing enhanced sentencing.

Second, Eades argued that he did not knowingly and intelligently waive his right to appeal.  After examining the totality of the circumstances, the court rejected this argument as well.  The court cited the district court’s explanation of the implications of  waiver at Eades’s sentencing and the fact that Eades confirmed two times that the understood the implications of the waiver. Therefore, the court dismissed Eades’s appeal to the extent that it challenged his sentence and the validity of his plea because it was barred by waiver.

Finally, Eades claimed that his trial court counsel was ineffective for advising him to agree to the appeal waiver.   The court found that this claim was not barred by waiver and therefore need not  be dismissed. Instead, it declared that these claims must be brought under 28 U.S.C. § 2255 to allow for the development of the record as to that issue.

By: Steven Franklin

Today, in United States v. Carr, the Fourth Circuit held that a defendant can receive the requisite number of Armed Career Criminal Act (“ACCA”) predicate convictions through a consolidated criminal judgment.

A jury found Antoine Charles Carr guilty of possession of a firearm and ammunition by a convicted felon, and possession of cocaine base.  Mr. Carr received a 210-month sentence due to a sentencing enhancement under the ACCA. On appeal, Mr. Carr argued that, because he had multiple convictions that fell under one sentence, he did not have the three predicate convictions necessary for the ACCA to apply.

Under 18 U.S.C. § 924(e)(1), a defendant is considered an armed career criminal if he has “three previous convictions . . . for a violent felony or a serious drug offense, or both, committed on occasions different from one another.” Similarly, under the U.S. Sentencing Guidelines Manual  § 4B1.1(a), a defendant will not be considered a career offender unless two of the convictions have sentences that are counted separately.

However, there is no such language under the ACCA. It simply requires three predicate “convictions.” Mr. Carr attempted to argue that “conviction” and “sentence” are materially indistinguishable, but the Court found this unpersuasive and affirmed the trial court’s decision.

By Evelyn Norton

Today, in United States v. Seburn,  the Fourth Circuit affirmed the decision of the United States District Court for the Eastern District of North Carolina that found Dellonte Rashaun Seburn guilty of bank robbery.

Despite Seburn’s request for a reduced sentence, the district court sentenced Seburn to 132 months’ imprisonment. On appeal, Seburn filed a pro se supplemental brief arguing that the district court erred in failing to adequately consider his request for a reduced sentence based on his recent mental health diagnosis.

In reviewing the district court’s decision for reasonableness, the Fourth Circuit found no procedural or substantive sentencing error.  First, the district court correctly calculated Seburn’s advisory sentencing range as fifty-seven to seventy-one months’ imprisonment.  Second, the district court properly imposed an upward departure sentence of 132 months because of the inadequacy of Seburn’s criminal history category. The district court’s  calculations were in accordance with U.S. Sentencing Guidelines Manual §4A1.3(a).

Furthermore, the Fourth Circuit concluded that the district court did properly acknowledge Seburn’s mental health issues. However, the district court determined that a 132 months’ imprisonment was appropriate considering the seriousness of the offense, Seburn’s history and characteristics, and the need to protect the public.  Thus, the Fourth Circuit held that the district court did not err and affirmed Seburn’s conviction and sentence.

The Fourth Circuit required that counsel for Seburn inform him of the right to petition the Supreme Court of the United States for further review.

By Joshua P. Bussen

Today in United States v. Mitchell, the Fourth Circuit, in a per curiam opinion affirmed the conviction of Sidney Mitchell for unlawful possession of a firearm by a felon. Mitchell entered a conditional plea of guilty in the Middle District of North Carolina, reserving his right to appeal the judgment of the district court. Mitchell contends that the district court erred in denying his motion to suppress evidence of a firearm that was found while police were conducting a search of his vehicle. Mitchell was sentenced to twenty-six months in prison.

In the waning hours of sunlight on November 20, 2012, a North Carolina police officer stopped Mitchell’s car on a suspicion that the tint on the vehicle’s windows was darker than allowed under North Carolina law. While performing a test that would gauge the level of tint on Mitchell’s windows—a process that involves placing a device on the inside of the vehicle—the officer claims he noticed the smell of “burnt marijuana.” Though Mitchell denied smoking marijuana, he consented to a search of his person. After searching Mitchell the officer turned to the vehicle, discovering a small amount of marijuana resin and a gun on the driver’s side floorboard.

In the Middle District of North Carolina Mitchell moved to suppress the firearm due to an improper search and seizure. The district court found that the tint on Mitchell’s windows gave the officer reasonable cause to pull the car over, and the smell of burnt marijuana subsequently warranted probable cause to search the vehicle. On appeal Mitchell did not question the officer’s motivation for detaining the vehicle, but disputed “lawfulness of the subsequent search of the [inside of the] car.”

The Fourth Circuit, relying on United States v. Scheetz, 293 F.3d 175, 184 (4th Cir. 2002), held that the odor of marijuana emanating from a car warranted sufficient probable cause to search the vehicle. Mitchell’s final argument that the officer’s credibility should be questioned fell on deaf ears, the Circuit judges were not willing to disturb the factual findings of the district court because “the district court is so much better situated to evaluate these matters.”

By Andrew Kilpinen

In a split decision featuring three separate opinions, the 4th Circuit affirmed in part and vacated in part the district courts dismissal in Owens v. Baltimore City State’s Attorneys.

 Owens Challenges Statute of Limitations, Sovereign Immunity, Qualified Immunity, and Failure to State a Claim

The Court reviewed four issues de novo: (1) Is Owens’s claim time barred, (2) is the Baltimore City State’s Attorney’s office an entity capable of suit, (3) are Officers Pelligrini, Dunnigan, and Landsman protected by qualified immunity, and (4) does Owens’s complaint contain sufficient factual content to survive a motion to dismiss on the claim that the BCPD followed a custom, policy, or practice by which local officials violated Owens’s constitutional rights?

 Owens Was Convicted of Rape and Murder

The present controversy grew out of the investigation, trial, and conviction of James Owens for the rape and murder of Colleen Williar on August 2, 1987. The State’s key witness, James Thompson, changed his testimony five times during the investigation and trial. Central to Owens’s appeal was withholding of the multiple variations of Thompson’s testimony from defense counsel.

The jury convicted Owens of burglary and felony murder. In 2006, DNA evidence showed that Owens’s DNA did not match the blood and semen evidence at the crime scene. On June 4, 2007, Owens was granted a new trial. On October 15, 2008 the State’s Attorney entered a nolle prosequi, dropping the charges against him. Owens was subsequently from prison released after twenty years of incarceration.

 Statute of Limitations Began to Run After the Nolle Prosequi and Owens’s Claim is Therefore Not Time Barred

First, the Court held that Owens’s claim is not time barred because the statute of limitations began to run when the State issued the nolle prosequi, not when the State granted Owens’s a new trial. Since § 1983 does not provide a statute of limitations, the Court must look to the common-law tort most analogous to Owens’s claim. Here, the Court identified malicious prosecution as the common-law tort most analogous to Owens’s §1983 claims. Generally, the statute of limitation clock begins to run as soon as the plaintiff knows or has reason to know of his injury. However, sometimes, as is the case in malicious prosecutions, the common law provides a “distinctive rule” for determining the start date of the limitations period. Thus, the Court held that the statute of limitations began to run on Owens’s claim after the nolle prosequi, not at the start of the new trial.

 Baltimore City State’s Attorney’s Office Is Not an Entity Capable of Being Sued

Second, the Court held that the Baltimore City State’s Attorney’s Office is not an entity capable of being sued because the office does not have a legal identity. To be suable, an office or agency must be granted a legal identity through statutory or constitutional authority. Owens argued that the Maryland General Assembly granted such legal identity when it named Title 15 of the Maryland Code of Criminal Procedure “Office of the State’s Attorney.” The Court rejected this argument stating that the title refers to a position held by an individual and not a suable office.

 Officers Are Not Protected by Qualified Immunity

The Court rejected the officer’s defense of qualified immunity. The Court had little difficulty concluding that Owens’s allegations state a plausible § 1983 claim because the information withheld by the officers would have supported his theory that Thompson committed the rape and murder; commenting that at the very least it would have discredited Thompson’s testimony. The Court cites the fact that the officers were seasoned veterans who called the ASA moments after receiving Thompson’s final story to support the conclusion that they withheld the four previous versions intentionally and maliciously. The Court points to precedent in Barbee, Sutton, and Boone in holding that the officers should have known that not disclosing material exculpatory evidence was a violation of Owens’s constitutional rights in 1988.

 Owens’s Complaint Survived Motion to Dismiss

Finally, the Court held that the factual allegations in Owens’s complaint, including reported and unreported cases of officers withholding information from the period of time before and during his trial, contained sufficient factual content to allege that the BCPD maintained a custom, policy, or practice allowing the withholding of material exculpatory evidence. The Court found the allegations that BCPD officers withheld information on multiple occasions could establish a “persistent and widespread” pattern of practice. The Court held that Owens’s complaint survived the BCPD’s 12(b)(6) motion to dismiss.

 4th Circuit Affirmed in Part and Vacated in Part

Owens will have yet another day in court to prove his § 1983 claims against the BCPD, and the individual officers, but not the State Attorney’s Office. The case was remanded to the district court for further proceedings.

By Caroline Daniel

In an unpublished opinion released today, the Fourth Circuit affirmed Johnny L. Dowdy’s sentence of 14 months imprisonment and 46 months of supervised release following a revocation hearing.  Dowdy appealed his conviction based on the admission of hearsay evidence at the hearing, and in United States v. Johnny L. Dowdy, Jr., the court held that the evidence was likely admissible and, even if its admission was error, it was a harmless one.

Dowdy was originally convicted of multiple drug trafficking offenses.  While on supervised release, he pled guilty to violating various conditions of this release including failing to notify the DMV of his address change, having improper equipment, failing to check-in with his probation officer, failing to notify his probation officer of his address change, leaving the area in which he was permitted to be without permission, and obstructing a police officer.  During this hearing, the district court also found Dowdy guilty of an incident of battery that occurred while he was on supervised release.  The victim of the battery did not appear at the hearing, and the only evidence offered was statements to the police officers.  Dowdy objected to the admission of the evidence based on hearsay.

Quoting United States v. Doswell, the Fourth Circuit explained in its opinion that “supervised release revocation proceedings are informal proceedings in which the rules of evidence, including those pertaining to hearsay, need not be strictly applied.”   The court did note that due process concerns about a defendant’s right to confront a victim remain significant in this informal setting.  These concerns should be balanced against the government’s proffered reason for the victim’s absence.

Here, the court ultimately held that even if the balancing test was not properly applied by the district court, any error was harmless.  Dowdy argued that the district court’s conclusion of his guilt in the battery charge was the “determinative factor underlying [his] revocation sentence,” but the Fourth Circuit pointed to the numerous other determinations that the district court considered in his sentencing.  Ultimately, Dowdy’s violent and lengthy criminal history and his breach of the court’s trust while on supervised release led to his appropriate revocation sentence.   Any alleged evidentiary error was practically irrelevant.

By Chad M. Zimlich

Today, in the case of United States v. Mitchell, the Fourth Circuit ruled on the reasonableness of a sentence handed down by the Eastern District of North Carolina. Mr. Jeromey Keith Mitchell pleaded guilty to “conspiracy to distribute and to possess with intent to distribute 280 grams or more of cocaine base, six counts of distributing cocaine base, and one count of possession with intent to distribute cocaine base.” The court sentenced him to 22 years in prison.

Mitchell filed an appeal, arguing that the sentence was “substantively unreasonable.”

In reviewing whether a criminal sentence is reasonable or not, the court uses an “abuse of discretion” standard. First the court must examine any glaring procedural errors, and second the court examines the “totality of the circumstances” viewed in the light most favorable to the district court and its decision.

In examining the district court’s calculation of the defendant’s Guidelines range, the Fourth Circuit determined that the actual Guidelines range for Mitchell was 292 to 365 months. The district court’s sentence of 22 years, or 264 months, was 28 months below the low-end of the spectrum, and well within their authority in the realm of reasonableness.

Furthermore, the Fourth Circuit felt the district court’s use of the factors under 18 U.S.C. § 3553(a) in assessing an appropriate sentence based on the “totality of the circumstances” was founded on a thorough, individualized assessment of Mitchell’s case. The district court did not abuse its discretion, and the Fourth Circuit therefore affirmed Mitchell’s sentence.

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By Diana Castro

Today, in United States v. Raymond Garfield Butler, the Fourth Circuit denied Butler’s motion for a certificate of appealability and dismissed the appeal from the District Court for the District of Maryland.  The court held that Butler had not made the requisite showing for a certificate of appealability.

Under 28 U.S.C. § 2253(c)(2), a court will not issue a certificate of appealability without “a substantial showing of the denial of a constitutional right.”  When a district court denies relief on the merits, a prisoner must show that reasonable jurists would find that the district court’s assessment of the constitutional claims is debatable or wrong in order to satisfy the 28 U.S.C. § 2253(c)(2) standard.  Slack v. McDaniel, 529 U.S. 473, 484 (2000); Miller-El v. Cockrell, 537 U.S. 322, 336-38 (2003).

In addition to showing that the motion states a debatable claim for the denial of a constitutional right, when the district court denies relief on procedural grounds, the prisoner must show that the dispositive procedural ruling is also debatable.

Butler’s appeal followed the District Court’s denial of his motion attacking sentence and his motion to alter or amend judgment under Federal Rule of Civil Procedure 59(e).  After independently reviewing the record, the Fourth Circuit concluded that Butler had not made the requisite showing, and, thus, dismissed the appeal accordingly.

 

 

By Kim Sokolich

Today, in United States v. Washington, the 4th Circuit declined to change their position on the transportation of a minor for prosecution despite the Supreme Court ruling in Flores- Figueroa v. United States (2009).

In 2012, Defendant Appellant Dwane Washington met prostitute, R.C. At the time, R.C. was only fourteen years of age, but she told Washington that she was 19. Shortly after meeting, Washington became her pimp and began taking her across the south. Washington would set up online advertisements for R.C.’s services as a prostitute. He would use all of the proceeds to pay for food, lodging, and drugs. R.C. did not receive any of the money. Washington also had sex with R.C. on several occasions. During this entire time, Washington contents that he did not know that R.C. was only fourteen. Washington was eventually arrested and charged with the interstate transportation of a minor with the intent for the minor to engage in prostitution, a crime under 18 U.S.C. §2323(a).

At trial, the district court instructed the jury that ” the government did not have to prove that the defendant knew that the individual he transported across state lines was under the age of 18 at the time she was transported.” This instruction was directly in line with the previous 4th circuit decision from United States v. Jones. In Jones, the 4th Circuit held that under §2423, the government did not have to establish the defendant had knowledge of the victims age. Thus, in accordance with this instruction, the jury found Washington guilty of the charge. Washington appealed.

On appeal, Washington argued that while Jones already decided this issue, that under 2009 Supreme Court decision in Flores-FigueroaJones was no longer good law. InFlores-Figueroa, the Supreme Court decided that, in a case for aggravated identity theft, the statute required the defendant had some sort of mens rea requirement. The language for that statute stated that a defendant was guilty when he “knowingly transferred.” This language is identical to the minor transportation statute which talks about a person who “knowingly transports an individual who not attained the age of 18.” Washington argues that this identical language infers a mens era requirement under 2423.

The 4th Circuit, however, did not agree. Noting Justice Alito’s concurrence in the Flores-Figueroa opinion, the meaning into the a sentence’s reading is a contextual one based and that a special context will require some sort of more detailed examination that simply a textual reading of the statute. The 4th Circuit read this as the Supreme Court’s refusal to create a bright-line rule. Instead, the court found that 2423 has the “special context” Alito was talking about. The Court notes that viewed in context, the purpose of 2423 was to provide minors with special protection, not to make the provisions protecting minors even more difficult to prove. Therefore the 4th Circuit declined to change their rule from Jones and affirmed the lower court’s decision.

By: Eric A. Johnson*

Introduction

Substantive background principles play a critical role in the courts’ interpretation of criminal statutes, particularly where the subject of mens rea is concerned.[1]  As Professor Dan Kahan has said, “criminal statutes typically emerge from the legislature only half-formed.”[2]  The effect of these “incompletely specified criminal statutes” is a tacit delegation of lawmaking authority from the legislature to the courts.[3]  A delegation of this sort occurs, for example, in connection with the question of causation.  By enacting statutes that require causation but leave the required causal relationship undefined, legislatures effectively have “left to judicial development”[4] the meaning of the statutory causation requirement.[5]  A similar, though more complex, delegation occurs in connection with mens rea.  Legislatures routinely fail to identify the culpable mental states associated with particular objective elements of crimes.[6]  And so the task of deciding what mental states, if any, to assign these elements falls to the courts.  To guide their exercise of this delegated power, courts have developed a rich—if somewhat untidy—body of substantive background principles.[7]

The most important of these substantive background principles is the presumption of mens rea—or the “mens rea principle,” as it sometimes is known.[8]  The origins of this principle are usually traced to Morissette v. United States,[9] where the Supreme Court famously said:

The contention that an injury can amount to a crime only when inflicted by intention is no provincial or transient notion.  It is as universal and persistent in mature systems of law as belief in freedom of the human will and a consequent ability and duty of the normal individual to choose between good and evil.[10]

In service of this universal notion, the Court read a requirement of intent into the federal conversion statute under which Morissette had been prosecuted.[11]  More broadly, the Court recognized a general presumption that every criminal statute requires proof of “some mental element.”[12]  This presumption, the Court said, could be overcome only by a “clear expression” of legislative intent to impose liability without fault.[13]

Nowadays, the mens rea question is more complicated than whether a crime requires proof of just “some mental element.”  Though “[t]he common law and older codes often defined an offense to require only a single mental state,”[14] the publication of the Model Penal Code in 1962 led to “a general rethinking of traditionalmens-rea analysis.”[15]  Among the components of this rethinking was a recognition that the question of mens rea must “be faced separately with respect to each material element of the crime.”[16]  In other words, the Model Penal Code showed that the question whether to require proof of “some mental element” must be addressed not in relation to the crime as a whole but rather in relation to each individual objective element of the crime.  And so it also showed that the mens rea principle must operate, somehow, at the level of individual material elements.

Unfortunately, nobody seems to know which material elements are subject to the mens rea presumption.  Students in the traditional first-year Criminal Law course learn two very different versions of the presumption.  The first is the Model Penal Code version, which requires proof of some mental state—purposely, knowingly, recklessly, or negligently—with respect to every material element of the offense,[17] unless the offense is a mere “violation.”[18]  The second is the judge-made version, which requires proof of some mental state only with respect to those “statutory elements that criminalize otherwise innocent conduct.”[19]  Justice (then Judge) Sotomayor precisely, if somewhat awkwardly, summarized this judge-made version of the presumption in her very first opinion as a judge of the Second Circuit.[20]  “Absent clear congressional intent to the contrary,” she said, “statutes defining federal crimes are . . . normally read to contain a mens rea requirement that attaches to enough elements of the crime that together would be sufficient to constitute an act in violation of the law.”[21]

Neither the Model Penal Code’s nor the courts’ version of the mens rea presumption is entirely right.  In Part I, I will argue that the Code’s drafters were wrong in assuming that elements designed to measure the harm from an offense invariably require the assignment of a mental state.  In Part II, I will argue—drawing on a recent dissenting opinion by Justice Stevens—that the courts are wrong in assuming that elements designed to do something other than measure the harm often do notrequire mental states.  In Part III, I will use these two criticisms—of the Model Penal Code and of the courts—as the basis for constructing an alternative version of the mens rea presumption, in which the mens rea presumption is reconceptualized as a kind of actus reus presumption.  Finally, in Part IV, I will show that this alternative version of the mens rea presumption is consistent with what the courts say about the confusing topic of general and specific intent.

I.  The Shortcomings of the Model Penal Code Approach

The Model Penal Code’s version of the mens rea requirement appears in section 2.02, which provides that “a person is not guilty of an offense unless he acted purposely, knowingly, recklessly or negligently, as the law may require, with respect to each material element of the offense.”[22]  This rule would require the courts to assign some mental state to every objective element of every offense—even elements whose function is to distinguish between more and less serious versions of the same offense.  As applied to the crime of aggravated theft, for example, this rule would require the courts to assign some mental state—”recklessly,” perhaps—even to the value of the stolen property.[23]  Thus, a defendant charged with aggravated theft could defend the case by asserting that he had not realized that the stolen property’s value might exceed the statutory threshold.[24]

This expansive version of the mens rea presumption undoubtedly is based in part on the uncontroversial proposition that culpability is a matter of degree.[25]  There is a difference, of course, between a thief who hopes or expects to obtain property valued at a million dollars and a thief who hopes or expects to obtain property valued at five dollars.  And one reason for differentiating aggravated from simple theft is to take this difference into account.  But the expansive version of the mens rea presumption also appears to be based on two more controversial assumptions, neither of which has won a broad following among courts.

The first of these two assumptions is that harm has no independent bearing on a crime’s gravity and, accordingly, that the harm elements in criminal statutes really function only as markersto tell the jurors in relation to what harm they are to measure the unjustifiability of risk and the culpability of the actor’s conduct.  From this assumption that harm elements are present in criminal statutes only as markers, it appears to follow that harm elements can fulfill their statutory function only if they are assigned mental states.  The commentaries to the Model Penal Code make roughly this point in connection with the aggravated-theft example: “The amount involved in a theft has criminological significance only if it corresponds with what the thief expected or hoped to get.  To punish on the basis of actual harm rather than on the basis of foreseen or desired harm is to measure the extent of criminality by fortuity.”[26]

This first apparent assumption—that harm has no bearing on the crime’s gravity except as a marker—is belied even by the Model Penal Code’s own special part.  Under the Code, a person who “recklessly engages in conduct which places or may place another person in danger of death” is guilty only of a misdemeanor—reckless endangerment—if the risk of death is not realized.[27]  On the other hand, if the risk of death is realized, the defendant is guilty of reckless manslaughter, a felony punishable by up to ten years in prison.[28]  The risk required by these two crimes is exactly the same, as is the degree of culpability.  What distinguishes the two crimes is just the harm.  In this setting, then, the Code obviously assigns independent significance to the degree of harm inflicted by the crime.[29]

State legislatures, too, have assigned independent significance to harm in a wide array of criminal statutes.  Consider, for example, two Iowa statutes on the subject of drag racing.  The first, section 321.278 of the Iowa Code, defines “drag racing” as a “motor vehicle speed contest . . . on any street or highway” and classifies it as a simple misdemeanor.[30]  The second, section 707.6A of the Iowa Code, provides that “[a] person commits a class ‘D’ felony when the person unintentionally causes the death of another while drag racing, in violation of section 321.278.”[31]  The second of these statutes appears to require nothing by way of risk or culpability that is not required by the first.  It says nothing about any requirement of recklessness or negligence with respect to the death, for example.[32]  And so it appears simply to require intentional or knowing participation in a drag race, as does the misdemeanor statute.[33]  The relationship between these two statutes is the same, then, as the relationship between reckless endangerment and reckless manslaughter.  What distinguishes the two drag-racing crimes is just the harm caused by the defendant.  In this and other like statutes, harm matters.

There is more behind the Model Penal Code’s expansive version of the mens rea requirement, though, than the drafters’ apparent assumption that harm lacks any independent bearing on a crime’s gravity.  There also is a second, distinct assumption, namely, that only by assigning a mental state to the social harm that is the statute’s target can the statute adequately answer the two normative questions on which criminal liability ought to hinge: (1) whether the risk posed by the defendant’s conduct was unjustifiable; and (2) whether the defendant’s disregard of the risk, or his failure to perceive the risk, “justifies condemnation.”[34]  The Code’s drafters assumed, in effect, that every criminal statute must operate on the same model as the Code’s reckless-manslaughter provision, which—by assigning a mental state of “recklessly” to the “death of another” element[35]—requires the jury to decide for itself whether the conduct posed an “unjustifiable” risk of death and whether the defendant was culpable in relation to this risk.[36]

This second of the drafters’ assumptions is, like the first, belied by statutes like Iowa’s drag-racing homicide statute, which measure the unjustifiability and culpability of the risk-taking without assigning a mental state to the social-harm element.  As Professor Mark Kelman has said, offenses like drag-racing homicide are related to reckless and criminally negligent homicide in much the same way that tort negligence per se is related to ordinary tort negligence.[37]  Statutes defining offenses like drag-racing homicide embody antecedent legislative judgments of unjustifiability and culpability per se.[38]  These antecedent legislative judgments—though made in relation to the social harm that is the statute’s target—are based on the statute’s other elements and on the mental states associated with those other elements.[39]  In the crime of drag-racing homicide, for example, the antecedent legislative judgment hinges on proof that the actor knowingly or intentionally participated in a motor vehicle “speed contest” on a public “highway.”  It would be redundant, then, to assign a mental state to the harm; it would be redundant, that is, to put to the jury directly the questions whether the conduct posed an unjustifiable risk of death and whether the actor was culpable in relation to this risk.  In effect, the legislature already has answered these questions on the basis of the statute’s circumstance and conduct elements and their accompanying mental states.

Statutes that embody these sorts of antecedent determinations of unjustifiability and culpability per se are commonplace.  For example, most state criminal codes have drunk-driving-homicide statutes, in which the driver’s liability hinges exclusively on his or her intoxication at the time of the fatal accident.[40]  These statutes do not require the jury to make a determination that the defendant was reckless or negligent with respect to the result element—that is, the death of a person.[41]  Instead, the statutes’ only mental states pertain to the conduct and attendant-circumstance elements.[42]  They usually require, first, that the defendant act purposely with respect to the conduct element—namely, driving a motor vehicle—and, second, that the defendant act knowingly with respect to an attendant circumstance element—namely, the fact that the defendant had consumed an intoxicant.[43]

Likewise, a substantial minority of states have specific “drug-induced homicide” statutes.[44]  These statutes generally require, first, that the defendant deliver one of several specified controlled substances—for example, heroin, methamphetamine, or cocaine—and, second, that another person die as the result of ingesting the controlled substance.[45]  The statutes do not require the government to prove that the defendant was reckless or criminally negligent with respect to the social harm that is the target of the statute.[46]  Instead, by way of mens rea, they typically require the government to prove only that the defendant knew that he or she was delivering the controlled substance.[47]

There is room for disagreement about whether statutes like these are desirable[48]—about whether society is better served by rules embodying antecedent legislative judgments of unjustifiability and culpability per se,[49] or instead is better served by statutes that delegate to the finder of fact the responsibility for making ad hoc, case-specific judgments of unjustifiability and culpability.[50]  What is not subject to disagreement, though—and what is critical to the argument here—is just that legislatures traditionally have made extensive use of both kinds of criminal statutes.[51]  From the fact that legislatures traditionally have made extensive use of both kinds of criminal statutes, it follows that the courts ought not to adopt a version of the mens rea presumption that wishes away statutes embodying antecedent legislative judgments of unjustifiability and culpability per se.  In exercising their delegated power to develop substantive criminal-law background principles,[52]after all, the courts are merely “partners in the enterprise of lawmaking.”[53]  They do not dictate to the legislature.

II.  The Shortcomings of the Supreme Court’s Approach

This criticism of the expansive Model Penal Code version of the mens rea presumption seems to point toward a particular limitation on the presumption.  One of the defining features of crimes like drunk-driving homicide is the fact that the result element does not define the boundary between lawful and unlawful conduct.  The underlying conduct in drunk-driving homicide—driving while drunk—is criminal even when it does not cause death, injury, or property damage.  And the same is true of drag racing and drug trafficking and of the felonies that provide the bases for felony-murder prosecutions.  This feature of the homicide statutes suggests a possible shorthand formula for identifying elements that do not require the assignment of a mental state.  We could say an element does not require the assignment of a mental state if—like the element of death in drunk-driving homicide—it merely aggravates conduct that already is criminal.

This, as it happens, is the formula that the courts usually have used to define the scope of the mens rea presumption.  State and federal courts, when they have recognized that the question of mens rea must “be faced separately with respect to each material element of the crime,”[54] usually have held that the presumption of mens rea does not apply to elements that make a crime more serious; it only applies to elements that “make[] the conduct criminal.”[55]  In Staples v. United States,[56] for example, the Supreme Court said that the presumption requires the government to prove some mental state with respect to all “the facts that make [the] conduct illegal.”[57]  The Supreme Court spoke even more clearly in Carter v. United States,[58] where it said that “[t]he presumption in favor of scienter . . . requires a court to read into a statute only that mens rea which is necessary to separate wrongful conduct from ‘otherwise innocent conduct.’”[59]

The Court’s most recent application of this limiting principle came in Dean v. United States.[60]  The statute at issue in Dean was 18 U.S.C. § 924(c)(1)(A)(iii), which, in effect, defines an aggravated version of the offense of carrying a firearm during a crime of violence.[61]  Under this section, a person who uses or possesses a firearm during a crime of violence or a drug-trafficking crime will be subject to an enhanced minimum sentence of ten years “if the firearm is discharged.”[62]  InDean, both sides agreed that the defendant, Dean, had carried a firearm during a crime of violence—the robbery of a bank.[63]  And both sides agreed that the firearm had gone off.[64]  But the discharge appeared to have been accidental (since Dean cursed after the gun went off).[65]  So the question arose whether the government was required to prove some mental state with respect to the discharge.[66]  Dean argued that the government was required to prove that he had discharged the gun intentionally or knowingly.[67]  The Supreme Court concluded, though, that Congress had meant, by its omission of a mental state, not to require a mental state with respect to the discharge.[68]

In reaching this result, the Supreme Court said that Dean’s reliance on the presumption of mens rea was misplaced.[69]  The Court explained that the presumption did not apply to the discharge element, since the defendant’s conduct in cases prosecuted under 18 U.S.C. § 924(c)(1)(A)(iii) is unlawful even apart from the discharge of the firearm.  “It is unusual to impose criminal punishment for the consequences of purely accidental conduct,” the Court said.[70]  “But it is not unusual to punish individuals for the unintended consequences of their unlawful acts.”[71]  In effect the Court applied in Dean the same limiting principle it had applied in cases likeStaples and Carter, namely, that the presumption of mens rea applies only to “the facts that make [the] conduct criminal.”[72]

The academic commentary has been broadly critical of this limitation on the mens rea presumption.[73]  What interests me, however, is the somewhat more focused criticism offered by Justice Stevens in his dissenting opinion in Dean.[74]  In arguing that the discharge element in 18 U.S.C. § 924(c)(1)(A)(iii) required a mental state, Justice Stevens relied in part on the mens rea presumption.[75]  To the Dean majority’s reliance on the distinction between aggravating elements and elements that make conduct criminal, Justice Stevens responded by proposing a refinement of the distinction.  He said, in substance, that the “aggravating-element” limitation on the mens rea principle really only applies to aggravating elements that measure the degree of harm inflicted by the defendant:

The Court cites the felony-murder rule . . . and Sentencing Guidelines provisions that permit increased punishment based on the seriousness of the harm caused by the predicate act . . . .  These examples have in common the provision of enhanced penalties for the infliction of some additional harm.  By contrast, § 924(c)(1)(A)(iii) punishes discharges whether or not any harm is realized. . . .  For [this and other] reasons, § 924(c)(1)(A)(iii) is readily distinguishable from the provisions the majority cites.[76]

These four sentences are brief to a fault.  But the twofold gist of the sentences can be summarized as follows.  First, elements that are designed to measure the degree of harm inflicted by the defendant—that, in Justice Stevens’s words, go to “the seriousness of the harm caused by the predicate act”—sometimes can justify increased punishment quite apart from whether the government is required to prove any mental state with respect to the harm.  Second, elements designed to do something other than measure the harm—like the discharge of a firearm under § 924(c)(1)(A)(iii)—usually cannot justify increased punishment unless the government is required to prove some mental state with respect to them.[77]

This second point is the controversial one.  Why did Justice Stevens suppose that elements that are designed to measure something other than the harm usually cannot justify increased punishment absent proof of an accompanying mental state?  The only explanation appears in Justice Stevens’s enigmatic statement that 18 U.S.C. § 924(c)(1)(A)(iii) was intended “to serve a different purpose [than provisions that impose increased punishment on the basis of the seriousness of the harm]—namely, to punish the more culpable act of intentional discharge.”[78]  The implication of this remark is that factors other than harm are significant only to the degree that they signal enhanced culpability.

This explanation seems wrong, though.  It is at least arguable that, as the majority said in Dean,[79] the discharge element in § 924(c)(1)(A)(iii) was designed to do something other than measure the degree of the defendant’s culpability.  The majority thought the discharge element mattered not because it signified enhanced culpability but because it signified enhanced risk.  The discharge of a firearm during a bank robbery, the Court said, “increases the risk that others will be injured, that people will panic, or that violence (with its own danger to those nearby) will be used in response.”[80]  According to the majority, then, the discharge element might have been designed not to measure the defendant’s culpability—not, that is, to measure the defendant’s subjective perception of risk—but rather to measure the degree of objective risk posed by his conduct.

The Dean majority appears to have been correct in thinking that the degree of risk posed by an actor’s conduct sometimes has significance that is independent of the actor’s perception of the risk.  The Model Penal Code’s definition of reckless endangerment, for example, requires proof not only of culpability but of actual risk; it is satisfied only when the actor’s conduct “places or may place another person in danger of death or serious bodily injury.”[81]  A person who believes without any basis that he is driving ninety miles per hour is not guilty of reckless endangerment if he really is driving within the speed limit.[82]  The same is true of criminally negligent homicide, reckless manslaughter, and even depraved-indifference homicide.  In all these offenses, the actor’s liability depends not only on the actor’s culpability but also on the degree of objective risk posed by his conduct.[83]  There is no reason in principle, then, why increased risk should never be significant in its own right.  And indeed some criminal codes assign—or purport to assign—significance to the risks created by a defendant’s conduct without requiring proof of enhanced culpability.[84]

The Dean majority’s reliance on the objective risk posed by Dean’s conduct—as a basis for the enhanced punishment imposed under § 924(c)(1)(A)(iii)—suggests a powerful alternative basis for Justice Stevens’s implied criticism of the traditional judge-made version of the mens rea presumption, however.  The magnitude of even an “objective” risk, and indeed the very existence of the risk, is always tied to the defendant’s perspective—to what the defendant knew about his conduct and about the surrounding facts and circumstances.  Strictly speaking, purely objective probabilities don’t exist outside the world of indeterministic microphysics.[85]  At the macroscopic level, probabilities are just a reflection of the incompleteness of our knowledge of the world.[86]  If we knew everything there was to know about the objective facts—“all the forces by which nature is animated and the respective situation of the beings who compose it”[87]—probability would give way to certainty.[88]  The very notion of probability, then, presupposes “a perspective that is defined by possession of certain information but not other information.”[89]

Dean illustrates this.  It is possible now, after the fact, to reconstruct the objective facts surrounding the discharge of Dean’s gun—the position and orientation of the gun, the trajectory of the bullet, the location of the bank’s employees and customers, and so on.  And so it is possible now to say that, when the gun discharged, the purely “objective” probability that the bullet would injure one of the bank’s employee or customers was zero.[90]  The bullet was bound to travel through the partition separating the two bank tellers, ricochet off a computer, and come to rest harmlessly on the teller counter.[91]  Thus, when the majority in Dean says that the discharge of Dean’s firearm “increase[d] the risk that others [would] be injured,”[92] it cannot mean the agent-independent risk.  It must, rather, mean the risk or probability as calculated from some “perspective that is defined by possession of certain information but not other information.”[93]

In criminal law, objective probabilities are calculated from the defendant’s perspective.  More precisely, the probabilities of interest to the criminal law are calculated on the basis of a factual setup defined by what the defendant knows of the background facts and circumstances.[94]  (In the words of the Model Penal Code’s definitions of recklessness and negligence, the probabilities are measured on the basis of “the circumstances known to [the actor].”)[95]  This is true where the finder of fact bears the responsibility for making a case-specific assessment of the nature and degree of risk, as he does in, say, a prosecution for reckless homicide.[96]  But it is true as well where the legislature uses specific, factual elements—such as the discharge of a firearm—to mark the existence of a risk that is unjustifiable per se.[97]  After all, the probabilities that are the subject of the antecedent legislative judgment of unjustifiability per se are the same probabilities that are the subject of a fact-finder’s case-specific judgment.  And so, for example, in a prosecution for drunk driving, the antecedent legislative determination of unjustifiability per se hinges on proof that the defendant knew he was driving and knew that he had consumed an intoxicant.[98]  And in a prosecution for drag-racing homicide, the antecedent legislative judgment of unjustifiability per se hinges on proof that the defendant knew he was participating in a speed contest on a public highway.

This account of objective risk, though curious sounding, is utterly uncontroversial.  Consider a typical Fourth Amendment case, for example.  The lawfulness of a warrantless search or seizure usually depends on whether the evidence available to the officer satisfied one of two probability thresholds: the probable cause standard or the reasonable suspicion standard.  In applying these two probability thresholds, the courts insist that the probabilities at work are “objective,” rather than “subjective.”[99]  Still, the courts measure these objective probabilities just as the Model Penal Code requires the fact finder to do in criminal cases: on the basis of “the facts and circumstances known to the officer.”[100]  Here and elsewhere, then, courts measure even objective probabilities according to what the actor himself knew of the background facts and circumstances.

This is to say, the real trouble with the traditional judge-made version of the mens rea presumption is not, as Justice Stevens supposed, that the moral significance of risk depends on the defendant’s mental state.  The real trouble is that the very existence of risk depends on the defendant’s mental state.  Offense elements like the discharge of a firearm—elements that are designed to measure the objective risk posed by the actor’s conduct, rather than the harm inflicted by his conduct—can perform their assigned function only if they are tied somehow to what the actor knew about the underlying facts.  Therefore, elements designed to measure the risk ordinarily require the assignment either of a “knowingly” mental state or of a mental state like negligence or recklessness, whose existence turns on an assessment of the underlying “circumstances known to [the actor].”[101]

III.  The Mens Rea Presumption as an Actus Reus Presumption

From these criticisms—of the Model Penal Code version of the mens rea presumption, on the one hand, and of the judge-made version, on the other—it is possible to construct a new version of the presumption.  This new version of the presumption would not apply to elements whose exclusive function is to measure the degree of harm inflicted by the crime.  Instead it would apply to every other kind of element: to elements that define risk-enhancing attendant circumstances, like the intoxication of the actor in drunk-driving homicide; to elements that define the nature of the required conduct, like the “driving” element in drag-racing homicide; and to elements that define risk-manifesting intermediate results, like the discharge of the firearm in 18 U.S.C. § 924.  Moreover, the presumption would apply even to harm elements when the statute’s remaining elements—the circumstances, the conduct, and the intermediate results—do not clearly embody an antecedent legislative judgment of unjustifiability and culpability per se.

This might sound, at first hearing, like a relatively modest change in the mens rea presumption.  But it really works a fundamental change in the presumption’s underpinnings.  The new version is grounded not on concerns about fine-tuned assessments of subjective moral blameworthiness but rather on concerns about whether the defendant’s conduct even was wrong.  It is grounded, in other words, on concerns about the existence of the crime’s actus reus, not on concerns about culpability.

To explain, criminal liability is usually thought to hinge on the answers to two different questions.  The first is the question of “legality” or “wrongdoing,” which in effect asks whether the actor’s conduct violated an external, objective rule of conduct.[102]  The second is the question of “culpability,” which in effect asks whether the actor, despite having violated a rule of conduct, nevertheless lacks “the minimum blameworthiness required to be held criminally liable for the violation.”[103]  Courts and scholars both have assumed that the mens rea presumption really speaks to the second of these questions, and not without justification.  After all, the Supreme Court in Morissette identified the presumption of mens rea not with the requirement of “an evil-doing hand” but rather with the apparently distinct requirement of “an evil-meaning mind.”[104]

Still, it is the requirement of wrongdoing—of “an evil-doing hand”—on which the so-called mens rea presumption mostly bears.  This was one of Holmes’s central insights in The Common Law.  Holmes was concerned with establishing, in criminal law as elsewhere, “tests of liability [that] are external, and independent of the degree of evil in a particular person’s motives or intentions.”[105]  But he recognized that the objective risk posed by an actor’s conduct could not be measured except according to “the circumstances known to him.”[106]  And so he recognized that “[s]o far . . . as criminal liability is founded upon wrong-doing in any sense, . . . [it] must be confined to cases where circumstances making the conduct dangerous were known [to the actor].”[107]  He dismissed, moreover, the possibility that the requirement of mens rea is meant to accomplish more than this: “[T]he mens rea, or actual wickedness of the party, is wholly unnecessary, and all reference to the state of his consciousness is misleading if it means anything more than that the circumstances in connection with which the tendency of his act is judged are the circumstances known to him.”[108]

If Holmes was wrong in expressing doubt about whether “the actual degree of personal guilt involved in any particular transgression . . . is an element at all,”[109] he was right in thinking that the most important function of mental-state requirements is to tell us what the actor knew of the surrounding circumstances and thereby to tell us what the objective risk posed by the actor’s conduct was.  It is this critical function that the mens rea presumption, as reconfigured by Justice Stevens in Dean, really is designed to serve.  The mens rea presumption serves this critical function by requiring that mental states be assigned to elements whose purpose is, at least in part, to measure the risk associated with the actor’s conduct.  Paradoxically, then, the mens rea presumption really is an actus reus presumption; it requires the courts to presume that the legislature meant to require proof of an indispensable mental component of the actus reus—knowledge of the “circumstances making the conduct dangerous.”[110]

Finally, there is nothing conceptually problematic in the recognition that the actus reus has an indispensible mental component.  Courts long have recognized that the actus reus includes a requirement of a voluntary act and that this voluntary-act requirement has a mental component.  The Washington Court of Appeals explained this point nicely in State v. Utter[111]:

There are two components of every crime.  One is objective—the actus reus; the other subjective—the mens rea.  The actus reus is the culpable act itself, the mens rea is the criminal intent with which one performs the criminal act.  However, the mens rea does not encompass the entire mental process of one accused of a crime.  There is a certain minimal mental element required in order to establish the actus reus itself.  This is the element of volition.[112]

The effect of Justice Stevens’s reconceptualization of the mens rea presumption is just to show that another facet of the actus reus—the objective risk—has a mental component as well.[113]

IV.  The Actus Reus Presumption as a Presumption of General Intent

What I have said so far would provide, at best, a thin basis for urging a state or federal court to adopt the proposed limitation on the scope of the mens rea presumption.  Thankfully, though, the proposed limitation is grounded in more than Justice Stevens’s remark in his dissent in Dean and on more than my own theoretical excursus into the nature of objective probability.  The proposed limitation also has a strong grounding in what the courts say about the difficult subject of general and specific intent.

Federal and state courts often have said that what the presumption of mens rea really presumes is that the legislature meant to require “general criminal intent,” as opposed to “specific intent.”  This version of the mens rea requirement appears to have originated in United States v. Lewis,[114] where the Fourth Circuit observed that courts applying the mens rea requirement usually wound up concluding—of the statute being interpreted—that “only general intent is needed.”[115]  In the intervening years, the Fourth Circuit’s observation has become a kind of formula.  The Supreme Court invoked this formula in Carter v. United States,[116] where it said  that “the presumption in favor of scienter demands only that we read [18 U.S.C. § 2113(a), which defines the federal bank-robbery offense] as requiring proof of general intent.”[117]  Federal courts of appeals, too, now frequently say of the mens rea requirement that “absent any express reference to intent, [courts] . . . generally presume that proof only of ‘general’ rather than of ‘specific’ intent is required.”[118]

At first glance, this proposition—that the presumption of mens rea requires only general intent, not specific intent—appears to have little bearing on the question addressed in this Article.  After all, the proposition appears to speak only to the kind of mental state required by the presumption of mens rea, rather than to the question of which elements require mental states.  But this first glance is deceiving.  When the courts say that the presumption of mens rea requires only general intent, not specific intent, they are not just saying something about what kind of mental state is required.[119]  They are also saying something about which objective elements the mental state attaches to.  And what they are saying, as it turns out, revolves around exactly the same distinction that formed the basis for Justice Stevens’s argument in Dean, namely, the distinction between elements that measure harm and elements that measure risk.

To explain, the terms “general intent” and “specific intent” do not describe mental states, or at least they do not describe mental states in the way that terms like intentionally, purposely, knowingly, recklessly, negligently, willfully, and maliciously do.  When a legislature defines the mental state for an element, it uses terms like purposely, knowingly, recklessly, and so on.  It never uses the terms general intent and specific intent.  Nor, in most places, do judges use the terms general intent and specific intent in instructing juries.  Rather, they use terms like purposely, knowingly, recklessly, and so on.[120]

If general and specific intent are not the names of mental states, though, what are they?  The answer is that whether a particular mental state counts as a general intent or a specific intent will depend not just on the nature of the mental state itself but also on the kind of objective element to which it is attached.  The mental state of “intentionally,” for example, sometimes will count as a general intent and sometimes will count as a specific intent, depending on what objective element the mental state attaches to.  When the mental state of intentionally attaches to an element that is designed to measure the harm from the offense—say, the element of serious bodily injury in the crime of aggravated assault—the mental state of intentionally will usually be classified as a specific intent.[121]  When the mental state of intentionally attaches instead to an element that is designed to measure the risk posed by an offense—say, the element of discharge of a firearm—it will be classified as a general intent.

Granted, this isn’t what the courts actually say when they articulate the distinction between general and specific intent.  What the courts typically say is that a crime is a general-intent offense if it requires the government to prove only that “the defendant intended to do the proscribed act,”[122] and that, by contrast, a crime is a specific-intent offense if it requires the government to prove that the defendant also intended to “achieve some additional consequence.”[123]  But the only way to make sense of this distinction between an “additional consequence” and “the proscribed conduct” is to differentiate the (1) the social harm that is the statute’s ultimate target from (2) earlier events in the causal sequence leading up to the social harm, whose significance lies in their contribution to the risk.

To illustrate, imagine a case where the defendant uses a firearm to kill another person.  The event can be broken down into several steps: first, the shooter squeezes the trigger of the firearm; second, the firearm goes off, sending a bullet in the direction of the victim; third, the bullet strikes the victim’s body; and fourth, the damage inflicted by the bullet causes the victim’s death.  The act of squeezing the trigger clearly seems to be part of the “act,” rather than an “additional consequence.”[124]  And the last event in the causal sequence—the death of the victim—is clearly an “additional consequence.”  (Courts uniformly classify intent-to-kill homicide as a specific intent crime.)[125]  But what of the two events that mediate the causal connection between the squeezing of the trigger and the death of the victim?  Are they “additional consequences” or just part of “the proscribed act”?

At first glance, the discharge of the firearm might appear to be an “additional consequence.”  In causal terms, the discharge of the firearm is a consequence of squeezing the trigger.  What is more, it appears to be a truly separate or “additional” event.  After all, sometimes pulling the trigger of a gun causes a gun to discharge, and sometimes it does not.[126]

But courts have said that the discharge of a firearm does not qualify as an “additional consequence.”  Consider, for example, California decisions interpreting a state statute that prohibits “discharg[ing] a firearm in a grossly negligent manner.”[127]  The California courts have held that this statute requires proof that the defendant actually intended that the firearm go off; it is not enough that he intended to squeeze the trigger.[128]  Nevertheless, the courts have said that this statute defines a “general intent crime, because . . . its mental state consists of an intent to do the act that causes the harm.”[129]  Thus, the discharge of the firearm cannot be an “additional consequence” for purposes of the definition of specific intent.

Nor, in our original illustration, is the bullet’s initial contact with the victim’s body “an additional consequence.”  Granted, in purely causal terms, the bullet’s contact with the victim’s body plainly is a consequence both of the squeezing of the trigger and the firearm’s discharge.  What is more, this initial contact appears to be a truly separate event; the discharge of a firearm sometimes causes a bullet to strike another person’s body, and it sometimes does not.  Nevertheless, courts uniformly have held—in interpreting statutes that define the crime of battery—that an intent to bring about physical contact with another person’s body is a form of general intent, not specific intent.[130]  This means that the bullet’s initial contact with the other person’s body cannot be considered an “additional consequence” for purposes of our definition of specific intent.

So what’s going on here?  All three of the events that followed the squeezing of the trigger—the discharge of the firearm, the bullet’s initial contact with the victim’s body, and the death of the victim—appear to be consequences of the conduct.  Why is only one of these events—the death of the victim—treated as an “additional consequence” for purposes of the definition of specific intent?  The answer, as I have said, lies in the distinction between (1) the ultimate harm at which the statute is targeted and (2) the intermediate events that contribute to the risk of that harm occurring.  In our hypothetical shooting, only the death of the victim is the kind of harm at which criminal statutes are targeted.  Statutes that proscribe, say, the intentional discharge of a firearm are not ultimately targeted at the discharge of firearms.  These statutes proscribe the discharge of firearms not because the discharge of a firearm is harmful in itself but because the discharge of a firearm creates or enhances a risk of death or physical injury.

There are other facets to the complex distinction between general and specific intent.[131]  But this facet defines the real content of the distinction.  When courts say that an offense will qualify as a specific-intent offense if it requires proof that the defendant intended to “achieve some additional consequence” beyond “the proscribed act,” what they really mean (usually) is that an offense will qualify as a specific-intent offense if it requires proof that the defendant intended to bring about the social harm at which the statute is targeted.  And when the courts say that an offense will qualify as general-intent offense if it requires only proof that the defendant intended to do “the prohibited act,” what they really mean is that an offense will qualify as a general-intent offense if it requires only proof that the defendant intended to do something, or to cause something to exist or occur, that creates a risk or increases the magnitude of the risk.[132]

What all this means, finally, is that the limiting principle grounded in the distinction between general and specific intent often will operate very much like the limiting principle suggested by Justice Stevens in his dissent in Dean.  It will favor the assignment of mental states to those elements that are designed to measure the risk associated with the conduct (that are part of “the proscribed act,” in other words) but not to those elements that are designed instead to measure the social harm from the offense (that qualify as “additional consequences,” in other words).

Conclusion

Stuart Taylor said in 1990 that “[t]he careful case-by-case distinctions of [Justice] Stevens do not lend themselves to pigeonholing and do not attract much attention.”[133]  Justice Stevens’s dissenting opinion in Dean v. United States provides further evidence both of Justice Stevens’s tendency to articulate “careful case-by-case distinctions” and of the unfortunate fact that these distinctions only rarely “attract much attention.” [134]  In Dean, Justice Stevens recognized that what underlies the courts’ intuitions about the limits of the mens rea presumption is not a distinction between aggravating elements and elements that “criminalize otherwise innocent conduct,” but rather a distinction between elements that measure harm and elements that measure risk.[135]  Despite the novelty and force of this insight, though, no member of the Court joined Justice Stevens’s dissent, and no commentator has paid this insight any attention.[136]

Justice Stevens’s insight deserves attention, and not just because it happens to be right.  Legislatures routinely fail to specify the mental states associated with objective elements, and so courts frequently face the question whether a particular element requires a mental state.  Justice Stevens’s proposed refinement of the mens rea principle would make itself felt in a substantial number of these cases.  It would have made itself felt in Dean itself, of course, if the majority had heeded it.  It would have suggested that the discharge element in 18 U.S.C. § 924(c)(1)(A)(iii) required a mental state—if not “knowingly” or “intentionally,” as Dean’s attorneys hoped,[137] then perhaps “with criminal negligence” or “recklessly.”[138]  But the import of this distinction is not remotely limited to Dean.

Take, for example, the question addressed by the Second Circuit in United States v. Falu.[139]  Falu was convicted of aiding and abetting the distribution of heroin within 1000 feet of a school and accordingly was subject to the sentence enhancement imposed by 21 U.S.C. § 860(a).[140]  Section 860(a), like many state statutes,[141] enhances the penalties for drug dealers whose offenses occur near schools.[142]  But § 860(a) is silent on the question of whether this proximity element has an associated mental state.[143]  On appeal, Falu argued that § 860(a) “does not apply unless a defendant had specific knowledge of the proximity of a school.”[144]  But the Second Circuit rejected this claim, relying primarily on the traditional version of the mens rea presumption:

[The proximity element in] section [860(a)] does not criminalize otherwise innocent activity, since the statute incorporates section 841(a)(1), which already contains amens rea requirement—one must ‘knowingly or intentionally . . .
distribute . . . a controlled substance.’ . . . Anyone who violates section [860(a)] knows that distribution of narcotics is illegal, although the violator may not know that the distribution occurred within 1,000 feet of a school.[145]

Application of Justice Stevens’s more refined version of the mens rea principle might have led to a different result in Falu.  The proximity element in 21 U.S.C. § 860(a) is designed to measure not the harm associated with the defendant’s drug dealing but the risk.  In other words, the sentence enhancement triggered by the proximity element is based not on the assumption that narcotics sales in the vicinity of an elementary or secondary school somehow harm the students, but rather on the assumption “that narcotics sales in the vicinity of an elementary or secondary school endanger the students” by increasing the risk that the drugs will fall into the students’ hands.[146]  Because the proximity element in § 860(a) is designed to measure risk, rather than harm, and because the existence even of objective risk depends on the background facts and circumstances known to the actor, the court ought at least to have presumed that the proximity element required the assignment of a mental state—if not “knowingly,” as Falu’s attorneys hoped,[147] then perhaps the mental state of “recklessly” or the mental state of “with criminal negligence,” both of which judge the risk of an attendant circumstance’s existence on the basis of “the [underlying] circumstances known to [the actor].”[148]

Finally, if Justice Stevens’s approach to this issue lacks the ideological purity of the Model Penal Code’s approach,[149] it also has the potential to succeed where the Code’s approach failed: in actually getting itself accepted by the courts.[150]  In recent years, courts increasingly have framed the mens rea as a presumption of general intent and so have taken pains to distinguish general from specific intent.[151]  The distinction between general and specific intent—between mental states attached to the “prohibited act” and mental states attached to “additional consequences”—closely parallels the distinction made by Justice Stevens between elements that measure risk and elements that measure harm.  The courts, then, already are stumbling toward the very rule proposed by Justice Stevens.


         *   Professor of Law, University of Illinois College of Law.

        [1].   Eric A. Johnson, Does Criminal Law Matter? Thoughts on Dean v. United States and Flores-Figueroa v. United States, 8 Ohio St. J. Crim. L. 123, 135–36 (2010); see also United States v. Figueroa, 165 F.3d 111, 119 (2d Cir. 1998) (“The principles of construction underlying the criminal law serve as much better signposts to congressional intent in these kinds of circumstances than a statute’s sparse and inconsistent legislative history.”); Michael S. Moore, Act and Crime: The Philosophy of Action and Its Implications for Criminal Law 4–5 (1993) (“[The criminal law] needs some general doctrines—doctrines applying to all types of action prohibited by a criminal code—in order to avoid an ungodly redundancy and a woeful incompleteness.”); Andrew C. Spiropoulos, Making Laws Moral: A Defense of Substantive Canons of Construction, 2001 Utah L. Rev. 915, 935–42 (2001) (using the mens rea problem to illustrate the essential role of substantive canons of statutory construction in criminal law).

        [2].   Dan M. Kahan, Ignorance of Law Is an Excuse—but Only for the Virtuous, 96 Mich. L. Rev. 127, 153 (1997).

        [3].   Dan M. Kahan, Lenity and Federal Common Law Crimes, 1994 Sup. Ct. Rev. 345, 372 (1994); see also Dan M. Kahan, Is Chevron Relevant to Federal Criminal Law?, 110 Harv. L. Rev. 469, 470 (1996) [hereinafter Kahan, Chevron] (arguing that judicial “inventiveness” in the interpretation of federal criminal statutes “is a response to the deliberate incompleteness of the criminal statutes”).

        [4].   1 Model Penal Code and Commentaries § 2.03 cmt. 5, at 264 (1985) (describing the effect of the causation provision included in the draft federal criminal code).

        [5].   See State v. David, 141 P.3d 646, 649–52 (Wash. Ct. App. 2006) (recognizing that the Washington State Legislature “has historically left to the judiciary the task of defining some criminal elements,” among them causation).

        [6].   See People v. Rathert, 6 P.3d 700, 711 (Cal. 2000) (“[T]he Legislature is often silent as to the mental element of a crime.”); Kahan, Chevron, supra note 3, at 477 (“Congress is notoriously careless about defining the mental state element of criminal offenses.”).

        [7].   Johnson, supra note 1, at 125.

        [8].   See, e.g., United States v. Muzii, 676 F.2d 919, 920 (2d Cir. 1982); United States v. Cordoba-Hincapie, 825 F. Supp. 485, 495–96 (E.D.N.Y. 1993).

        [9].   342 U.S. 246 (1952); see also United States v. Coté, 504 F.3d 682, 685 (7th Cir. 2007) (tracing the presumption against strict liability to Morissette); United States v. Semenza, 835 F.2d 223, 224 (9th Cir. 1987) (noting the Court in Morissette held that without a clear indication of legislative intent, mens rea should be inferred); Lisa Rachlin, The Mens Rea Dilemma for Aiding and Abetting a Felon in Possession, 76 U. Chi. L. Rev. 1287, 1292 (2009) (tracing the presumption of a mens rea requirement to Morissette and referring to this presumption as “Morissette presumption”).

      [10].   Morissette, 342 U.S. at 250.

      [11].   Id. at 273.

      [12].   Id. at 250–52.

      [13].   Id. at 255 n.14.

      [14].   Paul H. Robinson & Jane A. Grall, Element Analysis in Defining Criminal Liability: The Model Penal Code and Beyond, 35 Stan. L. Rev. 681, 683 (1983).

      [15].   United States v. Bailey, 444 U.S. 394, 403 (1980).

      [16].   Id. at 406 (citation omitted).

      [17].   Model Penal Code § 2.02(1) (1985).

      [18].   Id. § 2.05.  A “violation” is defined as an offense for which “no other sentence than a fine, or fine and forfeiture or other civil penalty is authorized upon conviction.”  Id. § 1.04(5).

      [19].   United States v. X-Citement Video, Inc., 513 U.S. 64, 72 (1994).

      [20].   See United States v. Figueroa, 165 F.3d 111 (2d Cir. 1998).

      [21].   Id. at 116.

      [22].   Model Penal Code § 2.02(1) (1985).  An element counts as “material” unless it relates exclusively to the statute of limitations, jurisdiction, venue, or other like questions.  Id. § 1.13(10).

      [23].   Model Penal Code and Commentaries, supra note 4, § 223.1 cmt. 3(c), at 144.

      [24].   Id.

      [25].   See Stephen F. Smith, Proportional Mens Rea, 46 Am. Crim. L. Rev. 127, 128 (2009) (“Mens rea has traditionally served to prevent disproportional punishment as well as punishment of blameless conduct . . . .”).

      [26].   2 Model Penal Code and Commentaries, § 223.1 cmt. 1, at 146 (1980).

      [27].   Model Penal Code § 211.2 (1985).

      [28].   Id. § 210.3 (defining manslaughter and classifying it as a second-degree felony); id. § 6.06(2) (providing that a person convicted of a felony of the second degree may be imprisoned “for a term the minimum of which shall be fixed by the Court at not less than one year nor more than three years, and the maximum of which shall be ten years”).

      [29].   For an account of the reason why harm matters in criminal law, and of the debate among scholars about whether it ought to matter, see Eric A. Johnson,Criminal Liability for Loss of a Chance, 91 Iowa L. Rev. 59, 118–24 (2005).

      [30].   Iowa Code § 321.278 (2009).

      [31].   Id. § 707.6A.

      [32].   Id.

      [33].   See State v. Buchanan, 549 N.W.2d 291, 294 (Iowa 1996) (explaining that Iowa courts ordinarily presume that criminal statutes require only general intent, rather than specific intent, and that general intent consists simply of “deliberate or knowing action, as opposed to causing the prohibited result through accident, mistake, carelessness, or absent-mindedness”).

      [34].   Model Penal Code and Commentaries, supra note 4, § 2.02 cmt. 3, at 238 (explaining that a jury must first evaluate the risk posed by the defendant’s conduct and whether such risk is justifiable, and then decide whether the defendant’s disregard of the risk or failure to perceive the risk justifies moral condemnation).

      [35].   Model Penal Code § 210.3(1)(a) (1985) (providing that criminal homicide constitutes manslaughter when it is committed “recklessly”); id. § 210.1 (providing that the “death of another human being” is the result element of all forms of criminal homicide).

      [36].   The drafters’ assumption that every criminal statute must operate on the same model as the manslaughter statute is nowhere clearer than in their explanation for rejecting the felony-murder rule.  The trouble with felony murder, they said, was that it imposes liability for homicide “based on the culpability required for the underlying felony without separate proof of any culpability with regard to the death.”  Model Penal Code and Commentaries, supra note 4,  § 210.2 cmt. 6, at 31.

          [37].     Mark Kelman, Strict Liability: An Unorthodox View, in 4 Encyclopedia of Crime and Justice 1512, 1516 (Sanford H. Kadish ed., 1983) (“[T]he key to seeing strict liability as less deviant in the criminal justice system is . . . to see the real policy fight as a rather balanced one over the relative merits and demerits of precise rules (conclusive presumptions) and vague, ad hoc standards (case-by-case determinations of negligence).”).  Kelman’s operative definition of “strict liability,” like the Model Penal Code’s definition of “absolute liability,” is broad enough to encompass offenses like drag-racing homicide.  Id.

          [38].     Id. at 1517 (raising the possibility that the legislature “might predefine what constitutes ‘reasonable care’”); see also Richard A. Wasserstrom, Strict Liability in the Criminal Law, 12 Stan. L. Rev. 731, 744 (1960) (characterizing antecedent legislative judgments underlying statutes like these as “similar to a jury determination that conduct in a particular case was unreasonable”).

      [39].   For general accounts of the operation of statutes like these, see Guyora Binder, Making the Best of Felony Murder, 91 B.U. L. Rev. 403, 425 (2011); Eric A. Johnson, Mens Rea for Sexual Abuse: The Case for Defining the Acceptable Risk, 99 J. Crim. L. & Criminology 1, 11–20 (2009).

          [40].     See, e.g., Fla. Stat. § 316.193(4) (2006); Idaho Code Ann. § 18-8006 (2012); Mich. Comp. Laws  § 257.625(4) (2010); Neb. Rev. Stat. § 28-306(1), (3)(b) (2008); N.Y. Penal Law § 125.12(2) (McKinney 2009); Wyo. Stat. Ann. § 6-2-106(b)(i) (2011).

          [41].     See, e.g., People v. Garner, 781 P.2d 87, 89 (Colo. 1989) (en banc); State v. Hubbard, 751 So. 2d 552, 563 (Fla. 1999); State v. Creamer, 996 P.2d 339, 343 (Kan. Ct. App. 2000); Reidweg v. State, 981 S.W.2d 399, 406–07 (Tex. App. 1998); Allen v. State, 43 P.3d 551, 569 (Wyo. 2002).

      [42].   See Armijo v. State, 678 P.2d 864, 868 (Wyo. 1984).

      [43].   See People v. Derror, 715 N.W.2d 822, 832 (Mich. 2006) (holding that the Michigan statute defining the offense of operation of a vehicle under the influence of a controlled substance causing death does not require the Government to prove that the defendant knew that he might be intoxicated, but implying that Government is required to prove that defendant knew “that he or she had consumed an intoxicating agent”); Armijo, 678 P.2d at 868 (remarking that the offense of aggravated homicide by vehicle requires proof that the defendant became “intoxicated voluntarily to the point that he is not able to safely drive”); see also State v. Simpson, 53 P.3d 165, 167 (Alaska Ct. App. 2002) (explaining that the offense of driving while intoxicated usually requires proof that the defendant “knowingly ingested intoxicants”).

      [44].   See, e.g., Alaska Stat. § 11.41.120(a)(3) (2010); Colo. Rev. Stat. § 18-3-102(e) (2011); Fla. Stat. § 782.04(1)(a)(3) (2007); 720 Ill. Comp. Stat. 5/9-3.3 (2002); La. Rev. Stat. Ann. § 14:30.1(3) (2007); Mich. Comp. Laws § 750.317a (2003); Minn. Stat. § 609.195(b) (2010); N.J. Stat. Ann. § 2C:35-9 (West 2005); 18 Pa. Cons. Stat. § 2506(a) (1998); R.I. Gen. Laws § 11-23-6 (2002); Tenn. Code Ann. § 39-13-210(a)(2) (2010); Vt. Stat. Ann. tit. 18, § 4250(a) (2002); Wash. Rev. Code § 69.50.415 (2007); Wis. Stat. § 940.02(2)(a) (2005); Wyo. Stat. Ann. § 6-2-108 (2011).

      [45].   See People v. Faircloth, 599 N.E.2d 1356, 1360 (Ill. App. Ct. 1992).

          [46].     See Alaska Stat. § 11.41.120(a)(3) (providing explicitly that “the death is a result that does not require a culpable mental state”); Faircloth, 599 N.E.2d at 1360 (interpreting Illinois’s statute not to require a culpable mental state with respect to the result: “The defendant just needs to make a knowing delivery of a controlled substance, and if any person then dies as a result of taking that substance, the defendant is responsible for that person’s death.”).

          [47].     See Faircloth, 599 N.E.2d at 1360.

          [48].     See, e.g., R.A. Duff, Criminalizing Endangerment, 65 La. L. Rev. 941, 960–61 (2005) (describing the relative advantages and disadvantages of per se rules, on the one hand, and vaguer, ad hoc standards, on the other); Kelman, supra note 37, at 1517 (describing the individual challenges that arise from vague terms, such as inconsistency and bias in jury verdicts, as well as from predefined terms, such as imprecise application to defendants of differing circumstances).

          [49].     See Grayned v. City of Rockford, 408 U.S. 104, 108–09 (1972) (arguing that one of the vices of vague criminal laws is that they “impermissibly delegate[] basic policy matters to . . . juries for resolution on an ad hoc and subjective basis, with the attendant dangers of arbitrary and discriminatory application”); People v. Pinckney, 328 N.Y.S.2d 550, 553–54 (N.Y. App. Div. 1972) (upholding the dismissal of a reckless-manslaughter charge against the supplier of a fatal dose of heroin on the ground that drug-induced homicides are better addressed by the adoption of specific legislation: “In our opinion, if the Legislature had intended to include homicide by the selling of dangerous drugs, it would have amended the sections of the Penal Law relating to homicide.”); Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., The Common Law 120–26 (Little, Brown and Co. 1984) (1881) (“[I]t is very desirable to know as nearly as we can the standard by which we shall be judged at a given moment . . . .”).

          [50].     See Douglas N. Husak, Reasonable Risk Creation and Overinclusive Legislation, 1 Buff. Crim. L. Rev. 599, 620–21 (1998) (arguing that offenses like drunk driving should either (1) be redefined to require proof of culpability—that is, recklessness—with respect to the ultimate social harm that is the target of the offense or (2) be replaced by “a more general offense of risk creation”); Cynthia Lee, “Murder and the Reasonable Man” Revisited: A Response to Victoria Nourse, 3 Ohio St. J. Crim. L. 301, 305–06 (2005) (“[T]he jury is a better institutional actor than the legislature when it comes to deciding questions of culpability . . . .”); William J. Stuntz, Unequal Justice, 121 Harv. L. Rev. 1969, 1974, 2036–39 (2008) (arguing that justice and racial equality can best be served by “defin[ing] criminal prohibitions more vaguely”).

      [51].   See Holmes, supra note 49, at 58–59.

      [52].   Johnson, supra note 1, at 125.

      [53].   Spiropoulos, supra note 1, at 919.

      [54].   United States v. Bailey, 444 U.S. 394, 403, 406 (1980) (explaining that the Model Penal Code brought about “a general rethinking of traditional mens-reaanalysis” and identifying as one facet of this general rethinking the recognition that the question of culpability must be faced separately with respect to each material element).

      [55].   United States v. Taylor, 239 F.3d 994, 997 (9th Cir. 2001); see also, e.g., United States v. Figueroa, 165 F.3d 111, 115–16 (2d Cir. 1998); Noblit v. State, 808 P.2d 280, 285 (Alaska Ct. App. 1991); People v. Busch, 113 Cal. Rptr. 3d 683, 688–89 (Cal. Ct. App. 2010).

      [56].   511 U.S. 600 (1994).

      [57].   Id. at 619.

      [58].   530 U.S. 255 (2000).

      [59].   Id. at 256–57 (quoting United States v. X-Citement Video, 513 U.S. 64, 72 (1994)).

      [60].   556 U.S. 568 (2009).

      [61].   Technically, this section defines a “sentencing enhancement,” rather than a separate offense.  See Harris v. United States, 536 U.S. 545, 553 (2002); see also Brief for the Petitioner at 4, Dean v. United States, 556 U.S. 568 (2009) (No. 08-5274) (acknowledging that the district court judge, rather than the jury, was responsible for deciding whether the discharge element in 18 U.S.C. § 924(c)(1)(A)(iii)(2006) had been proved).  This distinction has important procedural consequences.  See Harris, 536 U.S. at 553 (noting that the brandishing and discharge of a firearm can be a factor in sentencing).  From a substantive perspective, though, the sentencing enhancement in § 924(c)(1)(A)(iii) does exactly what many offense elements do: trigger harsher penalties for more serious criminal conduct. See Dean, 556 U.S. at 575 (comparing the discharge provision to the felony-murder rule, in which proof that the defendant caused the victim’s death results in the imposition of increased punishment).  The Court in Dean, accordingly, appears to have assigned no substantive significance to the fact that the discharge provision defines a sentencing enhancement, rather than a separate offense.  See id. at 576–77 (explaining why the presumption of scienter does not require the assignment of a mental state to the discharge provision, and so tacitly rejecting the government’s argument, see Brief for United States at 10, Dean, 556 U.S. 568 (No. 08-5274), that the presumption of scienter does not apply at all to sentencing enhancements).

      [62].   Dean, 556 U.S. at 571 (quoting 18 U.S.C. § 924(c)(1)(A)(iii)).

      [63].   See id. at 570 (“At trial, Dean admitted that he had committed the robbery . . . .”).

      [64].   See Brief for United States, supra note 61, at 4 (“Petitioner testified that when he was removing money from the teller station, he ‘pulled the trigger’ on the pistol he was carrying while trying to transfer the gun from one hand to the other.”).

      [65].   Id.

      [66].   Dean, 556 U.S. at 570.

      [67].   Id. at 571.

      [68].   Id. at 576–77.

      [69].   Id. at 574–77.

      [70].   Id. at 575.

      [71].   Id.

      [72].   Staples v. United States, 511 U.S. 600, 619 (1994).  One commentator has argued that the Staples rule was “rejected” in Flores-Figueroa v. United States, 556 U.S. 646 (2009), which was decided just a week after DeanSee The Supreme Court, 2008 Term — Leading Cases, 123 Harv. L. Rev. 153, 321 (2009) [hereinafter Leading Cases].  This is wishful thinking.  In Flores-Figueroa, the Supreme Court did not advert to the mens rea principle at all, much less “reject” the longstanding Staples limitation.  The Court’s decision in Flores-Figueroa was based almost exclusively on what the Court identified as a rule of “ordinary English grammar,” namely, that “where a transitive verb has an object, listeners in most contexts assume that an adverb (such as knowingly) that modifies the transitive verb tells the listener how the subject performed the entire action . . . .”  Flores-Figueroa, 556 U.S. at 650.  Thus, the claim that Flores-Figueroa overruled Staples not only misreads Flores-Figueroa; it overlooks a fundamental distinction between two kinds of interpretive rules: substantive canons and language canons.  See In reEstate of Tanner, 295 S.W.3d 610, 628 n.15 (Tenn. 2009) (“Substantive canons provide presumptions for interpreting ambiguous statutes that explicitly consider the substance of the law being interpreted.  These canons stand in contrast with language canons—like the last antecedent rule—which only provide presumptions for interpreting words and syntax.”).

      [73].   See Smith, supra note 25 (criticizing the Staples rule for “equat[ing] ‘innocence’ with ‘moral blamelessness’” and urging the adoption of a “proportionality-based approach to mens rea selection”); Leading Cases, supra note 72 (arguing that the Staples limitation—which the authors bizarrely treat as attributable to a misreading of Supreme Court precedent—fails properly to “align punishment with culpability”).  But see John Shepard Wiley Jr., Not Guilty by Reason of Blamelessness: Culpability in Federal Criminal Interpretation, 85 Va. L. Rev. 1021, 1024 (1999) (praising the Staples rule, which the author identifies as the “rule of mandatory culpability”).

      [74].   Dean, 556 U.S. at 578–83 (Stevens, J., dissenting).

      [75].   Id. at 581–82.

      [76].   Id. at 582.

      [77].   The majority in Dean acknowledged that the discharge element was designed to measure the degree of risk posed by the actor’s conduct: “The sentencing enhancement in subsection (iii) accounts for the risk of harm resulting from the manner in which the crime is carried out.”  Id. at 576 (majority opinion).  “A gunshot in such circumstances,” the majority explained, “increases the risk that others will be injured, that people will panic, or that violence (with its own danger to those nearby) will be used in response.”  Id.

      [78].   Id. at 583 (Stevens, J., dissenting) (emphasis added).

      [79].   Id. at 576 (majority opinion).

      [80].   Id.

      [81].   Model Penal Code § 211.2 (1985).

      [82].   See Eric A. Johnson, Knowledge, Risk, and Wrongdoing: The Model Penal Code’s Forgotten Answer to the Riddle of Objective Probability, 59 Buff. L. Rev. 507, 560–64 (2011) (discussing the speedometer example).

      [83].   See, e.g., State v. Kristenmacher, 436 N.W.2d 168, 171 (Neb. 1989) (holding that the fact-finder’s assessment of risk in a manslaughter prosecution is “purely objective”); State v. Ebinger, 603 A.2d 924, 925 (N.H. 1992) (holding in a prosecution for negligent homicide that the existence of a “‘substantial and unjustifiable risk’ is determined by an objective test, not by reference to the defendant’s subjective perception”); State v. Robinson, 63 P.3d 105, 108 (Utah Ct. App. 2003) (holding in a prosecution for manslaughter that “the magnitude of the risk itself . . . is an objective matter”); State v. Brooks, 658 A.2d 22, 27 (Vt. 1995) (holding that the involuntary manslaughter statute requires “the jury to objectively assess the risk”).

      [84].   For example, the sentencing provisions of Alaska’s criminal code say that an offense may be considered aggravated where “the defendant’s conduct created a risk of imminent physical injury to three or more persons, other than accomplices.”  Alaska Stat. § 12.55.155(c)(6) (2010).  But cf. Model Penal Code § 210.6 (1985) (making it an aggravating factor in a homicide case that “the defendant knowingly caused a great risk of death to many persons”) (emphasis added).

      [85].   Heidi M. Hurd & Michael S. Moore, Negligence in the Air, 3 Theoretical Inquiries L. 333, 358 (2002) (“Indeterministic microphysics to the side, there is no such thing as an objective risk; there are only risks to be perceived from certain epistemic vantage points.”); see also Brian Greene, The Elegant Universe 93, 116 (2003) (explaining why most indeterminacy is confined to the quantum realm: “The smallness of [Planck’s constant] confines most of these radical departures from life-as-usual to the microscopic realm . . . .”).

      [86].   Greene, supra note 85, at 105 (“We are accustomed to probability showing up in horse races, in coin tosses, and at the roulette table, but in those cases it merely reflects our incomplete knowledge.”).

      [87].   Pierre Simon, Marquis de Laplace, A Philosophical Essay on Probabilities 4  (F.W. Truscott & F.L. Emory trans., 1902) (1814).

      [88].   Id.

      [89].   Larry Alexander & Kimberly Kessler Ferzan, Crime and Culpability: A Theory of Criminal Law 28 (2009) (“Risk is always relative to someone’s perspective, a perspective that is defined by possession of certain information but not other information . . . .”); see also Long v. State, 931 S.W.2d 285, 289 (Tex. Crim. App. 1996) (concluding that a stalking statute’s use of the phrase “reasonably likely” was ambiguous because the statute did not specify the perspective from which this probability determination was to be made).

      [90].   See Holmes, supra note 49, at 69–70 (“[Where a bullet misses its aim] the act has produced the whole effect possible to it in the course of nature.  It is just as impossible that that bullet under those circumstances should hit that man, as to pick an empty pocket.”); Lawrence Crocker, Justice in Criminal Liability: Decriminalizing Harmless Attempts, 53 Ohio St. L.J. 1057, 1098 (1992) (“A good current guess might be that the world is not deterministic, but that for macro-level phenomena there is little or no room for physically possible events that do not occur.  Thus the probability in the fundamental physical sense of the close miss bullet’s hitting may be zero, on fundamental physical probabilities, even if determinism is false.”).

      [91].   Brief for the Petitioner, supra note 61, at 2 (“The bullet went through a partition, ricocheted off a computer, and landed on the teller counter.”).

      [92].   Dean v. United States, 556 U.S. 568, 576 (2009).

      [93].   Alexander & Ferzan, supra note 89, at 28.

      [94].   See Eric A. Johnson, Is the Idea of Objective Probability Incoherent?, 29 L. & Phil. 419, 429–30 (2010); Johnson, note 82, at 561–64 (describing the different ways that one knows things, such as knowledge of truth and knowledge by acquaintance).

      [95].   Model Penal Code § 2.02(2)(c)–(d) (1985); see also Commonwealth v. Pierce, 138 Mass. 165, 178 (1884) (explaining that the criminal law measures risk on the basis of “the degree of danger which common experience shows to attend the act under the circumstances known to the actor”).

      [96].   Model Penal Code § 2.02(2)(c).

      [97].   See Holmes, supra note 49, at 58–59 (“[T]he lawmaker may consistently treat acts which, under the known circumstances, are felonious . . . as having a sufficiently dangerous tendency to be put under a special ban.”) (emphasis added); Johnson, supra note 39, at 16 (“In statutes that define offenses like drunk-driving homicide and drug-induced homicide, the legislature takes a foolproof approach to identifying just those cases where the defendant knew of the circumstances that made his or her conduct unjustifiably risky: namely, it requires the Government to prove that knowledge.”).

      [98].   See People v. Derror, 715 N.W.2d 822, 832 (Mich. 2006); cf. State v. Simpson, 53 P.3d 165, 167 (Alaska Ct. App. 2002) (explaining that the offense of driving while intoxicated usually requires proof that the defendant “knowingly ingested intoxicants”).

      [99].   See Devenpeck v. Alford, 543 U.S. 146, 153 (2004) (explaining that probable cause is an “objective standard[] of conduct,” which does not “depend on the subjective state of mind of the officer”); Terry v. Ohio, 392 U.S. 1, 21–22 (1968) (identifying the reasonable suspicion standard as an “objective standard”).

    [100].   Henry v. United States, 361 U.S. 98, 102 (1959) (“Probable cause exists if the facts and circumstances known to the officer warrant a prudent man in believing that the offense has been committed.”); see also Devenpeck, 543 U.S. at 153 (“Our cases make clear that an arresting officer’s state of mind (except for the facts he knows) is irrelevant to the existence of probable cause.”).

    [101].   Model Penal Code § 2.02(2)(c)–(d).  This is not to say that these elements invariably require the assignment of a mental state.  In a few nonstandard criminal statutes, the existence of objective risk is inferred from how things turned out.  Take, for example, statutes that impose strict criminal liability on defendants who engage in sexual relations with children under a certain critical age.  In these statutes, the only required mental state is the defendant’s knowledge that he was engaged in sexual relations with another person.  See Catherine L. Carpenter, On Statutory Rape, Strict Liability, and the Public Welfare Offense Model, 53 Am. U. L. Rev. 313, 385–91 (2003) (summarizing the law in all fifty states).  Of course, the defendant’s mere knowledge that he was engaged in sexual relations with another person cannot, by itself, provide a basis for inferring that there was an unacceptable probability that his partner was underage.  The only basis for this inference is the fact that his partner turned out, after the fact, to be underage.  In other words, from the fact that the defendant’s partner turned out to be underage, the legislature infers that the defendant could not have remained unaware of facts in which there inhered a substantial risk that the partner was underage.  See H.R. Rep. No. 99-594, at 6195–96 (1986) (justifying the imposition of strict liability for sexual abuse on the ground that “no credible error of perception would be sufficient to recharacterize a child [who is under twelve years old] as an appropriate object of sexual gratification”) (quoting 2 Model Penal Code § 213.6 cmt. 2, at 414 (1980)).

    [102].   See George P. Fletcher, The Theory of Criminal Negligence: A Comparative Analysis, 119 U. Pa. L. Rev. 401, 427–30 (1971) (explaining the distinction “between the legality of conduct and the culpability of the individual who engages in the conduct” and attributing to the Model Penal Code “an appreciation for [this] distinction”).

    [103].   Paul H. Robinson, A Functional Analysis of Criminal Law, 88 Nw. U. L. Rev. 857, 878 (1994); Herbert Wechsler & Jerome Michael, A Rationale for the Law of Homicide: II, 37 Colum. L. Rev. 1261, 1275 (1937) (explaining the culpability component of criminal negligence).

    [104].   Morissette v. United States, 342 U.S. 246, 251 (1952).

    [105].   Holmes, supra note 49, at 50.

    [106].   Id. at 75.

    [107].   Id. at 55 (emphasis added).

    [108].   Id. at 75.

    [109].   Id. at 49.

    [110].   Id. at 55.

    [111].   479 P.2d 946 (Wash. Ct. App. 1971).

    [112].   Id. at 948.

    [113].   This treatment of the actus reus is not unprecedented.  J.W.C. Turner argued in The Mental Element in Crimes at Common Law, 6 Cambridge L.J. 31, 47–48 (1936), that the offender’s knowledge sometimes counts as an ingredient of the actus reus, rather than the mens rea.  In discussing the offense of statutory rape, Turner argued that the addition of a requirement of knowledge of the victim’s age to the offense definition “would not affect the mens rea of the accused person, but it would merely add another necessary fact to the actus reus.”  Id.  Contra H.L.A. Hart, Negligence, Mens Rea and Criminal Responsibility, in Punishment and Responsibility: Essays in the Philosophy of Law 136, 144–45 (1968) (referring to Turner’s view as a “great incoherence”).

    [114].   780 F.2d 1140 (4th Cir. 1986).

    [115].   Id. at 1142–43 (“In the absence of an explicit statement that a crime requires specific intent, courts often hold that only general intent is needed.”).

    [116].   530 U.S. 255 (2000).

    [117].   Id. at 268 (emphasis omitted).

    [118].   United States v. Francis, 164 F.3d 120, 121 (2d Cir. 1999); see also United States v. Campa, 529 F.3d 980, 1006 (11th Cir. 2008); United States v. Jackson, 248 F.3d 1028, 1030–31 (10th Cir. 2001); United States v. Myers, 104 F.3d 76, 81 (5th Cir. 1997), cert. denied, 520 U.S. 1218 (1997); United States v. Martinez, 49 F.3d 1398, 1401 (9th Cir. 1995); United States v. DeAndino, 958 F.2d 146, 148 (6th Cir. 1992); State v. Dolsby, 145 P.3d 917, 919–20 (Idaho Ct. App. 2006); State v. Warner, 564 N.E.2d 18, 48 (Ohio 1990).

    [119].   Admittedly, courts sometimes make the mistake of thinking that the difference between general intent and specific intent is reducible to the difference between two mental states—for example, intentionally and knowingly, or knowingly and recklessly.  See, e.g., United States v. Bailey, 444 U.S. 394, 405 (1980) (“In a general sense, ‘purpose’ corresponds loosely with the common-law concept of specific intent, while ‘knowledge’ corresponds loosely with the concept of general intent.”); Model Penal Code § 2.02 explanatory note, at 228 (1985) (positing “rough correspondence between . . . the common law requirement of ‘general intent’” and the Model Penal Code’s use of recklessness as a default mental state).

    [120].   See Reilly v. State, 55 P.3d 1259, 1262–63 (Wyo. 2002) (explaining that a jury should not be given instructions on general and specific intent, “due to their ‘vagueness and general failure to enlighten juries’”).

    [121].   See, e.g., State v. Sivak, 852 A.2d 812, 815–16 (Conn. App. Ct. 2004) (“Assault in the first degree is a specific intent crime.  It requires that the criminal actor possess the specific intent to cause serious physical injury to another person.”); T.S. v. State, 965 So.2d 1288, 1290 (Fla. Dist. Ct. App. 2007) (holding that aggravated battery is a specific intent crime because it requires that the defendant intentionally or knowingly cause great bodily harm); State v. Fuller, 414 So. 2d 306, 309–10 (La. 1982) (holding that second-degree assault is a specific-intent offense because it requires that the defendant intentionally bring about serious bodily injury).

    [122].   People v. Hood, 462 P.2d 370, 378 (Cal. 1969).

    [123].   Id.

    [124].   But see David Hume, An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding: A Letter from a Gentleman to His Friend in Edinburgh 42–45 (Steinberg ed. 1977).  Hume would no doubt have said that even the squeezing of the trigger is a “consequence” of another event.  Hume pointed out that when a person “wills” a bodily movement, the willed bodily movement sometimes occurs and sometimes doesn’t.  Id. at 43.  “A man, suddenly struck with palsy in the leg or arm, or who had newly lost these members, frequently endeavors, at first, to move them and employ them in their usual offices.”  Id.  From the fact that a bodily movement sometimes follows an exercise of the will and sometimes does not, it can be inferred that the bodily movement is really a causal consequence of the earlier mental event.  The events are not indivisible.

    [125].   See, e.g., People v. Whitfield, 868 P.2d 272, 278 (Cal. 1994) (noting that the court had “recently reaffirmed that murder is a specific intent crime”).

    [126].   Cf. Donald Davidson, Essays on Actions and Events 61 (2d ed. 2001) (arguing that after the movement of your finger on the trigger, “there are no further actions, only further descriptions”).

    [127].   Cal. Penal Code § 246.3 (Deering 2008).

    [128].   People v. Robertson, 95 P.3d 872, 879 (Cal. 2004) (holding that a defendant who believed that the firearm was unloaded would not be guilty of violating statute).  The California courts also have held that Cal. Penal Code § 246, which prohibits discharging a firearm “at an inhabited dwelling house, occupied building, [or] occupied motor vehicle,” likewise “is a general intent crime . . . , which does not require proof of a specific intent to accomplish an objective, such as to injure, kill, or frighten.”  In re Jerry R., 35 Cal. Rptr. 2d 155, 160 (Cal. Ct. App. 1994).  This holding reinforces the view that an intent to bring about any consequence short of the social harm is a general intent.

    [129].   People v. Overman, 24 Cal. Rptr. 3d 798, 806 (Cal. Dist. Ct. App. 2005).

    [130].   See People v. Colantuono, 865 P.2d 704, 709 (Cal. 1994) (concluding that the criminal intent for assault with a deadly weapon is a form of general intent); State v. Campbell, 39 P.3d 97, 100 (Kan. Ct. App. 2002) (explaining that intent to “caus[e] physical contact with another person” is a form of general intent); Commonwealth v. Ford, 677 N.E.2d 1149, 1151–52 (Mass. 1997) (holding that assault and battery by means of a dangerous weapon are general-intent crimes).

    [131].   The term “specific-intent crime” also encompasses crimes like burglary, which require proof that the defendant intended “to do some further act” when he engaged in the proscribed conduct.  People v. Hood, 462 P.2d 370, 378 (Cal. 1969).  Some scholars have argued that the term “specific intent” should be used exclusively to refer to crimes of this sort.  See George E. Dix & M. Michael Sharlot, Criminal Law Cases and Materials 315 (6th ed. 2008) (arguing that specific intent “may usefully be regarded as meaning a mental state that has as its object a matter which is not an element of the crime”).  This argument, though, fails to account for the fact that courts routinely classify intent-to-kill murder as a specific-intent offense.  It also fails to account for decisions like People v. Hesslink, 213 Cal. Rptr. 465, 470 (Cal. Ct. App. 1985), where the court applied Justice Traynor’s definition of specific intent—“intent to do some further act or achieve some future consequence”—to California’s extortion statute.  The court said that the required intent to obtain the property of another qualified as a specific intent to achieve “a future consequence,” even though the statute required that the defendant succeed in “obtaining . . . property from another” as part of the proscribed conduct.  Id. at 470–71.

    [132].   This refinement of the standard definition also has the benefit of giving the distinction between general and specific intent some real intuitive content.  There is a very basic, morally intuitive distinction between (1) somebody who really wants to bring about harm and (2) somebody who merely accepts the possibility of bringing about harm by, say, intentionally discharging a firearm under dangerous circumstances.  There is a moral difference, as philosopher Antony Duff has said, “between being guided by wrong reasons and not being guided by right reasons.”  See Duff, supra note 48, at 945–46.  Duff explains:

If I wrongfully attack you, the harm that I intend figures in my reasons for acting as I do: I act thus because I believe that by doing so I will harm you—though that is not a reason by which I should be guided.  If I culpably endanger you, by contrast, my reasons for acting as I do may be perfectly legitimate; what goes wrong is that I am not guided by the reason against acting thus . . . that the risk of harm to you provides.

Id.

    [133].   Stuart Taylor Jr., The Last Moderate, Am. Lawyer, June 1990, available at http://stuarttaylorjr.com/content/last-moderate.

    [134].   Dean v. United States, 556 U.S. 568, 578–83 (2009) (Stevens, J., dissenting).

    [135].   Taylor, supra note 133.

    [136].   Justice Stevens’s dissent in Dean is mentioned, but only in passing, in a couple of law review articles focusing generally on the Court as a whole.  Anita S. Krishnakumar, Statutory Interpretation in the Roberts Court’s First Era: An Empirical and Doctrinal Analysis, 62 Hastings L.J. 221, 233 (2010); Madhavi M. McCall et al., Criminal Justice and the U.S. Supreme Court’s 20082009 Term, 29 Miss. C. L. Rev. 1, 26 (2010).

    [137].   See Brief for the Petitioner, supra note 61, at 26 (arguing that a mental state of “knowingly” was required).

    [138].   See United States v. Brown, 449 F.3d 154, 158–59 (D.C. Cir. 2006) (applying the mental state of “recklessly” to the discharge element in § 924(c)(1)(A)(iii)).

    [139].   776 F.2d 46 (2d Cir. 1985).

    [140].   Id. at 48.  When Falu was convicted, this sentence enhancement was codified in 21 U.S.C. § 845(a).  It later was moved, without substantial alteration, to 21 U.S.C. § 860(a).

    [141].   See L. Buckner Inniss, A Moving Violation? Hypercriminalized Spaces and Fortuitous Presence in Drug Free School Zones, 8 Tex. F. on C.L. & C.R. 51, 52 (2003) (“Over the last thirty years, both the federal government and a majority of states have enacted statutes that prohibit certain types of conduct involving illicit drugs in or near schools, school buses, or other youth or family-related facilities and locales.”).

    [142].   Falu, 776 F.2d at 48.

    [143].   21 U.S.C. § 860(a).

    [144].   Falu, 776 F.2d at 49.

    [145].   Id. at 50; see also United States v. Pitts, 908 F.2d 458, 461 (9th Cir. 1990) (adopting Falu’s reasoning with regard to mens rea and the proximity element of § 860(a)—then § 841(a)).

    [146].   United States v. Nieves, 608 F. Supp. 1147, 1149 (S.D.N.Y. 1985) (emphasis added).

    [147].   Falu, 776 F.2d at 49.

    [148].   Model Penal Code § 2.02(2)(c)–(d) (1985).

    [149].   See Taylor, supra note 133 (“On a Court more polarized than ever between liberal and conservative blocs, Stevens plays a unique and valuable role: He stands alone in the moderate, common law, self-consciously apolitical tradition of justices like Benjamin Cardozo, John Marshall Harlan, Potter Stewart, and Lewis Powell, Jr.  It is a tradition skeptical of absolutes and fixed rules, open to experience and facts, sensitive to competing values.”).

    [150].   Even in states whose criminal codes were heavily influenced by the Model Penal Code, the courts have been reluctant to enforce the Code’s demand that every element be assigned a mental state.  See, e.g., People v. Mitchell, 571 N.E.2d 701, 704 (N.Y. 1991) (refusing to assign a mental state to an aggravating element in theft statute); State v. Rutley, 171 P.3d 361, 364–65 (Or. 2007) (refusing to assign mental state to the proximity element in a statute proscribing the sale of drugs within 1000 feet of a school).

    [151].   See supra notes 111–115 and accompanying text.

Johnson_LawReview_1.13

 

By: Scott W. Lyons*

Introduction

For the past two decades, the exhaustive discourse concerning a duty to prosecute crimes against humanity primarily discussed the transition to democracy, replacing authoritarian regimes, and the resultant responsibility of the incoming government to hold the previous government accountable for serious atrocities.[1]  As this situation described a predominant international issue in the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s, the legal focus was appropriate.  This issue is less relevant now with the increase in nascent democracies that have undergone transition[2] and the recent proliferation in the prosecution of former heads of state.[3]  Nevertheless, violent conflicts will endure and will continue to be confined predominantly within states.[4]  Therefore, it is vital to evaluate one of the challenging questions of the twenty-first century: whether amnesties for non-State actors are still possible for negotiating the end of civil wars and other violent internal threats to States.[5]

In 1999, the Sierra Leone government and the rebel army Revolutionary United Front signed the Lomé Accord peace agreement, offering amnesty to rebel leaders and other combatants for crimes against civilians, in order to halt eight years of civil war that caused thousands of deaths and massive human rights abuses.[6]  The agreement was rendered invalid for the following reasons: the rebels breached the agreement through continued violence and atrocities; the agreement provided blanket amnesty; and, most importantly, the atrocities were severe enough to warrant the establishment of an international tribunal,[7] which did not view the agreement as barring prosecution.[8]

More recently, Ugandan President Yoweri Museveni repeatedly offered amnesty to Joseph Kony and other leaders of the Lord’s Resistance Army to end two decades of violence in Northern Uganda that cost thousands of lives through heinous acts, caused mass chaos, and uprooted millions from their homes.[9]  President Museveni previously referred the case of Kony and his fellow commanders for prosecution to the International Criminal Court (“ICC”), which stated that it is under no obligation to honor an amnesty agreement by the Ugandan government.[10]  Nonetheless, Museveni announced that he would grant amnesty if they reached a peace agreement where Kony and his followers renounced terrorism.[11]  Some Ugandan civil society organizations similarly asked the ICC to withdraw the indictment and allow the popular amnesty proposal to go forward in order to help end the conflict.[12]

While the Lomé Peace Accord did not prevent prosecution in an ad hoc international tribunal, and the commanders of the Lord’s Resistance Army are still under indictment by the ICC, the offers of amnesty raise the focal issue of this Article.  Can a State create a viable and effective amnesty agreement for potential crimes against humanity to cease internal conflict[13] or induce the end of a civil war?  This Article asserts that the recent expansion of the definition of crimes against humanity, the new willingness to assert universal jurisdiction, and the establishment and early indictments of the ICC have rendered any domestic amnesty for crimes against humanity ineffective on the international plane and have thus removed amnesty as a method to achieve peace.

Part I of this Article summarizes the unsettled debate over the duty to punish noninternational crimes against humanity[14] and provides a background of the recent international developments effectively ending domestic amnesty.  Part II discusses how the cumulative international changes render domestic amnesty agreements for crimes against humanity ineffective, even if the granting State perceives the amnesty to be valid.  Part III suggests that a United Nations Security Council (“Security Council”) resolution is the only remaining method for the international community to validate an otherwise ineffective agreement if it is determined to be an absolute necessity, and not just a convenience, to grant amnesty in exchange for peace.  The Security Council’s recent nonbinding resolution concerning the situation in Yemen was a significant, but legally insufficient, first step towards international validation of an amnesty agreement.[15]

I.  Overview: The Unsettled Debate and Recent Developments

A.     Valid Amnesties to End Conflict

Amnesty is legitimate if it only applies to crimes that a State has no international requirement to prosecute or extradite for prosecution.[16]  State authorities have the right to provide amnesty to State opponents since the State is the enforcer of its own penal rules.  Hence, a State can make decisions regarding amnesty up to the limits of international law.  A State, however, cannot grant amnesty for certain gross violations of international or humanitarian law.[17]  Article 6(5) of the Second Additional Protocol to the Geneva Conventions (“Protocol II”) explicitly encourages granting, at the conclusion of internal hostilities, “the broadest possible amnesty to persons who have participated in the armed conflict . . . .”[18]  This provision demonstrates international support and validity for action to create postconflict reconciliation and normal relations within a divided State.[19]  The Protocol II text is unclear as to whether it precludes amnesty for crimes against humanity committed during an internal conflict.[20]  Negotiating parties defeated an attempted provision in Protocol II to exclude protection from prosecution for crimes against humanity.[21]  Without a specific indication of excluded crimes, the only invalid amnesties are for crimes where there is an established international requirement to prosecute.[22]

B.     The Debates Surrounding Crimes Against Humanity

There are a few types of amnesty for domestic crimes that the international community automatically considers invalid.  Self and blanket amnesties are deemed illegitimate as a result of treaty law and jurisprudence.[23]  Certain domestic human rights crimes committed outside the spectrum of war or any type of international conflict are exempt from amnesty due to a duty to prosecute.  International customary law and specialized treaties prevent a State from issuing amnesty for these types of crimes.[24]  Examples of these types of crimes are genocide[25] and torture.[26]

The debate as to whether there is a duty to prosecute noninternational crimes against humanity is not settled due to ambiguity in both treaty law and customary law, two of the main sources of binding international law.[27]  As a result, it is difficult to determine whether amnesty for these crimes is valid.  There is no specific convention for crimes against humanity.  Therefore, investigations into a duty to prosecute have revolved around many other aspects of human rights and humanitarian law and have resulted in conflicting determinations.[28]

1.     Treaty Law

Some legal commentators use human rights treaties, such as the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights[29] (“ICCPR”), the American Convention on Human Rights[30] (“American Convention”), and the European Convention for the Protection of Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms[31] (“European Convention”), to illustrate a duty to prosecute crimes against humanity.[32]  These Conventions enumerate specific rights, and yet they are silent about a duty to prosecute violations of the enumerated rights—they only state that they obligate States to “ensure” these rights and to provide a remedy.[33]  These legal commentators argue that the duty to “ensure” these rights creates an affirmative obligation to prosecute violators of such rights, and thus is an invalidation of amnesty.[34]  The legal commentators further assert that judicial action is a natural extension of a right to a remedy.[35]  To support this principle, they rely upon interpretations of the ICCPR by the Human Rights Committee (“HRC”)[36] and jurisprudence in the Inter-American[37] and European systems[38] that suggest a duty to punish those responsible for atrocities.

Other commentators counter that the above-mentioned rationale is an “overstretch” with no explicitly stated binding duty to prosecute.[39]  They support their contention by arguing the HRC’s interpretation of the ICCPR is misguided.  The HRC is not a judicial body authorized to render a binding interpretation of law.[40] Moreover, during the negotiations of the ICCPR, the drafters specifically considered and rejected a proposal requiring prosecution of treaty’s violators.[41]  Thus, reading a requirement into the covenant is inconsistent with the drafters’ intent.[42]  These commentators also point out that a careful reading of the language reveals that the HRC never specifically concluded there was an obligation to prosecute but instead idealistically “urged” prosecution and suggested that violators “should” be brought to justice.[43]  Furthermore, though the jurisprudence carries authoritative weight in the respective regions, the Inter-American Court never directed a government to institute criminal proceedings, nor did it specifically refer to prosecution as opposed to other forms of punishment.[44]  The decisions suggest only a requirement to investigate and impose some type of punishment but not necessarily to prosecute.[45]  Therefore, the ICCPR is being misapplied.

It is important to also note that other legal scholars, including some that advocate a duty to prosecute, opine that there is no treaty obligation to prosecute and that a determination can only be made via customary law.[46]

2.     Customary Law

Customary international law exists when there is “a general and consistent” State practice due to a sense of legal obligation, or opinio juris.[47]  To determine State practice, action or acquiescence is determinative, not verbal statements alone.[48]

Those commentators who advocate that there is a duty to prosecute noninternational crimes against humanity enshrined in customary law look to an array of United Nations (“U.N.”) General Assembly resolutions, treaty law, and other factors to show an emerging norm.[49]  These commentators suggest that the wide acceptance and adherence of the various human rights treaties establish a norm.[50]  In other words, the treaties, through their mere existence, reflect State practice.  As a supposed reflection of State practice, they consequently establish a norm.  These commentators also point to the 1971 General Assembly Resolution on War Criminals[51] (“1971 Resolution”), the 1973 Principles of International Cooperation in the Detection, Arrest, Extradition, and Punishment of Persons Guilty of War Crimes and Crimes Against Humanity[52] (“Principles of Cooperation”), and other U.N. resolutions as international declarations recognizing a State’s duty to prosecute.[53]  The 1971 Resolution explicitly “urges” States to punish violators of crimes against humanity.[54]  Similarly, the Principles of Cooperation insist on detecting, arresting, and bringing to trial persons suspected of committing crimes against humanity.[55]

Besides U.N. resolutions and treaties indicating State practice and opinio juris, one of the commentators supporting a duty to prosecute points out that States have never denied an obligation to prosecute, even when granting amnesty.[56]  Instead, States justify the action as an unfortunate necessity.[57]  This response shows widespread recognition of the principle of prosecution for crimes against humanity.[58]

Commentators arguing against a customary obligation to prosecute counter that the General Assembly resolutions are not sources of law because they are nonbinding and do not substantially indicate State practice.[59]  Moreover, there was a significant amount of abstentions in resolution votes indicating hesitation to support the principles.[60]  Further, the drafting record of one of the earliest cited resolutions, the U.N. Declaration on Territorial Asylum[61] (“Asylum Declaration”), stated that “[t]he majority of members stressed that the draft declaration under consideration was not intended to propound legal norms or to change existing rules of international law.”[62]  This record shows that at least the Asylum Declaration—and likely all the other resolutions—was advisory and not intended to bind States.[63]

In response to the assertion of widespread and uniform State practice of prosecuting of crimes against humanity, commentators additionally counter that the practice of granting amnesty—not prosecution—has been the established international norm.[64]  They cite a nonexhaustive list of Algeria, Argentina, Bangladesh, Cambodia, Chile, El Salvador, France, Guatemala, Haiti, India, Panama, the Philippines, Romania, South Africa, Uruguay, Zimbabwe, and post-unification Germany as States that have granted amnesty for atrocities over the last four decades, sometimes with explicit U.N. encouragement and approval.[65]  While human rights bodies of the U.N. find there is a clear duty to prosecute, States, the Security Council, and the Secretary-General have practiced a contrary policy toward crimes against humanity.[66]

The conflicting policies of the international community have most recently been revealed in the Middle East.  Not only did former Yemeni President Ali Abdullah Saleh grant amnesty for those responsible for “follies” and “errors” during the months of fighting in Yemen, but the international community negotiated his exit with immunity for the killing of opposition protestors.[67]  On the other hand, former Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak was prosecuted for the commission of similar crimes in Egypt.[68]

Those commentators opposed to a customary duty to prosecute assert that, even when State practice is contrary to the rule of prosecution, States invoke countervailing interests, which act to confirm acceptance of the principle.[69]  The commentators who believe there is no customary duty respond that this basis is factually incorrect because most States never mention an international duty to prosecute, and the countervailing interests argument shows that there is no recognition of an “absolute” duty.[70]

In a final indication of the unsettled debate in international law concerning a duty to prosecute crimes against humanity, a legal scholar notes that the preamble in the Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court[71] (“Rome Statute”) proclaims that “it is the duty of every State to exercise its criminal jurisdiction over those responsible for international crimes.”[72]  This preamble shows that prosecution of crimes against humanity is important to the international community, but at the same time, neither the preamble nor the statute creates a binding obligation for States to prosecute.[73]

The uncertainty of the duty to prosecute creates a dynamic in which States cannot properly evaluate their obligations and options when confronted with potential crimes against humanity.  While this uncertainty can lead to a State’s willingness to offer amnesty in order to create peace, the State may be in violation of international legal principles, and the amnesty may be overturned by future domestic or regional tribunals.  Thus, both the State and the recipient of the amnesty have no legal certainty regarding a negotiated internal agreement.

C.     Defining Crimes Against Humanity

Famous legal theorists have suggested that crimes against humanity are as old as humankind itself.[74]  The modern concept of crimes against humanity, however, originated in the preamble to the 1907 Hague Convention, in the popularly termed Martens Clause.[75]  The first application of this principle occurred soon after as a condemnation of the massive killing of Armenians in Turkey during the First World War.[76]  The Treaty of Sevres, negotiated between the Allies and Turkey, provided for prosecution of those responsible for “crimes against the laws of humanity.”[77]

In 1945, the victorious Allied powers codified crimes against humanity for attacks against a State’s own citizens in the International Military Tribunal (“IMT”), which was created to prosecute war criminals from World War II.[78]  For the IMT, crimes against humanity was defined as:

[N]amely, murder, extermination, enslavement, deportation, and other inhumane acts committed against any civilian population, before or during the war, or persecutions on political, racial or religious grounds in execution of or in connection with any crime within the jurisdiction of the Tribunal, whether or not in violation of the domestic law of the country where perpetrated.[79]

To be guilty under this provision, there must be a connection to the other jurisdictional crimes of the IMT.[80]  Example violations are crimes against peace and war crimes.[81]  The International Military Tribunal for the Far East[82] and the Control Council Law No. 10[83] enacted substantially similar definitions of crimes against humanity with only minor exceptions.[84]

In the years soon after World War II, the U.N. International Law Commission (“ILC”) attempted to codify international law.[85]  In 1954, the ILC adopted the Draft Code of Offenses against Peace and Security of Mankind[86] (“Draft Code”), which defined crimes against humanity as: “Inhuman acts such as murder, extermination, enslavement, deportation, or persecutions, committed against any civilian population on social, political, racial, religious or cultural grounds by the authorities of a State or by private individuals acting at the instigation or with the tolerance of such authorities.”[87]  The Draft Code differs from the IMT in the following ways: removing the war nexus and therefore codifying that crimes against humanity could occur any time; specifically criminalizing acts committed by all individuals; adding “social” grounds as a basis for persecution; and eliminating the connection to other crimes in the code.[88]  The codification process was followed in the 1980s by several domestic prosecutions, which used different interpretations of the definition of crimes against humanity.[89]

During the 1990s, in response to the atrocities committed in the former Yugoslavia and Rwanda, the Security Council used Chapter VII powers to create ad hoc tribunals to prosecute those responsible for serious violations of international law.[90]  The Statutes for the International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia[91] (“ICTY”) and the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda[92] (“ICTR”) employed some of the main components of the IMT statute but differed from each other.[93]  The ICTY maintained a required nexus to armed conflict, but crimes could be committed against any part of the civilian population;[94] the ICTR omitted a conflict requirement, but the acts had to be part of an attack based upon national, political, ethnic, racial, or religious grounds.[95]

The result of the evolution of crimes against humanity is that, with no authoritative definition in a treaty and inconsistencies in the precedent, the exact definition in customary law is difficult to ascertain,[96] and a State may be uncertain as to whether it is granting amnesty for a crime against international law.

D.    Universal Jurisdiction

The historical origins of universal jurisdiction stem from the crimes of piracy and the slave trade.[97]  The slave trade, however, is most relevant to the punishment for domestic violations of crimes against humanity since the slave trade did not threaten the security or relations of foreign nations but instead was an activity “worthy of condemnation and international response.”[98]  This criminal activity established a new basis for jurisdiction—the international character of the offense—with no nexus needed between the prosecuting State and the party that violated international law.[99]  The seriousness of being hostis humani generis anywhere in the world became enough to warrant prosecution in any state.[100]  The State that exercises universal jurisdiction acts on behalf of the international community in the capacity of actio popularis to preserve world order and harmony.[101]

Even though States owe human rights obligations to every other State,[102] the validity of universal jurisdiction rests upon its recognition as an appropriate way to regulate certain conduct as a crime of universal concern.[103]  Since there is no specific convention for internal violations of crimes against humanity, and thus no treaty providing for universal jurisdiction or an aut dedere aut judicare tenant, a determination of validity must be made via customary law.[104]  Many prominent legal scholars suggest that there is now a customary law principle for exercising universal jurisdiction for internal crimes against humanity.[105]  This debate has not been firmly settled, as even one of the strongest advocates of universal jurisdiction concedes that “[u]niversal jurisdiction is not as well established in conventional and customary international law as its ardent proponents, including major human rights organizations, profess it to be.”[106]

There is, at a minimum, permissive universal jurisdiction for crimes against humanity.[107]  Permissive jurisdiction enables any State to create domestic law authorizing the right to exercise jurisdiction over specified crimes,[108] a step that several States have recently taken.  As of 2011, sixty-two States have legislation criminalizing international crimes against humanity either in whole or in part.[109]

II.  Structural Limits on Amnesty for Crimes Against Humanity

As discussed previously, amnesty is invalid when there is a duty to prosecute resulting from either treaties or international customary law.[110]  Whether this duty exists for noninternational crimes against humanity is unsettled, and it is difficult to positively conclude that there is an absolute obligation of States to prosecute.  Therefore, since this principle has not crystallized into law, it may be possible that a State can legitimately provide amnesty for these crimes.[111]  The difficulty arises because States cannot use domestic action to preclude international criminal prosecution.[112]  A domestic amnesty agreement could legitimately prevent criminal liability within the state but be ineffective in deterring prosecution in any of the new constructs in international law.[113]  If the ICC or other States are able to disregard a valid domestic amnesty agreement and legitimately prosecute crimes against humanity under international criminal law, the domestic amnesty is rendered irrelevant.

A.     The Expansion of the Definition of Crimes Against Humanity

The new definition of crimes against humanity, which is codified for the first time in a multilateral treaty,[114] is a reflection of all the developments in international law since the IMT.[115]  It also represents, however, a significant broadening of the definition.  This broad interpretation somewhat blurs the lines separating what were purely domestic crimes from international crimes and increases the number of internal acts that give rise to international concern.

Article 7 in the Rome Statute defines crimes against humanity as any one of the enumerated acts “when committed as part of a widespread or systematic attack directed against any civilian population, with knowledge of the attack.”[116]  The definition includes an explanatory paragraph that attempts to narrow the scope of applicable crimes by stating that an “‘[a]ttack directed against any civilian population’ means a course of conduct involving the multiple commission of acts . . . against any civilian population, pursuant to or in furtherance of a State or organizational policy to commit such attack.”[117]

During the drafting of Article 7, a significant number of delegates expressed concern about maintaining criteria to distinguish crimes against humanity from crimes under domestic law,[118] with a significant focus on the elements used in the ICTR.[119]  One of the ways this distinction was accomplished in the ICTR was by the inclusion of the motivational basis for the attack, such as on racial or religious grounds.[120]  The delegates rejected the motivation criterion because it would significantly increase the burden of proof and complicate prosecution.[121]  The ICTY required a nexus to armed conflict, instead of a motivational basis, as an element to constitute crimes against humanity, but the drafters reiterated that it is established in customary law that offenses could occur during peacetime.[122] Neither the elements of armed conflict nor discriminatory motive were included in Article 7’s definition of crimes against humanity, and so the distinction from domestic crimes had to come from other aspects of Article 7.

The additional element of “with knowledge of the attack” found in Article 7’s definition of crimes against humanity could have raised the threshold of a crime against humanity by requiring the perpetrator to have an understanding of the organizational policy or reason behind the attack.[123]  The drafters, however, rejected this interpretation and decided not to require proof showing that the perpetrator had knowledge of the characteristics or details of the organization’s plan.[124]  Thus, intent to further the attack meets the mental element by itself.[125]

Article 7’s definition does not contain an element requiring State involvement in the crimes or, conversely, action against the State.[126]  This design is a divergence from the 1954 Draft Code, which required the acts to be instigated or tolerated by governmental authorities.[127]  Though an attack against civilians to gain control of the State would clearly be included within the scope of crimes against humanity, likely too would attacks for nonpolitical reasons, as long as they were organized and resulted in significant human suffering.[128]  For example, an attack that would likely bring intertribal conflict and territorial actions by warlords falls within the scope of Article 7.

The drafters struggled with whether to make “widespread” and “systematic” cumulative elements or disjunctive elements, with each being sufficient to meet the threshold of crimes against humanity.[129]  In the end, they chose these two conditions to be alternative requirements.[130]  “Widespread” requires a large-scale act directed against a multitude of victims,[131] and “systematic” requires some degree of planning or pattern that could result in repeated acts against civilians.[132] “Widespread,” however, does not mean that it has caused the death of more than one person.[133]  One victim is sufficient to meet this requirement if the crime was meant to intimidate a whole population or if the crime had “the singular effect of an inhumane act of extraordinary magnitude.”[134]  The result is that the assassination of a head of State or tribal leader could constitute a crime against humanity if intended to destabilize the population,[135] as could a spontaneous attack by one group of the population that devastated a village.[136]  A single individual committing an act against a single victim could be a crime against humanity as long as there is a connection to a widespread or systemic context.[137]  Even a single act of speech can be regarded as a crime against humanity and meet this threshold.[138]

The modifying paragraph requiring a “commission of multiple acts” was originally a compromise by the Canadian delegation in an attempt to alleviate concerns of those States that felt that “widespread” and “systematic” should be cumulative to raise the threshold of crimes that rise to an international level.[139]  The “multiple commission” threshold for “systematic,” however, only requires there be more than one act.[140]

Most recently, a Pre-Trial Chamber of the ICC started to potentially limit the statutory definition of crimes against humanity but instead further broadened it.  Pre-Trial Chamber III reaffirmed that a “State or organizational policy” is a key contextual element for an act as indicated by the Rome Statute.[141]  The Appeals Chamber of ICTY had held in Prosecutor v. Kunarac[142] that there is no requirement for the existence of either a policy or a plan behind an attack in ICTY’s definition.[143]

Pre-Trial Chamber III, however, also held that “deliberate failure to take action” in “exceptional circumstances” may be sufficient and that policies need not be explicitly defined or formalized.[144]  The broadening principle of omission, instead of just commission, giving rise to liability was exemplified by the debate regarding whether the Myanmar (Burma) government was potentially liable for crimes against humanity for its initial refusal to accept humanitarian aid after Cyclone Nargis.[145]  Article 7(2)(b) of the Rome Statute includes the intentional “deprivation of access to food and medicine” as a crime against humanity, and thus created another possible omission crime.[146]  Most importantly, these ICTY and ICC decisions, in addition to multiple domestic decisions, have reaffirmed that non-State actors operating without State policy can be liable for crimes against humanity, and many cases have not required any policy at all.[147]  With the expansion of crimes against humanity without a State policy or even a premeditation requirement, non-State actors are increasingly potentially liable for actions and omissions that result in substantial harm to civilian populations.[148]

The combined result of the new definition is that many acts that previously would have fallen under only domestic law are now possibly serious crimes of international concern and subject to international mechanisms.  Examples of these acts are the assassination of government officials by a citizen of that State, inciting speech, intertribal warfare, suicide bombings, separatist attacks, or attempts by warlords to control more territory, if they result in purposeful harm to civilians.  Even deliberate failure to prevent these crimes may be sufficient for individual criminal liability.  Furthermore, while the drafters of the Rome Statute did not intend to create customary law,[149] many international entities have recently adopted the ICC definition of “widespread or cumulative” with no other restrictive requirements and have omitted the Canadian compromise requiring more than one act or the ICC language related to policy.[150]  Therefore, a broad new definition of crimes against humanity has emerged that has reduced the types of acts that a State can grant amnesty for without the possibility of international concern.

B.     The Willingness to Use Universal Jurisdiction

Universal jurisdiction is one of the most effective ways for those who advocate international criminal accountability to ensure punishment for crimes against humanity.[151]  The recent willingness to use universal jurisdiction poses a significant threat to the viability of domestic amnesty agreements as an option to end internal conflict.

Regardless of whether universal jurisdiction is a principle enshrined in customary law, there has been an emergence of domestic legislation enabling state courts to exercise jurisdiction over crimes against humanity[152]—these are the first cases to rely entirely on universal jurisdiction.[153]  Until recently, the international community almost never used universal jurisdiction as a basis for prosecution.[154]  The International Military Tribunals after World War II, the ICTY, and the ICTR all used principles other than universal jurisdiction to prosecute violations of international law, and the ICC was formed by delegated jurisdiction as a result of a treaty.[155]  The new impetus to use state statutes permitting the exercise of universal jurisdiction is to effectively nullify domestic amnesties.

The current trend of prosecutions based on universal jurisdiction began with Spain’s 1998 extradition warrant issued for General Augusto Pinochet, former military ruler of Chile, for torture, conspiracy to commit torture, and other international crimes.[156]  Although the case initially involved crimes of torture against Spanish citizens and descendants of Spanish citizens,[157] the House of Lords of the United Kingdom found that Spain could validly exercise universal jurisdiction over the crime of torture and prosecute Pinochet for violations against citizens of any state.[158]  At the same time, the Appeals Chamber of the Spanish Audiencia Nacional held that domestic amnesty laws of other states do not bind Spanish courts and cannot be used to prevent prosecution.[159]  The Pinochet case demonstrated that universal jurisdiction can and will be used to prosecute international crimes regardless of domestic amnesty.

In the decade that followed Pinochet’s indictment, prosecutors, judges, victims, and human rights organizations initiated over fifty cases based upon universal jurisdiction in European courts alone, further indicating that this manner of prosecution is becoming widespread practice.[160]  The most relevant recent expansion of the usage of universal jurisdiction was the case brought in the United Kingdom against Fayaradi Zardad, an Afghani militia leader.

Zardad, a warlord in charge of several checkpoints in Afghanistan in the 1990s, was convicted in 2005 for torture, hostage taking, and other abuses against travelers on the highway.[161]  He had fled Afghanistan in 1996 because he was affiliated with a group opposing the Taliban and hid in Britain for almost a decade using a false passport.[162]  Zardad was the first foreign national convicted in a British court for crimes committed abroad and was one of Britain’s first attempts to prosecute a non-State actor.  After Pinochet, several British cases were attempted against former and current leaders of other states using universal jurisdiction, some of whom possibly still enjoyed immunity.  In 2005, an arrest warrant was issued for retired Israeli Major General Doron Almog before his arrival at Heathrow airport, leading him to refuse to disembark the plane.[163]  In 2009 and 2010, arrest warrants were issued for Israel’s former Foreign Minister Tzipi Livni and Deputy Prime Minister Dan Meridor, leading them to cancel their trips.[164]  The case against Zardad shows that universal jurisdiction can and will be used successfully against non-State actors.

The Special Court for Sierra Leone, in cases involving non-State actors, reiterated that amnesty granted by a State cannot cover crimes that are subject to universal jurisdiction and is “ineffective in removing the universal jurisdiction to prosecute persons accused of such crimes.”[165]  Further, the amnesty is “ineffective in depriving an international court” of jurisdiction.[166]  Due to the grave nature of crimes against humanity, any State can exercise universal jurisdiction despite an existing amnesty agreement, and all States are “entitled to keep alive and remember” the crimes.[167]  If a crime reaches the possible reduced threshold of crimes against humanity, there is little to bar prosecution of defendants.

The only main legal limitations on the exercise of universal jurisdiction over crimes against humanity may be implementing enabling legislation, possible presence requirements, and certain immunities from jurisdiction.  Only implementing enabling legislation, however, serves as a true barrier for the exercise of universal jurisdiction in cases involving halting civil war, and even that hurdle can easily be overcome.

An exercise of universal jurisdiction is dependent upon the forum State having implemented relevant statutes or treaties in order to comply with the principle of nulla poena sine lege, or no penalty without law.[168]  Someone cannot be punished for an act that is not prohibited by law, and penal laws cannot be applied retroactively.  Since crimes against humanity are not adopted as universal common law, a State must have implemented relevant legislation to prosecute these crimes.  The Norwegian universal jurisdiction case against Mirsad Repak, however, shows that States can find creative ways to prosecute.[169]  Repak, a former member of a Croatian military unit who later moved to Norway, was charged with committing war crimes and crimes against humanity in the former Yugoslavia in 1992.[170] With regards to the charges of crimes against humanity, Repak was acquitted of the relevant implemented crimes of torture and rape in Section 102 of the Norwegian Criminal Code, because the law was not in effect in 1992 when the crimes were committed.[171]  He was found guilty, however, on eleven counts of unlawful “deprivation of liberty,” a war crime under Section 223 of the 1902 Penal Code, even though the relevant law for universal jurisdiction for war crimes did not enter into force until 2008.[172]  The court held that the law could apply retroactively for the war crimes charge and is not barred because “the new provisions concerning war crimes . . . concern the same acts, the same penalty, the same prescription period, and the penal provisions protect the same interests when applying the new provisions as when applying the 1902 Penal Code that was in force when the acts were committed.”[173]  Section 223 of the 1902 Penal Code concerns “crimes against personal liberty.”[174]  Thus, while implementing legislation is required, courts may allow retroactive application under certain circumstances.  Finally, Amnesty International has undertaken an enormous project to encourage comprehensive enactment and implementation of legislation for the exercise of universal jurisdiction,[175] meaning that soon there will be few countries without the necessary laws in place.

There are conflicting laws among jurisdictions as to whether the suspect must be present in the forum State for initiation of a formal investigation and issuance of an indictment.  For example, in Germany, investigations may begin without the suspect being in the state, but a trial may not be held in absentia;[176] France and the Netherlands, however, permit the trials to be held in absentia.[177]  Irrespective of this limitation, presence requirements only keep a potential suspect from knowing that he is potentially under investigation and have no impact on whether a suspect is indicted and prosecuted once he enters the borders of the forum State.

In 2000, Belgium took universal jurisdiction an aggressive step beyond the Pinochet precedent by attempting to prosecute Yerodia Ndombasi, Congo’s then foreign minister, for crimes against humanity and war crimes.[178]  While the arrest warrant and attempt to prosecute were found to be invalid due to immunities from jurisdiction enjoyed by certain incumbent high-ranking State officers such as the head of state and minister for foreign affairs, the underlying principles of universal jurisdiction were noted as being lawful, and the immunity only exists while the individual holds office.[179]  In a separate opinion, judges of the International Court of Justice indicated that the exercise of universal jurisdiction for certain international crimes, including crimes against humanity, are not precluded under international law.[180]  The extensive exercise of universal jurisdiction against former high-ranking government officials after their departure from office indicates the immunity limitations are truly only temporal and that all exoneration or protection quickly dissolves upon change of office.[181]  Further, and most importantly, this limitation does not apply to opposition or rebel leaders, since they do not enjoy any official State protections.

Normally, the exercise of jurisdiction by another State must meet a reasonableness standard, with unreasonable prosecutions being unlawful.[182]  There is, however, no reasonableness limitation or standard imposed on universal jurisdiction.[183]  Additionally, international law permits States to eliminate any temporal limitations, and thus, the domestic courts would not be subject to any statute of limitations for crimes against humanity.[184]  There are no other substantial limitations on the exercise of universal jurisdiction over crimes against humanity.[185]

The reduction of State sovereignty due to the doctrine of universal jurisdiction means that States can no longer shield their citizens from prosecution conducted outside their territory.[186]  Since a State does not have to apply the laws of foreign governments and is only subject to international and its own municipal laws,[187] a domestic amnesty agreement can be disregarded by a foreign State wishing to exercise universal jurisdiction, even if this action is unreasonable.[188]  With States now showing a willingness to exercise universal jurisdiction for crimes against humanity, and possibly no statute of limitations, members of militant organizations, separatist movements, or warring factions who are recipients of domestic amnesty agreements have no guarantees that they will not be prosecuted if they ever leave the confines of their own borders.

C.     The Impact of the International Criminal Court

The purpose of the ICC, which entered into force on July 1, 2002, is to ensure accountability for violations of serious international crimes.[189]  The ICC is based upon a system of complementarity,[190] and its jurisdiction only applies to crimes committed in the territory of party States[191] or by nationals of party States.[192] The statute of the ICC does not mention amnesty,[193] and according to the Chairman of the Rome Diplomatic Conference,[194] the issue was never definitively resolved.[195]  The ICC, however, explicitly includes crimes against humanity as serious crimes enabling prosecution under its jurisdiction.[196]  Thus, the recent establishment of the ICC further erodes the effectiveness of domestic amnesty agreements by removing confidence that perpetrators are safe from prosecution as long as they remain within their own borders.  If a State is party to the ICC,[197] the State must cooperate fully in the investigation, the surrender, and the prosecution of a person responsible for crimes against humanity if the ICC wishes to exercise jurisdiction.[198]

A literal reading of the Rome Statute shows that domestic amnesties are in direct opposition to the purpose and essence of the ICC.[199]  The ICC can exercise jurisdiction over perpetrators of crimes against humanity, regardless of their domestic amnesty agreement, based upon the premise that the domestic courts have failed to punish the violation of crimes against humanity.[200]  Further, this is consistent with all previous internationalized tribunals, which have excluded amnesty as barring prosecution.[201]

It is possible that all domestic amnesties for crimes against humanity are invalid with regards to the ICC.[202]  It may also be possible for the ICC to recognize an amnesty agreement.  Either way, however, there are no assurances that the ICC will not prosecute the perpetrators of these crimes because the discretion to recognize domestic amnesty is completely vested outside of the State.

Articles 17 and 20 of the Rome Statute are commonly discussed as provisions possibly allowing a domestic amnesty agreement.[203]  Article 17 provides that a case is inadmissible if a State with jurisdiction is investigating or prosecuting the relevant crimes.[204]  The investigation, however, cannot be for the purpose of shielding someone from criminal responsibility[205] and cannot be inconsistent with the intent to bring the person to justice.[206]  Article 20 provides that no person shall be tried for crimes in the ICC if he or she has already been tried by a domestic court.[207]  This provision is also contingent upon the domestic proceedings not being used to shield a person from responsibility or being inconsistent with the intent to bring the person to justice.[208]  Since the premise of an amnesty agreement is that the State will voluntarily overlook or ignore the offenses,[209] even superficial investigations to give the impression of compliance with prosecutorial requirements will not prevent the ICC from exercising jurisdiction and prosecuting.[210]

Another discussed way to permit domestic amnesty is by prosecutorial discretion under Article 53.[211]  The prosecutor of the ICC can, upon examining all circumstances, choose not to prosecute.[212]  The Pre-Trial Chamber, however, can overrule this decision,[213] and Article 53 provides no assurances to someone signing a peace agreement contingent upon amnesty that he or she will not be prosecuted.  Further, the Article 53 requirement of “interests of justice” does not necessitate an affirmative finding by the court, and the prosecutor does not have to present reasons for why the case is going forward despite countervailing interests.[214]  In the end, the final decision is not the State’s—even if the State has decided that amnesty is necessary for restoring peace—but instead is dependent upon the determination by an outside international prosecutor who can choose to ignore the amnesty.[215]  Finally, there is no statute of limitations for prosecution of crimes against humanity in the ICC,[216] so even if a prosecutor decides not to exercise jurisdiction, a later one always can.

The issue of an ICC restriction on the granting of domestic amnesty was a significant concern for Colombia, a party to the Rome Statute with a protracted internal conflict against the rebel Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia.  Despite Article 120’s provision that “[n]o reservations may be made to this Statute,”[217]Colombia submitted an interpretative declaration with its ratification that attempted to preserve the option of offering amnesty for peace.[218]  The interpretive declaration, however, is of questionable legal significance due to the explicit prohibition on reservations[219] and the compulsory jurisdiction of the ICC, subject to limitations that do not include amnesty.

By 2012, the International Criminal Court began investigations into seven situations: Libya; Côte d’Ivoire; the Democratic Republic of Congo; the Central African Republic; Kenya; Uganda; and Darfur, Sudan.[220]  This led to fifteen arrest warrants and active cases against individuals, except from Uganda and Libya, where all individuals are either not in the courts’ possession, still considered fugitives, or have died before being arrested.[221]  The ICC indictments concerning the Democratic Republic of Congo, the Central African Republic, and Uganda were issued for rebel group leaders related to protracted conflict.[222]

Since a State may not rely upon the provisions of its own domestic law as justification for not fulfilling international treaty obligations,[223] a State that grants domestic amnesty for crimes against humanity must still comply with requests from the ICC for surrender and prosecution.[224]  The result is that someone can possibly receive a valid amnesty for crimes against humanity protecting them from domestic courts, but the ICC can still choose to prosecute them and a State must turn the person over for trial if the State is a party to the Rome Statute.  This makes an amnesty agreement for members of militant separatist organizations or oppositional warring factions of little or no value if crimes against humanity have been committed.

D.    Implications of Ineffective Domestic Amnesty

The issue of domestic amnesty to end the perpetuation and possible escalation of internal conflict exposes the conundrum of legally and morally reconciling “the right, on the one hand, of the individual victim and of society to demand prosecution, and the need and right, on the other, of ordinary people to live in peace.”[225]  States have used amnesties for centuries to end internal conflict and to facilitate the transition from war to peace, including the granting of amnesties to participants in the Whiskey Rebellion of 1794 and following the United States Civil War.[226]  Sometimes democratic governments granted these amnesties for serious atrocities, including crimes against humanity in the name of peace and reconciliation, such as England with the Irish Republican Army.[227]  The recent changes in international law, however, may end that practice as an option for many States.

Since the basis of amnesty is that the recipient will not be prosecuted, those who receive amnesty must believe that they are protected from judicial proceedings in exchange for ceasing hostilities and possibly relinquishing their weapons.[228]  Now there is a new definition of crimes against humanity encompassing a broader range of crimes committed during internal conflict.  States are unable to prevent prosecutions for crimes against humanity in other States or by the ICC, regardless of the possible validity of the domestic amnesty agreement.  Further, even subsequent regimes in their own state are not bound by amnesty agreements for crimes violating international law.[229]  Therefore, amnesty agreements have become ineffective in accomplishing their purpose.

If international law deems organizations or factions responsible for crimes against humanity during internal conflict, the members of the groups will be subject to possible criminal proceedings and, therefore, have less of an impetus to negotiate with the government.[230]  The leaders of the groups no longer have assurances against criminal action, and thus, amnesty would not be a tool available for ending internal conflict even in an intractable situation.[231]  The progress of the international community towards assuring accountability has removed the options of States as to how to confront dire situations within their own borders.[232]

III.  A New Role for the Security Council

In situations where amnesty is an absolute necessity—and not just a convenience—to end internal conflict involving crimes against humanity, Security Council involvement is the only way for the international community to validate an agreement and provide assurances against prosecution.[233]  Although this role has not been previously conceived for the Security Council, it may be a positive development for States, and there is recent precedent for this action.

Though the Security Council’s mandate is to maintain international peace and security,[234] there is not a limitation preventing intervention in purely internal conflicts.  The Security Council has repeatedly used Chapter VII powers, which enable it to determine a threat to peace and decide what measures will be used to restore peace and security,[235] for the resolution of noninternational conflicts.[236]  This has included aggressive action such as authorization of measures to prevent a region from seceding and use of force to prevent the occurrence of civil war.[237]  The Security Council has affirmed that resolving internal conflict is directly linked to world peace and international cooperation.[238]

The Security Council has wide latitude to determine what measures are appropriate to restore international peace and security.[239]  Such a mandate could include recognizing a domestic amnesty agreement, since the Security Council permits itself to consider any actions the domestic parties have already adopted to resolve the dispute.[240]  If the Security Council decides via a resolution that respecting an amnesty agreement for crimes against humanity is needed for peace and security, it can use Chapter VII powers to impose a binding obligation to carry out this decision[241] on all 193 member States of the U.N.[242]  To have the legal authority to enforce an amnesty agreement, the Security Council must find that there is a threat to peace and security, and the subsequent resolution must be consistent with the purposes and principles of the U.N., which include principles of justice, international law, and human rights, as well as promotion of peace.[243]  The binding resolution would effectively prevent States from exercising jurisdiction and provide assurances to the domestic protagonists that they will not be prosecuted in any State if they cease fighting.

The Rome Statute explicitly authorizes the Security Council to use Chapter VII powers to preclude investigation and prosecution by the ICC.[244]  The use of a Chapter VII resolution is binding upon the ICC for twelve months, and preclusion from prosecution can be renewed indefinitely.[245]  The inclusion of this provision in a multilateral treaty indicates that States desired to have a mechanism to delay and possibly prevent prosecution that would impact all ongoing conflict.  A twelve-month delay with possible failure to renew does not provide any permanence that an amnesty provision would need for negotiated peace.  However, as Professor Ruth Wedgwood notes, “[i]t is open to question whether the Rome treaty can constitutionally limit the Council’s powers, including the Council’s right to set the temporal duration of its own mandates.”[246]

The Security Council could take several actions to endorse an amnesty agreement.  The Security Council arguably could decide that it is not bound by temporal limitations imposed by outside treaty obligations and could bind the ICC because the ICC exercises the delegated territorial and nationality jurisdiction of State parties.  Additionally, especially in cases that would have previously been reserved solely for domestic concern, the Security Council could determine that “[t]he case is not of sufficient gravity to justify further action by the Court” and that “an investigation would not serve the interests of justice.”[247]  While that finding would not be directly binding on the prosecutor or ICC Chambers, the ICC would be taking action in direct contravention of a Security Council resolution for the maintenance of international peace and security.

Most importantly, the Security Council could obligate all members of the U.N. to support the amnesty agreement and therefore preclude handing over to the ICC those potentially responsible for crimes against humanity.  While the Rome Statute creates a treaty-based obligation to turn in those indicted to the ICC, the supremacy clause of Article 103 of the U.N. Charter creates a superseding obligation.[248]  Under Article 103, “[i]n the event of a conflict between the obligations of the Members of the United Nations under the present Charter and their obligations under any other international agreement, their obligations under the present Charter shall prevail.”[249]  The obligations created by the Security Council using Chapter VII powers would trump the conflicting commitments to the ICC.

While the Security Council endorsement could potentially violate human rights agreements that create a right to redress, these again are superseded by the Charter commitments and the overall purpose of the Security Council to maintain international peace and security.  There is a strong argument that the Security Council is bound by jus cogens (“compelling law” or “peremptory norm”) and cannot override them in any resolution.  However, as previously discussed, there is no certain customary duty to prosecute crimes against humanity, and parties to the Rome Statute already envisioned the Security Council interfering with prosecution through delays.  A British court in R v. Secretary of State for Defence upheld the principle that even Security Council authorizations, as opposed to binding obligations through decisions, are sufficient to trump human rights treaty obligations due to Article 103.[250]  While this case lends strength to the argument that Security Council resolutions prevail over the Rome Statute, the case for a resolution endorsing amnesty would be stronger.  First a binding decision would create a more certain obligation.[251]  Second, in human rights treaties, rights are clearly owed to a State’s own citizens and other States.[252]  With the Rome Statute, the treaty only confers jurisdiction and prosecutorial powers.  Thus, a violation of that treaty does not directly infringe on any human rights.

The Security Council can likely decide to recognize a domestic amnesty agreement and make it binding upon both States and the ICC under its same specified legal powers.  The recognition of an amnesty agreement would enable protagonists in a conflict to have confidence in the negotiation process and have their agreement validated.

There is precedent for the Security Council implying recognition of amnesty but not to the point of legal impact.  In 1993, Haitian leaders agreed to relinquish power in return for amnesty and lifting of economic sanctions imposed by the Security Council.[253]  An agreement was signed with the support of the Security Council, which later declared it was the only valid framework for resolving the crisis in Haiti.[254]  The Security Council resolution, however, only “welcomed” the agreement without creating obligations.[255]  More recently in 2011, the Security Council took a significant step towards actual endorsement of an amnesty agreement.  To resolve the internal crisis in Yemen, the Gulf Cooperation Council, with support from the United States, negotiated President Saleh’s exit from power with amnesty.[256]  The Security Council recognized that the Yemeni authorities committed serious human rights violations but viewed the settlement agreement as being “essential” for a peaceful transition and “call[ed] on all parties in Yemen to commit themselves to implementation.”[257]  Since the peace agreement and Security Council resolution, former President Saleh freely traveled to the United States for medical treatment.[258]  The resolution for Yemen did not use the necessary language to create a binding obligation on U.N. member States but represented a foundation that the Security Council will endorse amnesty.[259]

The new role for the Security Council would provide significant benefits for the international community.  There would be a mechanism to avoid legal absolutism with regards to intractable conflicts that have been ongoing for decades.[260]  Additionally, the international community could ensure that domestic amnesties for crimes against humanity are granted only in exceptional circumstances after the approval of their representatives.  This would reduce “back-room, closed-door” negotiations based upon accommodation that have been the common methodology of peacemakers, and instead would bring the discussion concerning justice versus amnesty to the international forum for open debate.  Other States, intergovernmental organizations, victims, and human rights advocates would have the opportunity to provide advice on whether, in that specific circumstance, the need for peace and cessation of conflict outweighs the traditional demand for accountability.

Bringing the debate to the international level would also provide an opportunity to examine questions that are unsettled in international law.  The Security Council would have to determine if it is bound by human rights law and if the Security Council can permit States to derogate from peremptory norms.[261]

The ability of the five permanent members of the Security Council to exercise veto power over any resolution[262] is also beneficial for States’ need to balance peace with accountability.  The structure of the U.N. and the Security Council can often render the organization ineffective in addressing threats to international peace and security due to a tendency towards inaction.  Since a decision may be vetoed, there must be consensus that an amnesty agreement for crimes against humanity is the appropriate and only method for resolving internal conflict in a specific State.

Conclusion

If the 1970s and 1980s could be characterized as decades of impunity for atrocities and the 1990s could be characterized by the emergence of mechanisms for accountability, the first decade of the twenty-first century could be characterized by the struggles of States to end protracted asymmetrical conflicts.  Violent internal conflict still endures, and States need tools to resolve conflict.  States often have used amnesty for potential crimes against humanity to stabilize and reconcile the population.  Balancing the need for peace versus the need for accountability was viable, if the State followed certain prescriptions in granting impunity.  With the new developments in international law, however, more domestic activity rises to the level of international concern, and finding a method to create amnesty is a difficult task.  The international legal changes have rendered amnesty for crimes against humanity ineffective and removed it as a tool to create peace.  Without a binding resolution by the Security Council, an amnesty agreement has no legal impact on the international plane and does not function as an inducement for non-State actors.  The duty will now fall upon the Security Council to weigh the countervailing interests and decide how to restore peace and security when amnesty is determined to be the only option.


           *   Democracy Specialist and Anticorruption Advisor, U.S. Agency for International Development (“USAID”), Active Component-Civilian Response Corps; American University, School of International Service (M.A., 2005); American University, Washington College of Law (J.D., 2004).  I would like to thank Professor Paul Williams for his feedback and thoughtful discussions.  I wish to thank my wife, Michele Rose Lyons, for her love and support in making my writing possible.  The opinions expressed herein are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of USAID or any other agency.

        [1].   See generally Ben Chigara, Amnesty in International Law: The Legality Under International Law of National Amnesty Laws 2–6 (2002); Douglass Cassel,Lessons from the Americas: Guidelines for International Response to Amnesties for Atrocities, 59 Law & Contemp. Probs. 197 (1996); Heinz Klug, Amnesty, Amnesia and Remembrance: International Obligations and the Need to Prevent the Repetition of Gross Violations of Human Rights, 92 Am. Soc’y Int’l L. Proc. 316 (1998); Diane F. Orentlicher, International Criminal Law and the Cambodian Killing Fields, 3 ILSA J. Int’l & Comp. L. 705 (1997) [hereinafter Orentlicher,Cambodian Killing Fields]; Diane F. Orentlicher, Settling Accounts: The Duty to Prosecute Human Rights Violations of a Prior Regime, 100 Yale L.J. 2537 (1991) [hereinafter Orentlicher, Settling Accounts]; Naomi Roht-Arriaza, State Responsibility to Investigate and Prosecute Grave Human Rights Violations in International Law, 78 Calif. L. Rev. 449 (1990); Michael P. Scharf, Swapping Amnesty for Peace: Was There a Duty to Prosecute International Crimes in Haiti?, 31 Tex. Int’l L.J.1 (1996); Robert O. Weiner, Trying to Make Ends Meet: Reconciling the Law and Practice of Human Rights Amnesties, 26 St. Mary’s L.J. 857 (1995); cf. Antonio F. Perez, The Perils of Pinochet: Problems for Transitional Justice and a Supranational Governance Solution, 28 Denv. J. Int’l L. & Pol’y 175 (2000) (discussing the difficulties surrounding potential amnesty in Cuba while trying to encourage a transition towards a more democratic future).

        [2].   See Gene Shackman et al., Brief Review of Trends in Political Change: Freedom and Conflict, Int’l Consortium Advancement Acad. Publication (Oct. 2004), http://gsociology.icaap.org/report/polsum.html.  By 2000, the majority of the world population lived in democratic-styled countries, and there was a dramatic growth in democracy.  Id. at tbl.1, fig.1.  When China is removed from calculations, almost eighty-five percent of the population lives in democratic nations.  SeeEconomist Intelligence Unit, Democracy Index 2010: Democracy in Retreat 2 (2010), available at http://graphics.eiu.com
/PDF/Democracy_Index_2010_web.pdf.  While there was backsliding in democracies since 2008, the majority of the world still lives in a democracy of some form. Id. at 1.

        [3].   Appendix, in Prosecuting Heads of State 295–304 (Ellen L. Lutz & Caitlin Reiger eds., 2009).  Since 1990, sixty-seven former heads of state have been legitimately prosecuted for serious human rights abuses or economic crimes in domestic courts.  Id.  In 2009, ex-President Alberto Fujimori of Peru was convicted and sentenced to twenty-five years in prison for human rights abuses committed while in office.  Fujimori Gets Lengthy Jail Time, BBC (Apr. 7, 2009, 5:55 PM), http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/7986951.stm.  Former President Hosni Mubarak of Egypt was sentenced to life after being “convicted of complicity in the killings of some 90 protestors.”  Hamza Hendawi, Hosni Mubarak, Egypt’s Ousted President, Sentenced to Life in Prison, Huffington Post (June 2, 2012, 8:00 PM), http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/06/02/hosni
-mubarak-egypts-oust_n_1564603.html.  Moreover, former Tunisian President Zine El Abidine Ben Ali was tried in absentia in 2011.  Bouazza Ben Bouazza, Zine El Abidine Ben Ali, Ex-Tunisia President, Gets 20 Years in Absentia, Huffington Post (June 13, 2012, 4:40 PM), http://www.huffingtonpost.com
/2012/06/13/zine-el-abidine-ben-ali-20-years-In-absentia_n_1592983.html.

        [4].   Shackman et al., supra note 2; see also Int’l Inst. for Democracy & Electoral Assistance, Democracy and Deep-Rooted Conflict: Options for Negotiators 1 (Peter Harris & Ben Reilly eds., 1998), available at http://www.idea.int/publications/democracy_and_deep_rooted_conflict/upload
/ddrc_full_en.pdf (stating that between 1989 and 1996, most major conflicts have not occurred between states, but instead have been confined within states).

        [5].   See Paul R. Williams & Michael P. Scharf, Peace with Justice?: War Crimes and Accountability in the Former Yugoslavia 24–29 (2002) (discussing that the three approaches for peace building to end conflict are accommodation, economic inducement, and use of force).  Accommodation ends conflict by meeting the interests and objectives of adversarial parties, often by appeasement, which excludes justice via amnesty in exchange for a solution to conflict.  Id. at 24–26.  Economic inducement seeks to modify a party’s stance through economic incentives or sanctions.  Id. at 26.  Use of force is characterized by military action to affect the behavior of another State or group.  Id. at 27.

        [6].   Peace Agreement Between the Government of Sierra Leone and the Revolutionary United Front of Sierra Leone, July 7, 1999 [hereinafter Lomé

Peace Accord], available at http://www.sierra-leone.org/lomeaccord.html.

        [7].   Sarah Williams, Amnesties in International Law: The Experience of the Special Court for Sierra Leone, 5 Hum. Rts. L. Rev. 271, 275–76 (2005).

        [8].   Statute of the Special Court for Sierra Leone, art. 10, Jan. 16, 2002, 2178 U.N.T.S. 145 available at http://www.sc-sl.org/LinkClick.aspx?fileticket
=uClnd1MJeEw%3D& (“An amnesty granted to any person falling within the jurisdiction of the Special Court in respect of the crimes referred to in articles 2 to 4 of the present Statute shall not be a bar to prosecution.”).  Articles 2 through 4 refer to Crimes Against Humanity, Violations of Article 3 Common to the Geneva Convention and of Additional Protocol II, and Other Serious Violations of International Humanitarian Law.  Id. arts. 2–4.

        [9].   Andreas O’Shea, Amnesty for Crime in International Law and Practice 22, 39 (2002); ‘Amnesty’ for Uganda Rebel Chief, BBC (July 4, 2006, 5:38 PM), http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/5147882.stm.  The amnesty agreement would preclude State investigations into crimes covered by the amnesty, which could possibly cover acts such as rape and pillage.  O’Shea, supra, at 41.  By 2011, over 12,000 former Lord’s Resistance Army members had been granted amnesty under the law; however there is uncertainty regarding the constitutionality of the amnesty law.  Simon Jennings, Ugandan War Crimes Trial Hangs in Balance, ReliefWeb (Aug. 25, 2011), http://reliefweb.int/report/uganda/ugandan-war-crimes-trial-hangs-balance.

      [10].   Manisuli Ssenyonjo, Accountability of Non-State Actors in Uganda for War Crimes and Human Rights Violations: Between Amnesty and the International Criminal Court, 3 J. Conflict & Security L. 405, 407–08 (2005).

      [11].   ‘Amnesty’ for Uganda Rebel Chief, supra note 9.

      [12].   Linda M. Keller, Achieving Peace with Justice: The International Criminal Court and Ugandan Alternative Justice Mechanisms, 23 Conn. J. Int’l L. 209, 216–17 (2008).

      [13].   For the purposes of this Article, “internal conflict” will be defined as any civil war, internal armed conflict, rebellion, insurgency, coup attempt, tribal warfare, territorial struggle, action to create an autonomous region within a state, or other organized action rising to a similar level that seriously threatens the State.  For a treaty-based definition of internal “armed conflict,” see infra note 18.

      [14].   This Article agrees with the principle that leaders of prior authoritarian regimes responsible for human rights abuses should be prosecuted; that topic has been thoroughly discussed.  This Article will only discuss amnesty as it relates to resolution of internal conflict and civil wars, particularly for opposition groups that have committed serious offenses.

      [15].   See infra notes 254–57 and accompanying text.

      [16].   See William W. Burke-White, Reframing Impunity: Applying Liberal International Law Theory to an Analysis of Amnesty Legislation, 42 Harv. Int’l L.J.467, 510–12 (2001) (discussing the validity of the amnesty laws of the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, the Republika of Srpska, and Croatia, and indicating that these agreements comply with international obligations).

      [17].   See infra notes 24–26 and accompanying text.

      [18].   Protocol Additional to the Geneva Conventions of 12 August 1949, and Relating to the Protection of Victims of Non-International Armed Conflicts (Protocol II), art. 6(5), June 8, 1977, 1125 U.N.T.S. 609.  To be internal “armed conflict,” the situation must involve an action greater than internal tension, riots, or isolated and sporadic acts of violence.  See id. art. 1.

      [19].   Mahnoush H. Arsanjani, The International Criminal Court and National Amnesty Laws, 93 Am. Soc’y Int’l L. Proc. 65, 65 (1999) (indicating that the purpose of Article 6(5) in Protocol II was to encourage “gestures of reconciliation,” which can be accomplished through amnesty); Naomi Roht-Arriaza, Special Problems of a Duty to Prosecute: Derogation, Amnesties, Statutes of Limitation, and Superior Orders, in Impunity and Human Rights in International Law and Practice 57, 59 (Naomi Roht-Arriaza ed., 1995) (reflecting the desirability of integrating past rebels or insurgents into normal national life).  Article 6(5) of Protocol II is sufficiently broad enough to encourage amnesty for both insurgents and State officials or agents.  Id.; cf. Cassel, supra note 1, at 218 (explaining that combatants in international conflicts receive significant protection against punishment for participating in the hostilities and that Protocol II acts to encourage amnesty for noninternational combatants who do not receive the same legal protection).

      [20].   See Christine Bell, Peace Agreements and Human Rights 263 (2000) (indicating that Protocol II does not impose an obligation to prosecute and scholars are divided on whether it provides a basis for individual criminal responsibility).  The International Committee of the Red Cross (“ICRC”) has interpreted Article 6(5) narrowly and stated that is does not apply to amnesties for violations of international humanitarian law, but the ICRC is a nonlegal entity, and the wording of Protocol II is still unclear.  Id. at 265.

      [21].   Roht-Arriaza, supra note 19 (discussing the failure of the Soviet bloc States to gain approval for a proposal that would have prevented Protocol II from circumventing prosecution for crimes against humanity).

      [22].   See Michael P. Scharf, The Amnesty Exception to the Jurisdiction of the International Criminal Court, 32 Cornell Int’l L.J. 507, 526 (1999).

      [23].   Burke-White, supra note 16, at 482 (indicating that blanket amnesties, which are usually broad or all encompassing and traditionally decreed by outgoing dictators for self protection, offer general protection against civil and criminal charges and often do not differentiate between common crimes, political crimes, and international crimes).  International legal entities have rejected blanket amnesties, and in recent cases, even domestic courts have declined to enforce these amnesties. Id. at 522; Cassel, supra note 1, at 215 (commenting on the Inter-American Commission’s declaration that self-amnesties are “legal nullities”); Christopher C. Joyner,Redressing Impunity for Human Rights Violations: The Universal Declaration and the Search for Accountability, 26 Denv. J. Int’l L. & Pol’y 591, 616–17 (1998) (stating that only government policy makers may authorize impunity); Roht-Arriaza, supra note 19, at 60–62 (discussing the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights rulings concerning Argentina, El Salvador, and Uruguay that continuously found the self-amnesties decreed by Latin American dictators to not be legally enforceable).  “Where amnesties are granted through non-legitimate means . . . they may legitimately be denied legal force due to their irregular means of promulgation . . . .”  Id. at 58; see also Kristin Henrard, The Viability of National Amnesties in View of the Increasing Recognition of Individual Criminal Responsibility at International Law, 8 Mich. St. U.-DCL J. Int’l L. 595, 641–42 (1999) (stating that blanket amnesties are “completely unacceptable and of no legal value”).

      [24].   Roman Boed, The Effect of a Domestic Amnesty on the Ability of Foreign States to Prosecute Alleged Perpetrators of Serious Human Rights Violations, 33 Cornell Int’l L.J. 297, 323 (2000) (“Amnesties granted by States in violation of their conventional duties cannot be considered valid on the international plane and cannot have any effect on the prerogatives of other States.”); Michael Scharf, The Letter of the Law: The Scope of the International Legal Obligation to Prosecute Human Rights Crimes, 59 Law & Contemp. Probs. 41, 43 (1996) (stating that Article 27 of the Vienna Convention on the Law of Treaties prevents States from using internal law as a justification for failing to perform a duty in a treaty).  Scharf also notes that the duty to prosecute under the Geneva Conventions is strictly limited to international armed conflict.  Id. at 44.  Article 2 in each of the four Geneva Conventions states that international armed conflict is declared war or other armed conflict that arises between two or more States.  Id.; e.g., Geneva Convention for the Amelioration of the Condition of the Wounded and Sick in Armed Forces in the Field, art. 2, Aug. 12, 1949, 75 U.N.T.S. 31.

      [25].   Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide, Jan. 12, 1951, 78 U.N.T.S. 277.  The Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide (“Genocide Convention”) includes specific provisions that “persons committing genocide . . . shall be punished” and persons “shall be tried by a competent tribunal of the State in the territory of which the act was committed.”  Id. arts. 4, 5; see also Restatement (Third) of Foreign Relations Law § 702 cmt. d (1986) (“A state violates customary law if it practices or encourages genocide, fails to make genocide a crime or to punish persons guilty of it, or otherwise condones genocide.”); Orentlicher, Settling Accounts, supra note 1, at 2562–64 (discussing that almost the entire Genocide Convention is designed to fulfill the purpose of preventing genocide through punishment of the crime and thus any amnesty precluding either domestic or international prosecution is void).

      [26].   Convention Against Torture and Other Cruel, Inhuman or Degrading Treatment or Punishment, Dec. 19, 1984, 1465 U.N.T.S. 85, modified, 24 I.L.M. 535 (entered into force June 26, 1987).  The Convention Against Torture and Other Cruel, Inhuman or Degrading Treatment or Punishment (“Torture Convention”) expressly requires parties to extradite someone if the State does not “submit the case to its competent authorities for the purpose of prosecution.”  Id. art. 7; see alsoBoed, supra note 24, at 311–12, 320–21 (stating that the wording of the Torture Convention requires States to prosecute violations or extradite under the principle ofaut dedere aut judicare (“extradite or prosecute”)); Scharf, supra note 24, at 46–47 (indicating that even though the wording of the Torture Convention is slightly different than the Genocide Convention, it still indicates a duty to prosecute); Gwen K. Young, Comment, Amnesty and Accountability, 35 U.C. Davis L. Rev. 427, 450 (2002) (discussing that the European Court for Human Rights ruled that amnesties do not prevent criminal proceedings against those who commit torture).  The duty to prosecute is only statutory and not from customary law due to lack of State practice, but there have been trends such as the Committee Against Torture’s 1990 statement that the Torture Convention “should oblige” all States to prosecute, which may indicate the principle is rooted in custom.  Scharf, supra note 24, at 47–48;cf. Steven R. Ratner & Jason S. Abrams, Accountability for Human Rights Atrocities in International Law 118–19 (2d. ed. 2001) (discussing customary law and torture and indicating that the exclusion of amnesty for States party to the convention extends not only to actions by the government, but also to any group acting in an official capacity, including guerrilla groups and insurgent rebels).

      [27].   Restatement (Third) of Foreign Relations Law § 102(1) (“A rule of international law is one that has been accepted as such by the international community of states (a) in the form of customary law; (b) by international agreement; or (c) by derivation from general principles common to the major systems of the world.”).

      [28].   See Boed, supra note 24, at 314 (indicating that a duty must be based in custom and that there is disagreement if custom exists).

      [29].   International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, Dec. 19, 1966, 999 U.N.T.S. 171.

      [30].   American Convention on Human Rights, Nov. 22, 1969, 1144 U.N.T.S. 123.

      [31].   Convention for the Protection of Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms, Nov. 4, 1950, 213 U.N.T.S. 221.

      [32].   E.g., Orentlicher, Settling Accounts, supra note 1, at 2568 (“[P]rosecution and punishment are the most effective—and therefore only adequate—means of ensuring a narrow class of rights that merit special protection.”); Roht-Arriaza, supra note 1, at 474–83 (noting that the ICCPR, American Convention, and European Convention recognize a right to a remedy, which includes a duty to prosecute); cf. Carla Edelenbos, Human Rights Violations: A Duty to Prosecute?, 7 Leiden J. Int’l L. 5, 15 (1994) (arguing that the treaties, declarations, and practices viewed together show that the international community accepts the obligation to prosecute).

      [33].   See Orentlicher, Settling Accounts, supra note 1, at 2551–52, 2568 (noting that the Conventions require States to respect the enumerated rights and guarantee that people are able to exercise those rights); Roht-Arriaza, supra note 1, at 474–83 (discussing the Conventions’ requirement to provide a remedy and arguing that the treaties include investigation and prosecution as components of a remedy).

      [34].   E.g., Orentlicher, Settling Accounts, supra note 1, at 2568 (arguing that authoritative interpretations of these treaties suggest that a party to the treaties fails its duties if it does not investigate the violations and bring to justice those responsible); Roht-Arriaza, supra note 1, at 467–68 (arguing that an obligation to “ensure” rights creates an affirmative obligation to prosecute).

      [35].   E.g., Roht-Arriaza, supra note 1, at 488. (discussing that a right to a remedy is a common feature of human rights instruments).  Roht-Arriaza argues that since a treaty obligation is nonderogable, the rights enumerated in the treaty are nonderogable, and thus amnesty preventing accountability breaches the treaty.  Id.

      [36].   Orentlicher, Settling Accounts, supra note 1, at 2571–76 (discussing declarations concerning torture in Zaire, extralegal executions in Suriname, and disappearances in Uruguay, with the HCR declaring that steps must be taken to provide justice and remedies).  Even though the drafters of the ICCPR never considered requiring parties to punish violations, nothing in the history of the Convention is inconsistent with a duty to prosecute.  Id. at 2569–71.

      [37].   Id. at 2576–79 (discussing the judgment from the Inter-American Court of Human Rights in the Velasquez Rodriguez case, which suggested a duty to punish all violations of the American Convention).  Orentlicher also notes that the Chairman of the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights strongly opposed amnesty that prevents prosecution of serious human rights abuses.  Id. at 2579; see also Roht-Arriaza, supra note 1, at 469–70 (discussing the Velasquez Rodriguezcase and contending that the holding implies a duty to prevent, investigate, and punish any violation of the American Convention in addition to restoring rights and paying compensation).  See generally, Naomi Roht-Arriaza & Lauren Gibson, The Developing Jurisprudence on Amnesty, 20 Hum. Rts. Q. 843 (1998) (providing a general overview of Latin American amnesty laws and challenges to them in various courts).

      [38].   Orentlicher, Settling Accounts, supra note 1, at 2581 (indicating that the European Court indirectly affirmed the principle that punishment is necessary to ensure the rights in the European Convention).

      [39].   E.g., Emily W. Schabacker, Reconciliation or Justice and Ashes: Amnesty Commissions and the Duty to Punish Human Rights Offenses, 12 N.Y. Int’l L. Rev. 1, 25 (1999) (arguing the language from the HRC does not indicate an absolute duty); Scharf, supra note 1, at 26 (rejecting the authoritative interpretation rationale based on statements by the HRC).

      [40].   Scharf, supra note 1, at 26 (noting that the HRC is only an administrative body to monitor compliance).

      [41].   Id.

      [42].   See id. at 26–27 (contending the parties to the treaty relied upon a certain meaning when they ratified the ICCPR).

      [43].   See, e.g., id. at 27 (discussing that the HRC left the door open to alternative measures).  In 1992, the HRC said amnesties are “generally incompatible” with the ICCPR, indicating that some amnesties are acceptable.  Id.; Schabacker, supra note 39.

      [44].   E.g., Scharf, supra note 1, at 27–28 (“The court . . . did not direct the Honduran government to institute criminal proceedings against those responsible for the disappearance of Manfredo Velásquez . . . . [Nor did it] specifically refer to criminal prosecutions as opposed to other forms of disciplinary action or punishment.”).

      [45].   See Scharf, supra note 24, at 51–52 (indicating that it could involve a different form of disciplinary action); cf. Schabacker, supra note 39, at 31 (citations omitted) (arguing that even though academics cite Velasquez Rodriguez as an important case, it only applies to Latin America and has not significantly influenced other international courts since the decision).

      [46].   Boed, supra note 24, at 314; see also M. Cherif Bassiouni, “Crimes Against Humanity”: The Need for a Specialized Convention, 31 Colum. J. Transnat’l L. 457, 473–75 (1994) (describing the failure of legal instruments to indicate rules of enforcement).

      [47].   Restatement (Third) of Foreign Relations Law § 102(2) & cmt. c (1986).

      [48].   Id. § 102 cmt. b.

      [49].   E.g., Bassiouni, supra note 46, at 480–81 (relying upon conventional law and U.N. General Assembly resolutions); Edelenbos, supra note 32 (relying upon treaties and the practice of prosecuting crimes against humanity committed during World War II); Orentlicher, Settling Accounts, supra note 1, at 2583–86 (citing treaties and U.N. resolutions reaffirming the Nuremberg precedents as an indication of a norm); Roht-Arriaza, supra note 1, at 489 (examining the combination of treaty law, judicial decisions, U.N. resolutions, and the law of State responsibility of injury to aliens as proof of a customary duty to prosecute).

      [50].   See, e.g., Roht-Arriaza, supra note 1, at 490 (stating both the International Court of Justice and the U.S. Supreme Court held that treaties can create binding obligations on nonparties if they indicate customary law).  Treaty provisions can become customary rules of law if participation is widespread and representative of the international community.  Id. at 490–91; cf. Orentlicher, Settling Accounts, supra note 1, at 2593 n.250, 2594 n.252 (discussing that although the Convention on the Non-Applicability of Statutory Limitations to Certain War Crimes and Crimes Against Humanity did not receive widespread support due to the inclusion of the crime of apartheid and the fact that it did not explicitly require parties to prosecute, it was based upon the perception that international law already required punishment).

      [51].   G.A. Res. 2840 (XXVI), U.N. GAOR, 26th Sess., Supp. No. 29, U.N. Doc. A/8429, ¶ 1, (Dec. 18, 1971).

      [52].   G.A. Res. 3074 (XXVIII), U.N. GAOR, 28th Sess., Supp. No. 30, U.N. Doc. A/9030, ¶ 1 (Dec. 3, 1973).

      [53].   E.g., Bassiouni, supra note 46, at 479–81 (listing legal instruments indicating that a duty to prosecute emerged into customary international law); Edelenbos, supra note 32, at 14–15 (discussing the 1989 Principles on the Effective Prevention and Investigation of Extra-legal, Arbitrary and Summary Executions provision requiring people accused of these acts to be brought to justice); Orentlicher, Settling Accounts, supra note 1, at 2593 & n.251 (discussing the importance of the 1973 resolution and providing a list of other U.N. resolutions requiring States to ensure prosecution and punishment of crimes against humanity); Roht-Arriaza,supra note 1, at 498 (citing the U.N.’s 1985 Declaration of Basic Principles of Justice for Victims of Crime and Abuse of Power as a resolution calling on all member States to prosecute those guilty of human rights crimes).

      [54].   Boed, supra note 24, at 315 (citing G.A. Res. 2840, supra note 51).

      [55].   G.A. Res. 3074, supra note 52.

      [56].   See Roht-Arriaza, supra note 1, at 492, 496 (citing Restatement (Third) of Foreign Relations Law § 102 cmt. c (1986)) (referencing the governments of Uruguay and Chile as examples of nations that tried to provide diplomatic representations of compliance with international law even though they failed in reality to prosecute).

      [57].   Id. (contending that, when States have created amnesty laws, they have justified them as required by exigent circumstances that trump their obligations to investigate or prosecute).

      [58].   Id. at 496–97.

      [59].   See, e.g., Boed, supra note 24, at 315; Scharf, supra note 1, at 35.  There is an unsettled debate concerning the legal weight of General Assembly resolutions and their effect on international customary law.  Most commentators do not suggest that General Assembly resolutions create binding norms of international law but instead suggest that they may possibly be evidence of opinio jurisE.g., id. (recognizing a State’s obligation to prosecute arising from U.N. General Assembly resolutions).  The political nature of the U.N., and the knowledge that the resolutions are not binding, reduces even the capacity to evaluate the strength of opinio juris shown in the resolutions.  Id. at 37; see also Christoph Schreuer, Recommendations and the Traditional Sources of Law, 20 German Y.B. Int’l L. 103, 107–09 (1977); Stephen M. Schwebel, The Effect of Resolutions of the U.N. General Assembly on Customary International Law, 73 Proc. Am. Soc’y Int’l L. 301, 301–03 (1979).

      [60].   E.g., Scharf, supra note 1, at 35 n.242 (citing G.A. Res. 3074, supra note 52) (noting that the resolution was “adopted by a vote of 94 in favor to none against with 29 abstentions”).

      [61].   G.A. Res. 2312 (XXII), U.N. GAOR, 22d Sess., Supp. No. 16, U.N. Doc A/6716, at 81 (Dec. 14, 1967).

      [62].   Declaration of Territorial Asylum, 1967 U.N.Y.B. 758, 759, U.N. Sales No. E.68.1.1.

      [63].   Scharf, supra note 22, at 521.

      [64].   See, e.g., Schabacker, supra note 39, at 39; Scharf, supra note 1, at 35–36.

      [65].   Scharf, supra note 1, at 36–37 (indicating that the U.N. blocked prosecutions of the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia, encouraged Nelson Mandela to grant unconditional amnesty for apartheid in South Africa, and helped negotiate the much criticized Haitian amnesty agreement); cf. Schabacker, supra note 39, at 38–39 (stating that State practice is not uniform since nations have employed wide variations of truth commissions and amnesty provisions).  Schabacker notes nonprosecution is so common and widespread throughout the world that the U.N. Commissioner for Human Rights convened a special body out of concern.  Id. at 39.

      [66].   See Scharf, supra note 1, at 37.

      [67].   Kareem Fahim, Power Ceded, Yet President of Yemen Declares Amnesty, N.Y. Times, Nov. 28, 2011, at A11.

      [68].   Arab Spring Justice – but a Free Pass for Yemen’s Saleh, Christian Sci. Monitor (Jan. 9, 2012), http://www.csmonitor.com/Commentary/the-monitors
-view/2012/0109/Arab-Spring-justice-but-a-free-pass-for-Yemen-s-Saleh.

      [69].   E.g., Edelenbos, supra note 32, at 21 (discussing that invoking the interests of national reconciliation or the instability of the democratic process indicates an emerging opinio juris); Roht-Arriaza, supra note 1, at 495–96 (noting that, in humanitarian and human rights law, verbal declarations by the government and consent to international instruments are better indicators of State practice and opinio juris).  The rule comes from a Nicaragua case in the International Court of Justice where the court stated that, when a nation acts in a manner inconsistent with a recognized rule but justifies the action via an exception within the rule, the nation confirms, rather than undermines, the rule.  Military and Paramilitary Activities in and Against Nicaragua (Nicar. v. U.S.), 1986 I.C.J. 14, 98 (June 27).

      [70].   See, e.g., Scharf, supra note 1, at 38 (arguing that most States never mention the existence of a duty to prosecute and that the existence of exceptions contained within this duty demonstrate that it is not absolute).

      [71].   Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court, July 17, 1998, 37 I.L.M. 999 [hereinafter Rome Statute] (entered into force July 1, 2002).

      [72].   Boed, supra note 24, at 316 & n.114 (quoting Rome Statute, supra note 71, pmbl.).

      [73].   Id.

      [74].   E.g., Jean Graven, Les Crimes Contre L’Humanité, in 76 Recueil Des Cours 427, 433 (1950).

      [75].   Hague Convention IV – Laws and Customs of War on Land, pmbl., Oct. 18, 1907, 36 Stat. 2277 (“[T]he inhabitants and the belligerents remain under the protection and the rule of the principles of the law of nations, as they result from the usages established among civilized peoples, from the laws of humanity, and the dictates of the public conscience.” (emphasis added)); see M. Cherif Bassiouni, From Versailles to Rwanda in Seventy-Five Years: The Need to Establish a Permanent International Criminal Court, 10 Harv. Hum. Rts. J. 11, 16–17 (1997) (discussing the impact and limitations of the Martens Clause).

      [76].   Bassiouni, supra note 75, at 14–17 (indicating that the principle was applied by the Commission on the Responsibilities of the Authors of War and Enforcement of Penalties in its investigations into violations of the laws and customs of war).

      [77].   Id. at 17 (discussing the treaty signed at the end of World War I).  The Treaty of Sevres was never ratified and none of the prosecutorial provisions ever enacted.  Id.; see also Phyllis Hwang, Defining Crimes Against Humanity in the Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court, 22 Fordham Int’l L.J. 457, 459 (1998) (noting that all the later treaties concluding World War I declined to prosecute crimes against humanity).

      [78].   Agreement for the Prosecution and Punishment of the Major War Criminals of the European Axis, Charter of the International Military Tribunal, art. 6(c), Aug. 8, 1945, 59 Stat. 1544, 82 U.N.T.S. 279, 288 [hereinafter European Axis Agreement].  See generally Beth Van Schaack, The Definition of Crimes Against Humanity: Resolving the Incoherence, 37 Colum. J. Transnat’l L. 787, 798–807 (1999) (providing a history of the development and application of crimes against humanity as an offense under the jurisdiction of the IMT Charter).

      [79].   European Axis Agreement, supra note 78.

      [80].   Id.

      [81].   See Ratner & Abrams, supra note 26, at 47 (indicating that this clause was a serious compromise between the Allied powers).

      [82].   International Military Tribunal for the Far East, art. 5(c), Jan. 19, 1946, amended Apr. 26, 1946, T.I.A.S. No. 1589.

      [83].   Control Council Law No. 10, art. II(c), May 8, 1945, reprinted in M. Cherif Bassiouni, Crimes Against Humanity in International Criminal Law 33–34 (2d ed., 1999) (indicating that Control Council Law No. 10 provided for prosecution of crimes against humanity by the occupying powers within their respective zones).

      [84].   The International Military Tribunal for the Far East (“IMTFE”) omitted prosecution based upon religious grounds since it was not necessary and removed the phrase “against any civilian population” to expand the class of victims.  Bassiouni, supra note 75, at 37.  Article II of Control Council Law No. 10 expanded on the list of crimes enumerated in the IMT and the IMTFE to include imprisonment, torture, and rape, and also omitted the nexus of occurring “before or during the war.”  Id. at 38.

      [85].   G.A. Res. 174(II), U.N. GAOR, 2d Sess., U.N. Doc. A/519, at 105 (Nov. 21, 1947) (establishing the ILC); see also Bassiouni, supra note 83, at 179–93 (describing the various ILC attempts to codify crimes against humanity from 1950 to 1996 and indicating the variations of each text); Matthew Lippman, Crimes Against Humanity, 17 B.C. Third World L.J. 171, 228–32, 260–64 (1997) (providing a history of the Draft Code and discussing developments since the 1950s).  The attempts to codify “crimes against humanity” were efforts to affirm and clarify the offenses defined in the IMT Nuremberg Charter that only applied to the defeated nations of World War II.  Bassiouni, supra note 83, at 178.

      [86].   Draft Code of Offences against the Peace and Security of Mankind, U.N. GAOR, 9th Sess., U.N. Doc. A/12693 (1951).

      [87].   Id. art. 2, para. 11; see Lippman, supra note 85, at 232 (discussing how the Draft Code was a substantial departure from the Nuremberg Principles of the IMT by codifying offenses that posed a threat to the security of the international community simply by being severe atrocities against large numbers of people).

      [88].   Bassiouni, supra note 83, at 186 (contrasting 1954 Draft Code Article 2(11) with IMT Charter Article 6(c)).  But see Lippman, supra note 85, at 231–32 (discussing that the removal of the requirement that the act must be committed in connection with another offense was very controversial because some feared the definition would extend international jurisdiction into purely domestic affairs of States).

      [89].   See Hwang, supra note 77, at 469–73 (providing an overview of the prosecutions of Klaus Barbie, Paul Touvier, and Imre Finta).  For France’s prosecution of Klaus Barbie, former head of the Gestapo in Lyon during World War II, crimes against humanity were defined as acts “in the name of a State practicing a hegemonic political ideology, [which] have been committed in a systematic fashion, not only against persons because they belong to a racial or religious group, but also against the adversaries of this [State] policy, whatever the form of their opposition.”  Id. at 470 (second alteration in original) (quoting Leila Sadat Wexler, The Interpretation of the Nuremberg Principles by the French Court of Cassation: From Touvier to Barbie and Back Again, 32 Colum. J. Transnat’l L. 289, 339 (1994)).  For Touvier, the French Court of Appeals established three elements for crimes against humanity: the systematic nature of the crimes, participation in a common plan, and intention to carry out a State policy of political hegemony.  Id. at 472.  In the trial of Finta for atrocities committed in Hungary in 1944, the Supreme Court of Canada applied section 7(3.76) of the Canadian Criminal Code, which defined crimes against humanity as “murder, extermination, enslavement, deportation, persecution or any other inhumane act or omission that is committed against any civilian population or any identifiable group of persons . . . .”  Id. at 472 n.106 (quoting Criminal Code, R.S.C. 1985, c. C-46, s. 7(3.76) (Can.) (repealed 2000)).

      [90].   S.C. Res. 955, ¶ 1, U.N. Doc. S/RES/955 (Nov. 8, 1994) [hereinafter ICTR Statute]; S.C. Res. 827,¶ 2, U.N. Doc. S/RES/827 (May 25, 1993).

      [91].   U.N. Secretary-General, Report of the Secretary-General Pursuant to Paragraph 2 of Security Council Resolution 808, annex, U.N. Doc. S/25704 (May 3, 1993) [hereinafter ICTY Statute]; see S.C. Res. 827, U.N. Doc. S/RES/827 (May 25, 1993), amended S.C. Res. 1411, U.N. Doc. S/RES/1411 (May 17, 2002) (adopting the Statute of the ICTY).

      [92].   ICTR Statute, supra note 90, annex.

      [93].   Bassiouni, supra note 83, at 194–96 (giving a textual comparison between the statutes and indicating that the differences emerged because Yugoslavia involved an international conflict while Rwanda’s was of a purely internal nature).  See generally Guénaël Mettraux, Crimes Against Humanity in the Jurisprudence of the International Criminal Tribunals for the Former Yugoslavia and for Rwanda, 43 Harv. Int’l L.J. 237 (2002) (discussing the meaning of the various elements of crimes against humanity as demonstrated in the judgments of the two tribunals); Van Schaack, supra note 78, at 826–40 (discussing the adjudication of and commentary on the definition of crimes against humanity by the ad hoc tribunals).

      [94].   ICTY Statute, supra note 91, art. 5 (“The International Tribunal shall have the power to prosecute persons responsible for the following crimes when committed in armed conflicts, whether international or internal in character, and directed against any civilian population . . . .”).

      [95].   ICTR Statute, supra note 90, art. 3 (“The International Tribunal for Rwanda shall have the power to prosecute persons responsible for the following crimes when committed as part of a widespread or systematic attack against any civilian population on national, political, ethnic, racial or religious grounds . . . .”); see alsoDavid J. Scheffer, War Crimes and Crimes Against Humanity, 11 Pace Int’l L. Rev. 319, 328–29 (1999) (indicating that in the adjudication of the ICTR, the Akayesudecision created new precedent by establishing that rape can stand on its own as a crime against humanity).

      [96].   Orentlicher, Settling Accounts, supra note 1, at 2585 (indicating that the exact meaning of crimes against humanity is “shrouded in ambiguity”); Darryl Robinson, Defining “Crimes Against Humanity” at the Rome Conference, 93 Am. J. Int’l L. 43, 43 n.4 (1999) (discussing the difficulty in determining a definition at the Rome Conference due to past inconsistencies); Van Schaak, supra note 78, at 792 (stating that the definition of crimes against humanity has often been incoherent).

      [97].   Boed, supra note 24, at 302–03; Kenneth C. Randall, Universal Jurisdiction Under International Law, 66 Tex. L. Rev. 785, 791–800 (1988).

      [98].   Randall, supra note 97, at 800 (contrasting the international community’s perspective and relevant treaty law on piracy and slave trading).

      [99].   See Bassiouni, supra note 83, at 227–28 (differentiating universal jurisdiction from all other types of jurisdiction).  The other commonly acknowledged bases for jurisdiction are territorial, active personality or nationality, passive personality, and protective.  Id. at 227; see also Hwang, supra note 77, at 469 nn.79–81 (defining the different bases of jurisdiction).

    [100].   See Bassiouni, supra note 83, at 228–29 (stating there are certain crimes so serious in their nature that those who commit them are hostis humani generis(“an enemy of all mankind”) and thus affect the interests of all States); see also CrimC (Jer) 40/61 Attorney General of Israel v. Eichmann, 45 PM 3, Part II, ¶ 12 (1961) (“The abhorrent crimes defined in this Law are crimes not under Israeli law alone.  These crimes which offended the whole of mankind and shocked the conscience of nations are grave offenses against the law of nations itself (‘delicti juris gentium’).  Therefore, so far from international law negating or limiting the jurisdiction of countries with respect to such crimes, in the absence of an International Court, the international law is in need of the judicial and legislative authorities of every country, to give effect to its penal injunctions and to bring criminals to trial.  The jurisdiction to try crimes under international law is universal.”).

    [101].   See M. Cheriff Bassiouni, Universal Jurisdiction for International Crimes: Historical Perspectives and Contemporary Practice, 42 Va. J. Int’l L. 81, 88(2001) (equating modern principles of universal jurisdiction to the ancient Roman concept of actio popularis—the community acting for the good of the whole).

    [102].   See Boed, supra note 24, at 299–300 (explaining the principle of erga omnes, which entails States having an obligation not to violate basic human rights).

    [103].   See id. at 301–02 (discussing that erga omnes obligations do not automatically establish universal jurisdiction for various crimes).

    [104].   See Bassiouni, supra note 83, at 232–34 (examining conventional laws that clearly state principles of universal jurisdiction, such as the Geneva Conventions, the Apartheid Convention, the Convention on the Law of the Sea, the Genocide Convention, and the Hostages Convention); Bassiouni, supra note 101, at 119 (indicating that scholarship generally supports the customary law proposition and thus the author continues to evaluate State practice for a determination of customs toward universal jurisdiction); see also Scharf, supra note 1, at 34 (noting that there is no treaty for crimes against humanity that includes the principle of aut dedere au judicare (“extradite or prosecute”)).

    [105].   E.g., Boed, supra note 24, at 308 (indicating that a State’s exercise of jurisdiction for crimes against humanity would likely be valid even when the violation of law is committed by foreign nationals abroad and the State lacked any nexus to the crime); L.C. Green, Low-Intensity Conflict and the Law, 3 ILSA J. Int’l & Comp. L. 493, 516 (1997) (“[I]t may probably be said that it is now well established that crimes committed during a low-intensity or non-international armed conflict which amount to crimes against humanity are . . . subject to universal jurisdiction . . . .”); Theodor Meron, International Criminalization of Internal Atrocities, 89 Am. J. Int’l L. 554, 569 (1995) (“It is now widely accepted that crimes against humanity . . . are subject to universal jurisdiction.”); Orentlicher,Cambodian Killing Fields, supra note 1, at 705 (“International legal responsibility for some offenses is reflected in the fact that genocide, certain war crimes, and crimes against humanity are subject to universal jurisdiction.”).  But see Bassiouni, supra note 101, at 136 (contending that the fact that a very small number of States have enacted legislation fails to prove there is customary law).

    [106].   Bassiouni, supra note 101, at 83.  Bassiouni later stated that national legislation and judicial practice is currently insufficient to establish an international customary practice for universal jurisdiction.  Id. at 150.

    [107].   See Scharf, supra note 1, at 34–35 (discussing that domestic courts of all nations could punish violators if enabled).

    [108].   See Restatement (Third) of Foreign Relations Law § 404 (1986) (“A state has jurisdiction to define and prescribe punishment for certain offenses recognized by the community of nations as of universal concern . . . .”).

    [109].   M. Cherif Bassiouni, Crimes Against Humanity: Historical Evolution and Contemporary Practice 660–63 (2011).

    [110].   See supra notes 24–26 and accompanying text; see also O’Shea, supra note 9, at 197–98 (noting that a customary duty for States to prosecute would mean that all States are bound to this obligation and therefore have no other option except for the alternative of extradition).

    [111].   An exception is the crime of torture, which is an enumerated act within crimes against humanity and is also subject to its own convention, which appears to prohibit amnesty.  See sources cited supra note 26.

    [112].   See Garth Meintjes, Domestic Amnesties and International Accountability, in International Crimes, Peace, and Human Rights: The Role of the International Criminal Court 83, 86 (Dinah Shelton ed., 2000) (discussing that international law would not invalidate a domestic amnesty, but conversely domestic amnesty would not bar international criminal liability).

    [113].   This situation would apply to States that employ a “dualist” approach to international law.  Id.  The confusion with crimes against humanity is contrasted with the crimes of genocide or torture, which, due to treaty and customary obligations to prosecute, render domestic amnesty invalid and cannot preclude prosecution either domestically or internationally.  Id. at 87; see also Naomi Roht-Arriaza, Combating Impunity: Some Thoughts on the Way Forward, 59 Law & Contemp. Probs. 93, 100 & n.21 (1996) (suggesting that domestic amnesty would not preclude international prosecution and citing the 1997 Spanish arrest warrant for an Argentine general despite domestic amnesty).

    [114].   See Robinson, supra note 96, at 43 (indicating that this was the first time the definition of crimes against humanity was not imposed on a population by either the victors in a war or by Security Council mandate).  The definition was reached by consensus after negotiations involving 160 States.  Id.

    [115].   See Rep. of the Int’l Law Comm’n, 48th Sess, May 6–July 26, 1996, art. 18, cmt. 2, U.N. Doc. A/51/10; GAOR, 51st Sess., Supp. No. 10 (1996) (incorporating the definition of crimes against humanity from the IMT Charter with later developments in international law).

    [116].   Rome Statute, supra note 71, art. 7(1).

    [117].   Id. art. 7(2); see also Rep. of the Preparatory Comm. on the Establishment of an Int’l Criminal Court (vol. I), para. 86, U.N. Doc. A/51/22; GAOR, 51st Sess., Supp. No. 22 (1996) [hereinafter Rep. of the Preparatory Comm. (vol. I)] (discussing that “civilian population” is commonly used to refer to situations involving armed conflict in international humanitarian law, but in the current context that distinction is unnecessary since the statute for crimes against humanity applies to all citizens of a State regardless of the existence of armed conflict).

    [118].   Rape, murder, assault, deprivation of physical liberty/false imprisonment, persecution, etc., as defined by municipal statutes, are only subject to the rules governing internal law.  See generally Van Schaack, supra note 78 (investigating elements to distinguish crimes against humanity from domestic crimes).

    [119].   See Rep. of the Preparatory Comm. (vol. I), supra note 117, para. 84 (focusing primarily on the criteria in Article 3 of the ICTR Statute).

    [120].   ICTR Statute, supra note 90, art. 33 (“The International Tribunal for Rwanda shall have the power to prosecute persons responsible for . . . attack[s] against any civilian population on national, political, ethnic, racial or religious grounds . . . .”).

    [121].   Rep. of the Preparatory Comm. (vol. I), supra note 117, para. 87.

    [122].   Id. paras. 88–89; see also Robinson, supra note 96, at 45–46 (noting that a minority of delegations felt that crimes against humanity could only be committed in an armed conflict, but a majority of delegations believed that this restriction would be inconsistent with post-IMT developments); cf. Hwang, supra note 77, at 489 (stating that the failure to include a nexus to armed conflict as an element created concern about how to distinguish domestic crimes from those that are serious crimes of international concern).

    [123].   See Preparatory Comm’n for the Int’l Criminal Court, Finalized Draft Text of the Elements of Crimes, art. 7, U.N. Doc. PCNICC/2000/1/Add.2 (2000) [hereinafter Elements of Crimes Finalized Draft].

    [124].   Id.

    [125].   Id.  This may be an application of the principle espoused by the Chamber of the ICTY, which only required the violator to have “knowledge, either actual or constructive, that these acts were occurring on a widespread or systematic basis.”  Prosecutor v. Tadic, Case No. IT-94-1-T, Trial Chamber Opinion and Judgment, ¶ 659 (Int’l Crim. Trib. for the Former Yugoslavia May 7, 1997).

    [126].   Rome Statute, supra note 71, art. 7.

    [127].   See supra notes 86–88 and accompanying text.

    [128].   See Rep. of the Int’l Law Comm’n, supra note 115, art. 18, cmt. (5) (indicating that the action may come from a government or from an organization or a group, may or may not be affiliated with a government, and applies to acts by private citizens or agents of a State).  The text omits any intention or goal of the attack and states only that it must be organized.  Id. art. 18, cmt. (3).  This would be consistent with the application of crimes against humanity to German industrialists and businessmen who took advantage of slave labor for private gain during World War II.  See Ratner & Abrams, supra note 26, at 67.

    [129].   Three draft proposals over three consecutive years all included the wording “systematic [and][or] widespread.”  Rep. of Preparatory Comm. on the Establishment of an Int’l Criminal Court, Addendum, at 30–31, U.N. Doc. A/Conf.183/2/Add.1 (1998); Decisions Taken by the Preparatory Comm. at Its Session Held from 11 to 21 Feb. 1997, at 3, U.N. Doc. A/AC.249/1997/L.5; GAOR, 52nd Sess. (1997); Rep. of the Preparatory Comm. on the Establishment of an Int’l Criminal Court (vol. II), at 65, U.N. Doc. A/51/22; GAOR, 51st Sess., Supp. No. 22A (1996).  The fact that the two options were shown in successive drafts over several years shows debate and inability to decide this wording.

    [130].   Rep. of the Int’l Law Comm’n, supra note 115, art. 18 & cmts. (4)–(5).

    [131].   Id. art. 18, cmt. (4).  The purpose was to exclude an isolated act by an individual acting independently and directing the attack against a single victim.  Id.

    [132].   Id. art. 18, cmt. (3).  The purpose of this requirement was to exclude random acts of violence not connected to a broader plan.  Id.

    [133].   See Elements of Crimes Finalized Draft, supra note 123, art. 6(a) (“The perpetrator killed one or more persons.” (emphasis added)).

    [134].   Rep. of the Int’l Law Comm’n, supra note 115, art. 18, cmt. (4).  This would be consistent with previous ICTY rulings that a single act could constitute a crime against humanity when taken within the context of a widespread systematic attack.  Prosecutor v. Blagojević & Jokić, Case No. IT-02-60-T, Trial Chamber Opinion and Judgment, ¶ 545 (Int’l Crim. Trib. for the Former Yugoslavia Jan. 17, 2005); Prosecutor v. Tadic, Case No. IT-94-1-T, Trial Chamber Opinion and Judgment, ¶ 649 (Int’l Crim. Trib. for the Former Yugoslavia May 7, 1997).

    [135].   See U.N. Secretary-General, Report of the Secretary-General on the Establishment of a Special Tribunal for Lebanon, ¶ 24, U.N. Doc. S/2006/893 (Nov. 15, 2006) (recognizing the possibility that the assassination of Mr. Rafik Hariri, the former Lebanese prime minister, satisfied the customary requirements for a crime against humanity); cf. Ratner & Abrams, supra note 26, at 61 (suggesting that the execution of Hungarian leader Imre Nagy in 1956 by Soviet authorities was a crime against humanity because the Soviets intended the act to intimidate the entire civilian population).

    [136].   Cf. Ratner & Abrams, supra note 26, at 61–62 (suggesting that “a group of Rwandan Hutus under the influence of drugs ransacking a Tutsi town and massacring its inhabitants” would constitute a crime against humanity).

    [137].   Tadic, Case No. IT-94-1-T, ¶ 649 (“Clearly, a single act by a perpetrator taken within the context of a widespread or systematic attack against a civilian population entails individual criminal responsibility and an individual perpetrator need not commit numerous offences to be held liable.  Although it is correct that isolated, random acts should not be included in the definition of crimes against humanity, that is the purpose of requiring that the acts be directed against a civilianpopulation and thus ‘[e]ven an isolated act can constitute a crime against humanity if it is the product of a political system based on terror or persecution.’” (alteration in original) (citation omitted)).

    [138].   See Prosecutor v. Kupreskic, Case No. IT-95-16-T, Trial Chamber Judgment, ¶ 550 (Int’l Crim. Trib. for the Former Yugoslavia Jan. 14, 2000) (“For example, the act of denouncing a Jewish neighbour to the Nazi authorities – if committed against a background of widespread persecution – has been regarded as amounting to a crime against humanity.” (citation omitted)).

    [139].   Hwang, supra note 77, 497 & nn.239–40 (describing from her notes the Canadian proposal at the Rome Conference).  Many nongovernmental organizations were concerned this was an attempt to make the elements de facto cumulative.  Id. at 498–99.

    [140].   Webster’s Third New International Dictionary 1485 (Philip Babcock Gove ed., 1993) (defining “multiple” as “consisting of, including, or involving more than one.”).

    [141].   Decision Pursuant to Article 15 of the Rome Statute on the Authorisation of an Investigation into the Situation in the Republic of Côte d’Ivoire, No. ICC-02/11, ¶¶ 28–29 (Oct. 3, 2011) [hereinafter Côte d’Ivoire Investigation].

    [142].   Prosecutor v. Kunarac, Case No. IT-96-23 & IT-96-23/1-A, Judgment (Int’l Crim. Trib. for the Former Yugoslavia Jun. 12, 2002).

    [143].   Id. ¶ 98.

    [144].   Côte d’Ivoire Investigation, supra note 141, ¶¶ 28, 42–43.

    [145].   See generally Asia-Pacific Ctr. for the Responsibility to Protect, Cyclone Nargis and the Responsibility Project: Myanmar/Burma Briefing No. 2 (May 16, 2008), available at http://www.r2pasiapacific.org
/documents/Burma_Brief2.pdf (discussing whether the blocking of humanitarian assistance by the Myanmar (Burma) government constituted crimes against humanity).  The French Foreign Minister and Ambassador argued that a refusal to accept aid after an environmental disaster is a crime against humanity if it results in systematic or widespread death.  Id. at 2.

    [146].   Rome Statute, supra note 71, art. 7(2)(b) (“‘Extermination’ includes the intentional infliction of conditions of life, inter alia the deprivation of access to food and medicine, calculated to bring about the destruction of part of a population.”).

    [147].   E.g., Mugesera v. Can., [2005] 2 S.C.R. 100 (Can.), ¶¶ 157–58 (stating that there currently does not appear to be any requirement that a policy underlie an attack); The Queen v. Munyaneza, [2009] QCCS 2001 ¶ 114 (Can. Que.) (noting that “international jurisprudence establishes that the attack need not be the result of an official policy of the State or government”).

    [148].   Bassiouni, supra note 109, at xxxiv.

    [149].   Rome Statute, supra note 71, art. 10 (“Nothing in this Part shall be interpreted as limiting or prejudicing in any way existing or developing rules of international law for purposes other than this Statute.”).

    [150].   E.g., Statute of the Special Court for Sierra Leone, supra note 8, art. 2 (“The Special court shall have power to prosecute persons who committed the following crimes as part of a widespread or systematic attack against any civilian population . . . .”); On the Establishment of Panels with Exclusive Jurisdiction over Serious Criminal Offences, United Nations Transitional Administration in East Timor, sec. 5, U.N. Doc. UNTAET/REG/2000/15 (June 6, 2000) (“‘Crimes against humanity’ means any of the following acts when committed as part of a widespread or systematic attack and directed against any civilian population, with knowledge of the attack . . . .”).

    [151].   See Bassiouni, supra note 101, at 94–95 (noting that advocates have relied on certain judicial opinions in an attempt to show that “unbridled universal jurisdiction” is established law).  This is because “[u]niversal jurisdiction transcends national sovereignty” with no limits of territorial jurisdiction.  Id. at 96.

    [152].   Boed, supra note 24, at 306 (indicating that a recent study found that twenty-four States have passed legislation permitting this type of jurisdiction); David Scheffer, Opening Address, 35 New Eng. L. Rev. 233, 236 (2001) (observing that Canada, France, Germany, the United Kingdom, and other signatories of the ICC have created new legislation to conform their laws to the definition of crime in the Rome Statute).  Canada now permits a domestic court to exercise universal jurisdiction for crimes against humanity committed outside of Canada against foreign victims if the perpetrator is present in Canada.  Crimes Against Humanity and War Crimes Act, S.C. 2000, c. 24, arts. 6, 8(b) (Can.).

    [153].   See Leila Nadya Sadat, Redefining Universal Jurisdiction, 35 New Eng. L. Rev. 241, 243 (2001) (noting that national courts have increasingly been responsible for the prosecution of foreigners for crimes committed in a different state); see also Monica Hans, Comment, Providing for Uniformity in the Exercise of Universal Jurisdiction: Can Either the Princeton Principles on Universal Jurisdiction or an International Criminal Court Accomplish This Goal?, 15 Transnat’l Law.357, 368–78 (2002) (examining recent legal developments in Belgium and Spain).

    [154].   Scheffer, supra note 152, at 233 (“Universal jurisdiction is not a broadly adhered-to standard.  Everyone talks about universal jurisdiction, but almost no one practices it.  It has been a mostly rhetorical exercise since World War II.”).  In past years, governments were very reluctant and resisted exercising jurisdiction over Pol Pot, Kurd leader Ocalan, and former Ethiopian leader Mengistu.  Id. at 235–36.

    [155].   See Bassiouni, supra note 101, at 91–92.  States exercised territorial jurisdiction over the IMT and IMTFE tribunals as occupying powers.  Id. at 91.  The Security Council established ICTY and ICTR based on Chapter VII powers with enforcement established via ad hoc tribunals.  Id.

    [156].   Regina v. Bartle, [1999] 1 A.C. 147 (H.L.) (appeal taken from U.K.), reprinted in 38 I.L.M. 581, 582–83 (1999).  See generally Naomi Roht-Arriaza, The Pinochet Precedent and Universal Jurisdiction, 35 New Eng. L. Rev. 311 (2001) (providing background information on Regina and its impact on both Argentina and Chile).

    [157].   See Roht-Arriaza, supra note 156, at 314 (noting that, in the beginning, the case purposefully featured victims from the forum State and, therefore, used a basis of jurisdiction other than universality).

    [158].   Regina, 38 I.L.M. at 591.

    [159].   Roht-Arriaza, supra note 156, at 313.

    [160].   Wolfgang Kaleck, From Pinochet to Rumsfeld: Universal Jurisdiction in Europe 1998–2008, 30 Mich. J. Int’l L. 927, 931–32 (2009).  There have also been attempted exercises of universal jurisdiction in Africa, such as Senegal’s 2000 indictment of Hissene Habre, former dictator of Chad, on charges of torture.  Reed Brody, The Prosecution of Hissène Habré – An “African Pinochet”, 35 New Eng. L. Rev. 321, 327–34 (2001) (stating that the case signaled that the “Pinochet precedent” will be used outside of Europe); Ex-Chad Ruler Is Charged by Senegal with Torture, N.Y. Times, Feb. 4, 2000, at A3 (indicating that the Pinochet arrest inspired the Habre indictment).

    [161].   R v. Zardad, Cent. Crim. Ct. (Old Bailey), Apr. 7, 2004, ¶¶ 13–14 (Eng.) (unpublished), available at http://www.redress.org/downloads/news/zardad
%207%20apr%202004.pdf.

    [162].   Id. ¶¶ 11–12.

    [163].   Vikram Dodd, Terror Police Feared Gun Battle with Israeli General, Guardian (Feb. 19, 2008, 5:34 PM), http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2008/feb
/19/uksecurity.israelandthepalestinians.

    [164].   Paisley Dodds, UK Tightens Rules on Arresting Foreigners, Guardian (Sept. 15, 2011), http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/feedarticle/9848978.

    [165].   Prosecutor v. Kallon, Case No. SCSL-2004-15-AR72(E), Decision on Challenge to Jurisdiction: Lomé Accord Amnesty, ¶¶ 71, 88 (Mar. 13, 2004) (Spec. Ct. Sierra Leone).

    [166].   Id. ¶ 88.

    [167].   Id. ¶¶ 67, 70.

    [168].   Pub. Prosecuting Auth. v. Repak, Case No. 08-018985MED-OTIR/08, Judgment, ¶¶ 6–11 (Dec. 2, 2008) (Nor.).

    [169].   Id. ¶¶ 8, 10.

    [170].   Id. ¶ 4.

    [171].   Id. ¶ 9.

    [172].   Id. ¶¶ 8, 16.

    [173].   Id. ¶ 8.

    [174].   Id.

    [175].   See generally Amnesty International, Universal Jurisdiction: The Duty of States to Enact and Implement Legislation (2001) (campaigning for all States to enact universal jurisdiction legislation).

    [176].   Strafprozessordnung [StPO] [Code of Criminal Procedure], Apr. 7, 1987, Bundesgesetzblatt, Teil I [BGBl. I] 1074, as amended, §§ 230(1), 232 (Ger.).

    [177].   Code de Procédure Pénale [C. pr. pén] arts. 410, 487 (Fr.); Wetboek van Strafvordering [Sv] art. 280 (Neth.).

    [178].   Hans, supra note 153, at 381–82 (noting that Belgium has been at the forefront of States using domestic law enabling universal jurisdiction and is especially aggressive in attempting to hold foreign leaders accountable for crimes against humanity).  Belgium charged Ndombasi with crimes against humanity and war crimes for inciting racial hatred that resulted in several hundred deaths.  Id. at 382.

    [179].   See Arrest Warrant of 11 April 2000 (Dem. Rep. Congo v. Belg.), 2002 I.C.J. 3, 20–21, 25–26, 32–33 (Feb. 14).  Arrest warrants for Zimbabwean President Robert Mugabe and a case against then-President George W. Bush were dropped for the same reason.  See Kaleck, supra note 160, at 936–37, 940.

    [180].   Arrest Warrant of 11 April 2000 (Dem. Rep. Congo v. Belg.), 2002 I.C.J. at 63–65, 68 (joint separate opinion of Judges Higgins, Kooijmans and Buergenthal).

    [181].   See Kaleck, supra note 160, at 933–35 (indicating that Belgium alone has initiated cases against former Chinese President Jiang Zemin, former U.S. President George H.W. Bush, former Secretary of Defense and Vice President Richard Cheney, and former Chadian Dictator Hissene Habre, and has attempted a case against a former Israeli prime minister).

    [182].   Restatement (Third) of Foreign Relations Law § 403(1) (1986) (“[A] state may not exercise jurisdiction to prescribe law with respect to a person or activity having connections with another state when the exercise of such jurisdiction is unreasonable.”).

    [183].   See id. §§ 403–04.

    [184].   See Ratner & Abrams, supra note 26, at 143–44 (discussing that many States showed a willingness to eliminate statutes of limitations for crimes against humanity).  On the international level, the international community formed the 1968 Convention on the Non-Applicability of Statutory Limitations to War Crimes and Crimes Against Humanity to prohibit States from imposing any temporal limitations for these crimes.  Id. at 143.  As of 2000, there were only forty-four parties to the treaty.  Id.

    [185].   The principle of complementarity between States has also been raised as a potential problem for prosecution.  Kaleck, supra note 160, at 960.  Since this determination is within the sole discretion of the prosecuting State, however, it does not serve as a barrier to the threat of prosecution.  See id. at 960–61.

    [186].   See Bartram S. Brown, The Evolving Concept of Universal Jurisdiction, 35 New Eng. L. Rev. 383, 390 (2001) (discussing that the law rises above the interests of individual States and States no longer have a legitimate interest in shielding their citizens).

    [187].   See Sadat, supra note 153, at 258–59 (discussing that most international conflicts of laws apply the principle that each State may apply its own law to a problem unless there is a prohibition).

    [188].   See id. (indicating that an amnesty for a crime violating an international norm would be ineffective if the defendant travels abroad).

    [189].   Rome Statute, supra note 71, pmbl. (affirming that serious crimes of international law must not go unpunished); see Young, supra note 26, at 458 (indicating that the language of the Rome Statute establishes a commitment to individual responsibility and ending impunity).

    [190].   Rome Statute, supra note 71, art. 1 (The jurisdiction “shall be complementary to national criminal jurisdictions”); Johan D. van der Vyver, Personal and Territorial Jurisdiction of the International Criminal Court, 14 Emory Int’l L. Rev. 1, 66–71 (2000) (“ICC jurisdiction is complementary to national courts . . . .”).  Complementarity denotes that “national courts have the first right and obligation to prosecute perpetrators of international crimes, and because ICC jurisdiction is complementary to national courts, ICC jurisdiction can only be invoked if the national court is unwilling or unable to prosecute.”  Id. at 66.

    [191].   Rome Statute, supra note 71, art. 12(2)(a).

    [192].   Id. art. 12(2)(b).

    [193].   Young, supra note 26, at 464 (noting that there is no explicit mention of amnesty in the Rome Statute, but the ICC must eventually consider the issue if it is going to act as a substitute for national prosecution); see also Arsanjani, supra note 19, at 67 (stating that at the preparatory phase of negotiations, the delegates did not seriously discuss how to address domestic amnesties due to pressure from human rights groups).

    [194].   An international conference was held in Rome from June 15 to July 17, 1998 to produce the statute for the establishment of the ICC.  History of the ICC, Coalition for Int’l Crim. Ct., http://www.iccnow.org/?mod=Icchistory (last visited Oct. 1, 2012).

    [195].   See Scharf, supra note 22, at 521–22 (citing Interview with Philippe Kirsch, Rome Diplomatic Conference Chairman, in Fr. (Nov. 19, 1998)).  The adopted provisions reflect “creative ambiguity.”  Id. at 522 (citing Interview with Philippe Kirsch, supra).

    [196].   Rome Statute, supra note 71, art. 5.

    [197].   As of February 1, 2012, 139 States signed the Rome Statute, and 121 ratified and became party to the ICC.  Ratification Status of the International Criminal Court, Coalition for Int’l Crim. Ct., http://www.iccnow.org/?mod
=romeratification (last visited Oct. 1, 2012).  Guatemala became the most recent party when its Congress voted to ratify the Rome Statute on January 26, 2012.  Press Release, Int’l Criminal Court, Guatemala Becomes the 121st State to Join the ICC’s Rome Statute System (Apr. 3, 2012), http://www.icc-cpi.int/NR/exeres/E2BBA18C-A830-4504-B9BE
-6F118C3690F7.htm.

    [198].   Rome Statute, supra note 71, art. 86 (imposing an affirmative duty to cooperate fully with the ICC in its investigation and prosecution of crimes against humanity).  States must also comply with requests for arrest and surrender of perpetrators.  Id. art. 89(1).

    [199].   Id. pmbl. (affirming responsibility for effective prosecution and punishment for serious crimes and declaring that all States have a duty to exercise criminal jurisdiction over those liable for international crimes); Arsanjani, supra note 19, at 67 (noting that the Rome Statute appears hostile to amnesties for crimes against humanity); Scharf, supra note 22, at 522 (citing Rome Statute, supra note 71, pmbl.) (indicating that the Preamble suggests that amnesty is incompatible with the purpose of the ICC).

    [200].   See discussion of “complementarity” supra note 190.

    [201].   Law on the Establishment of Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia for the Prosecution of Crimes Committed during the Period of Democratic Kampuchea, art. 40, NS/RKM/1004/006 (Oct. 24, 2004) (“The Royal Government of Cambodia shall not request an amnesty or pardon for any persons who may be investigated for or convicted of crimes . . . .  The scope of any amnesty or pardon that may have been granted prior to the enactment of this Law is a matter to be decided by the Extraordinary Chambers.”); Statute of the Special Court for Sierra Leone, supra note 8 (“An amnesty granted to any person falling within the jurisdiction of the Special Court in respect of the crimes referred to in articles 2 to 4 of the present Statute shall not be a bar to prosecution.”); see also S.C. Res. 1757, Attachment art. 6, U.N. Doc. S/RES/1757 (May 30, 2007) (“An amnesty granted to any person for any crime falling within the jurisdiction of the Special Tribunal shall not be a bar to prosecution.”).

    [202].   See Rome Statute, supra note 71, pmbl. (noting that the States who became parties to the Rome Statute were “[d]etermined to put an end to impunity for the perpetrators of these crimes”).

    [203].   E.g., Scharf, supra note 22, at 524–25 (noting that both Articles 17 and 20 prevent the trying of a case if it is already being tried in another court); Young,supra note 26, at 465–69 (indicating that Articles 17 and 20 might permit amnesty if it is combined with a truth commission or civil proceedings instead of a criminal trial).

    [204].   Rome Statute, supra note 71, art. 17(1)(a).

    [205].   Id. art. 17(2)(a).

    [206].   Id. art. 17(2)(c).

    [207].   Id. art. 20(3).

    [208].   Id. art. 20(3)(b).

    [209].   See Webster’s Third New International Dictionary, supra note 140, at 71.

    [210].   Cf. Young, supra note 26, at 464–65 (noting that a literal reading of the Articles indicates that they require an actual trial).  Investigation must involve identifying those responsible, imposing sanctions, and providing reparation to victims.  Id. at 479 n.260 (citing Chanfeau Orayce v. Chile, Cases 11.505 et al., Inter-Am. Comm’n H.R., Report No. 25/98, OEA/ser.L/V/II.98, doc. 7 rev., ¶ 70 (Apr. 7, 1998)).

    [211].   Henrard, supra note 23, at 629 (indicating that the prosecutor could refuse to prosecute based upon the belief that an amnesty agreement is acceptable); Scharf, supra note 22, at 524 (discussing that the ICC’s prosecutor can decide to respect an amnesty-for-peace agreement); Young, supra note 26, at 469–70 (noting that the ICC’s prosecutor may determine whether amnesty serves the interests of justice).

    [212].   Rome Statute, supra note 71, art. 53(1)(c).  The prosecutor can decline to initiate an investigation after examining the seriousness of the crime and the interests of the victims and then deciding “there are nonetheless substantial reasons to believe that an investigation would not serve the interests of justice.”  Id.

    [213].   Id. art. 53(3)(a) (“[T]he Pre-Trial Chamber may review a decision of the Prosecutor . . . not to proceed and may request the Prosecutor to reconsider that decision.”).

    [214].   Côte d’Ivoire Investigation, supra note 141, ¶ 207.

    [215].   Rome Statute, supra note 71, art. 53(3)(a).  The choice is up to the Prosecutor whether to recognize societal choices.  Id.; see also Richard J. Goldstone & Nicole Fritz, ‘In the Interests of Justice’ and Independent Referral: The ICC Prosecutor’s Unprecedented Powers, 13 Leiden J. Int’l L. 655, 659 (2000) (noting that the factors influencing domestic decisions to not prosecute are not necessarily replicated internationally).

    [216].   See Rome Statute, supra note 71, art. 29 (“The crimes within the jurisdiction of the Court shall not be subject to any statute of limitations.”); id. art. 53(4) (“The Prosecutor may, at any time, reconsider a decision whether to initiate an investigation or prosecution based on new facts or information.”).

    [217].   Id. art. 120.

    [218].   Id. Declaration of Colombia, ¶ 1 (“None of the provisions of the Rome Statute concerning the exercise of jurisdiction by the International Criminal Court prevent the Colombian State from granting amnesties, reprieves or judicial pardons for political crimes, provided that they are granted in conformity with the Constitution and with the principles and norms of international law accepted by Colombia.”).

    [219].   Id. art. 120 (“No reservations may be made to this Statute.”)

    [220].   All Situations, Int’l Crim. Ct., http://www.icc-cpi.int/Menus/ICC
/Situations+and+Cases/Situations/ (last visited Oct. 1, 2012).

    [221].   All Cases, Int’l Crim. Ct., http://www.icc-cpi.int/Menus/ICC
/Situations+and+Cases/Cases/ (last visited Oct. 1, 2012).

    [222].   Id.  The indictments led to the first successful conviction in the ICC on March 14, 2012, which was for rebel leader Thomas Lubanga Dyilo of the Democratic Republic of Congo.  Prosecutor v. Dyilo, Case No. ICC-01/04-01/06, Judgment Pursuant to Article 74 of the Statute, ¶¶ 1, 1358 (Mar. 14, 2012).

    [223].   Vienna Convention on the Law of Treaties, art. 27, May 23, 1969, 1155 U.N.T.S. 331 (entered into force Jan. 27, 1980) (“A party may not invoke the provisions of its internal law as justification for its failure to perform a treaty.”).

    [224].   Rome Statute, supra note 71, art. 59(1) (stating that a State which has received a request for arrest and surrender shall immediately comply with the request); see also Vienna Convention on the Law of Treaties, supra note 223, art. 26 (“Every treaty in force is binding upon the parties to it and must be performed by them in good faith.”).

    [225].   Charles Villa-Vicencio, Why Perpetrators Should Not Always Be Prosecuted: Where the International Criminal Court and Truth Commissions Meet, 49 Emory L.J. 205, 212 (2000).

    [226].   Faustin Z. Ntoubandi, Amnesty for Crimes Against Humanity Under International Law 12 & n.16, 25 (2007) (discussing amnesties granted by the U.S. government, including to participants in the Whiskey Rebellion and to both U.S. citizens and soldiers after the U.S. Civil War and the Korean War); O’Shea, supranote 9, at 20–21 (discussing that between 1867 to 1872, President Andrew Johnson and the U.S. Congress passed a general amnesty act after the Civil War and the President of Brazil negotiated the end of a war by granting amnesty to the rebels).

    [227].   26 Apr. 2001, Parl. Deb., H.C. (2001) (U.K.), available at http://www.publications.parliament.uk/pa/cm200001/cmstand/d/st010426/pm
/10426s01.htm (“[M]any of the crimes that the IRA and some of the loyalist groups had committed could be categorized as crimes against humanity as set out in the statute of Rome . . . .  It is perfectly clear to all of us that it would [be] easy for an international court to argue that those on either side who had been responsible for such atrocities could be hauled before it.  People in this country would greatly resent that.  Some of us bitterly resent the fact that the Government gave an amnesty to some of those in the IRA who were responsible for the most horrendous terrorist crimes and who murdered friends of ours.  Nevertheless, we accept that some leeway had to be given in a spirit of reconciliation if peace was to be secured in Northern Ireland.”).

    [228].   See Bell, supra note 20, at 6 (discussing that peace agreements “embody a set of understandings between some of the protagonists to a conflict” as to exactly how the conflict will be resolved).

    [229].   E.g., Naomi Roht-Arriaza, Prosecutions of Heads of State In Latin America, in Prosecuting Heads of State, supra note 3, at 46, 46–76 (discussing that Latin America has seen a significant reversal with previous amnesty laws overturned decades later by domestic courts).

    [230].   See Williams & Scharf, supra note 5, at 30 (noting that officials engaged in negotiating the end of the conflict in the former Yugoslavia contended that assurances of amnesty were necessary as an incentive to end fighting).

    [231].   Cf. Bell, supra note 20, at 286 (discussing that amnesty is normally a common feature when there is no victory or “overthrow” by any of the parties at the end of the conflict).

    [232].   Id. (noting that the move towards accountability affects the mechanisms available for dealing with past conflict and abuses).

    [233].   U.N. Charter art. 24.  The Security Council consists of fifteen members of the U.N., with five permanent members.  See Membership in 2012, U.N. Security Council, http://www.un.org/sc/members.asp (last visited Oct. 1, 2012).  Its purpose is to ensure effective action in the U.N. by having a smaller representative council capable of imposing binding decisions.  U.N. Charter arts. 24–26.

    [234].   U.N. Charter art. 24.

    [235].   Id. art. 39.

    [236].   E.g., S.C. Res. 918, ¶ 13, U.N. Doc. S/RES/918 (May 17, 1994) (using Chapter VII powers to impose a weapons and parts embargo on Rwanda in an attempt to resolve the conflict); S.C. Res. 873, ¶¶ 1, 4, U.N. Doc. S/RES/873 (Oct. 13, 1993) (permitting the releasing of frozen funds under Chapter VII powers, but confirming the possible imposition of other measures to assist in the negotiations to restore democracy in Haiti).

    [237].   E.g., S.C. Res. 169, ¶¶ 1, 6, U.N. Doc. S/RES/169 (Nov. 24, 1961) (requesting States to refrain from supplying weapons which could be used by secessionist groups in the Congo); S.C. Res. 161, ¶ 1, U.N. Doc. S/RES/161 (Feb. 21, 1961) (permitting the U.N. to use force if necessary to prevent civil war in the Congo).

    [238].   S.C. Res. 161, supra note 237 (reiterating that the plight of people suffering under a purely internal conflict in Congo affects both world peace and international cooperation).

    [239].   U.N. Charter arts. 39, 41.

    [240].   Id. art. 36(2).

    [241].   See id. arts. 24, 25.

    [242].   Member States of the United Nations, United Nations, http://www.un.org/en/members/index.shtml (last visited Oct. 1, 2012).

    [243].   See U.N. Charter arts. 1(1), (3), 24(2).

    [244].   Rome Statute, supra note 71, art. 16 (“No investigation or prosecution may be commenced or proceeded with under this Statute for a period of 12 months after the Security Council, in a resolution adopted under Chapter VII of the Charter of the United Nations, has requested the Court to that effect; that request may be renewed by the Council under the same conditions.”).

    [245].   Id.

    [246].   Ruth Wedgwood, The International Criminal Court: An American View, 10 Eur. J. Int’l L. 93, 98 (1999).

    [247].   Rome Statute, supra note 71, arts. 17(1)(d), 53(1)(c).

    [248].   U.N. Charter art. 103.

    [249].   Id.

    [250].   R v. Sec’y of State for Defence, [2007] UKHL 58, 1 A.C. 332 (H.L.) [26–39] (appeal taken from Eng.).

    [251].   Id.

    [252].   Id. at [27].

    [253].   See generally U.N. Secretary-General, The Situation of Democracy and Human Rights in Haiti, U.N. Doc. A/47/975-S/26063 (July 12, 1993).

    [254].   Scharf, supra note 1, at 7 (quoting U.N. SCOR, 48th Sess., 3238th mtg. at 120, 126, U.N. Doc. S/INF/49 (1993)).

    [255].   See generally S.C. Res. 948, U.N. Doc S/RES/948 (Oct. 15, 1994).

    [256].   See generally S.C. Res. 2014, U.N. Doc S/RES/2014 (Oct. 21, 2011).

    [257].   Id. ¶ 4.

    [258].   Assia Boundaoui, Yemeni Americans Protest Against Saleh’s US Trip, World (Feb. 23, 2012), http://www.theworld.org/2012/02/yemeni
-americans-protest-against-salehs-us-trip/.

    [259].   See U.N. Charter art. 25 (“The Members of the United Nations agree to accept and carry out the decisions of the Security Council in accordance with the present Charter.” (emphasis added)).  Though the Security Council has utilized a variety of terms to indicate binding authority, the clearest usage is when the Security Council states that it “decides” a certain action.

    [260].   An example would be Colombia and its multifaceted civil war including widespread atrocities.  See Villa-Vicencio, supra note 225, at 206 (suggesting that legal absolutism is sometimes not helpful and is unrealistic).

    [261].   See Committee on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights Concludes Session, ScienceBlog (Dec. 9, 1997), http://scienceblog.com/community/older
/archives/L/1997/B/un971881.html (noting that the committee adopted a “General Comment” that began to examine whether the Security Council must determine if human rights suffering is occurring as a result of Chapter VII sanctions).

    [262].   See U.N. Charter art. 27(3).

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