By: Ronald F. Wright*

Criminal prosecutors, like other public servants in a representative democracy, must continually work out what it means to “represent” the public.[1] One prosecutor might view the job as one for an expert, bringing technical skills and judgment to questions of public safety. Another prosecutor might aim for a more responsive relationship, listening for public priorities in criminal law enforcement. The exact shape of the prosecutor’s representative role looks different over time and from place to place.[2]

Community prosecution programs offer visible clues about something subtler and deeper: how the actors in a jurisdiction view the power of citizens to guide the work of the prosecutor.

Some recent efforts to strengthen the connection between prosecutors and the public use the rubric of “community prosecution.” These initiatives draw on general concepts developed in the now-mature “community policing” movement.[3] While they take many forms in different prosecutors’ offices in the United States, all community prosecution programs aim to decentralize and democratize the work of criminal prosecutors.[4]

The community prosecution programs at work in a jurisdiction reveal the underlying relationship between the prosecutor and the public.[5] Community prosecution programs offer visible clues about something subtler and deeper: how the actors in a jurisdiction view the power of citizens to guide the work of the prosecutor.

Just as specific programs can tell us something about general relationships, the general relationship between the prosecutor and the public can shed light on the specific programs likely to work there. If one understands the prosecutor-public relationship in a jurisdiction, it could help to predict future developments in community prosecution programs there. Given what we know about the accountability and responsiveness of prosecutors in different jurisdictions, where is community prosecution likely to grow, and what form is it likely to take?

If different representative roles are indeed associated with different forms of community prosecution, we could learn much from comparative law. Prosecutors in different parts of the world operate within very different representative roles.[6] Are these fundamental differences in the connection between the prosecutor and the public reflected in fundamentally different approaches to community prosecution?

In this Essay, I hope to illustrate the promise of comparative analysis in understanding the connection between prosecutors and the public. In particular, this Essay will explore how community prosecution might fit into the world of decentralized elected prosecutors in the United States and how that differs from the world of centralized, nonelected prosecutors in the Netherlands.

I. Decentralized Elected Prosecutors in the United States

Criminal prosecution in the United States happens in a great variety of settings. There are offices large and small, urban and rural. Some have larger per capita budgets than others, and all offices use their limited resources to select their own distinctive mix of felonies and misdemeanors for adjudication. Some restrict their attention to the criminal courtroom, while others engage with law enforcement agencies and other local actors, taking a broader leadership role in public safety questions.[7]

While these differences among American prosecutors are enormous, there are several features that most state court prosecutors share. State prosecutors work in decentralized organizations, and they typically answer to the public through elections. These two structural features are especially compatible with the decentralizing and democratizing objectives of community prosecution programs.

First, prosecutors’ offices in the state courts of the United States are decentralized. There are 2330 felony prosecutor offices in the country, each a self-contained bureaucracy of its own.[8] There are hundreds more offices once one accounts for the prosecutors in many states that handle misdemeanor prosecutions in offices separate from the felony prosecutors.[9] Even within a single state, there can be an overwhelming number of separate offices: Texas, Virginia, Missouri, Kansas, and Illinois each operate more than one hundred separate felony prosecutor offices.[10]

Second, prosecutors in the United States answer to the public through elections. Almost all states elect their chief prosecutors at the local level.[11] The few exceptions to this rule provide for the appointment of chief prosecutors at the local level by an elected official at the state level (typically the state attorney general).[12] Even in the federal system, the United States Attorney for each district is a presidential appointee.[13]

This combination of features—prosecutors who represent fragmented districts and who are linked to those districts through elections—makes it highly likely that prosecutors in different districts will hear distinctive messages from the local voters. The chief prosecutors who represent districts with populations of more than one million residents (there are forty-three such felony prosecutors around the country) surely hear a different set of priorities from voters than the chief prosecutors who represent districts with fewer than one hundred thousand residents (there are 1389 such felony prosecutors).[14]

Chief prosecutors in smaller districts could rely on informal methods to learn the wishes of local voters and to translate those wishes into budgets, programs, and enforcement priorities. They also might depend on local media coverage and election campaigns to inform the public about their choices in organizing the office. On the other hand, prosecutors in larger districts with more complex media structures and local interest groups might turn to community prosecution to obtain more comprehensive information about community concerns.

II. Centralized Expert Prosecutors in the Netherlands

Other representative democracies around the world also make their prosecutors accountable to the public. The methods for creating that accountability, however, tend to differ in most democratic societies from the ones commonly used in the United States.[15] I will examine the Netherlands as one example of a nation that relies on a centralized prosecutorial bureaucracy, holding the prosecutors accountable through their expertise as measured through bureaucratic controls, rather than through the ballot box.

Prosecutors in the Netherlands are not elected to their positions.[16] Instead, they are appointed by the Crown.[17] Granted, the Minister of Justice is politically accountable for the Public Prosecution Service (“PPS”), and the Parliament can question the Minister about PPS actions.[18] The Minister technically has the power to order prosecution or declination in a particular case. In practice, however, the Minister virtually never issues such orders.[19]

Ministerial control of a prosecutorial decision in a particular case would be nearly unthinkable because it conflicts with the tradition of treating prosecutors as quasi-judicial officers. Prosecutors are recruited and trained in the same manner as judges.[20] Prosecutors who must take a judicial posture toward crime (a tradition that the Netherlands shares with other systems in the civil law world)[21] are expected to weigh the interests of all the interested parties, including the public, the victim, and even the offender. Referring to a prosecutor as a “crime fighter” amounts to a criticism, a suggestion that the prosecutor has departed from a neutral role to become a zealot or an advocate only for the victim of a crime.[22] Thus, the Dutch prosecutor’s duty is not to remain true to the priorities and values of the voting public, but to produce outcomes consistent with the choices of other prosecutors.

In many parts of the world, rhetoric about the prosecutor being a “judicial” officer goes hand-in-hand with a very restricted vision of the job: the prosecutor evaluates evidence and then carries out a ministerial duty to file charges whenever the evidence is sufficient.[23] By contrast, the Dutch prosecutor exercises discretionary power similar to counterparts in the United States, managing the volume in the criminal courts through dismissals or declinations. Under the so-called “principle of opportunity” or “expediency,” prosecution happens only when the public interest is served by doing so.[24]

Prosecutors in the Netherlands not only have the ability to decline prosecution based on their assessment of the public interest, but they can also dispose of criminal cases through a “transaction.” This technique, which resembles a deferred prosecution in the United States, allows the prosecutor to impose a fine, a training program, or community service instead of filing a criminal complaint in court.[25]

In this environment, which calls for the Dutch prosecutor to exercise judgment about filing or disposing of cases based on extralegal considerations of the public interest, what can assure that the prosecutor acts with the appropriate “judicial” regard for the value of consistent decisions? The answer in the Netherlands has been an extreme centralization of the prosecutorial service.

Prosecutors in the Netherlands all work for one national PPS with nineteen offices, one located in each judicial district.[26] The chief public prosecutor in each district answers to the Board of Procurators General, which, together with the Minister of Security and Justice, governs the PPS.[27] The Board sets general policy for all the district offices and, in theory, it can issue binding instructions to individual prosecutors in particular cases.[28]

The PPS became more centralized as it grew over the years. Until the 1960s, the service designated five Procurator Generals who acted within their own territories, independently from one another.[29] The PPS grew from ninety-four prosecutors in 1951 to four hundred fifty in 2000.[30] Heavier central control entered the picture as the bureaucracy became too large for informal methods of coordinating policies. More assertive central control of prosecutors also became necessary during the 1960s as the public perceived unequal treatment of offenders based on social class and other legally irrelevant considerations. Voters would not accept that such unequal outcomes were the necessary price for local prosecutor discretion.[31]

The move toward a more centralized prosecutorial service in the Netherlands took the form of national policy directives in the late 1970s.[32] For instance, the Board publishes national guidelines for the use of transactions, specifying the types of offenses eligible for this disposition and the fine that a prosecutor should impose.[33]Decisions for the charging and disposition of “standard cases”—shoplifting, fraud, burglary, and violent assault that occupy about eighty percent of the total criminal docket—are considered routine under the national guidelines.[34] Standard grounds for dismissal (in addition to lack of sufficient evidence) include “minor harm,” “minor culpability,” or factors related to the perpetrator’s addiction or other health issues.[35]

The national directives are communicated to individual prosecutors through the “BOS/Polaris” online system. The database informs prosecutors about past charging and sentencing outcomes in cases that resemble the current case on a small number of variables.[36] The Board can quickly implement policy changes throughout the country by changing the guidance in this system regarding the weight that a prosecutor should attach to particular aspects of the offense or the offender’s past.[37]

III. Community Prosecution in the Netherlands and in the United States

Although the external and internal constraints on Dutch prosecutors look quite different from the controls on United States prosecutors, the Dutch have nevertheless developed initiatives that they label as “community prosecution.”[38] Two examples of community prosecution merit description here: the “tripartite consultations” and the “maisons de justice.”

Although formal legal doctrine declared that a public prosecutor should direct all police investigations, the police in the Netherlands mostly acted without prosecutor coordination until the 1980s. In 1985, the government issued a white paper, “Society and Crime,” laying out a set of policies designed to control crime.[39]

Under this national policy, the PPS was assigned the task of formulating a crime control strategy on both the local and national levels.[40] The white paper emphasized the prevention of crime before it occurs rather than the punishment of crime after the fact. It cast the public prosecutor as a team leader among crime control agencies, rather than a courtroom officer.[41]

One product of this national initiative was “tripartite consultation.”[42] Instead of merely filing and disposing of criminal cases, prosecutors now take the lead in regular discussions with city mayors and chiefs of police to define local police priorities. On the basis of these consultations, police in one city might emphasize human trafficking, while in another city the focus might shift to street violence.[43] The district office of the PPS might commit to treat cases within that category as a top priority, resulting in fewer declinations or heavier use of correctional resources. Questions of police administration, including organizational and budgetary choices, also receive attention in the tripartite consultations.[44]

A more limited but noteworthy initiative in the Netherlands, begun in the 1990s, is called “community prosecution” or “maisons de justice.” In several large cities, the district office of the PPS operates a satellite location staffed by a prosecutor and support staff. The emphasis of this satellite office is to serve as a visible presence of criminal law enforcement in the neighborhood and to resolve complaints wherever possible without filing criminal charges.[45] This initiative to create “Justice in the Community” also asks the satellite office prosecutors to coordinate the extrajudicial reactions to crime.[46]

Community prosecution initiatives in the United States take a remarkable number of forms. Some, like the Dutch “maisons de justice,” simply place a satellite office in a visible location to respond to low-level crimes and to promote a sense of security among local voters.[47] Others, like the tripartite consultations, put prosecutors in a position to direct some police resources toward a priority issue of public safety. The desired outcome is better coordination of different government agencies and responsiveness to the problems that designated leaders identify as worthwhile.[48]

But community prosecution programs in the United States go beyond efforts to coordinate different agencies or to signal a law enforcement presence to the public. They sometimes involve formal efforts to solicit public opinion through polls and questionnaires.[49] Some programs identify particular offenders (rather than categories of offenses) for extra investigation, priority prosecution, and corrections resources. Offices might place special emphasis on accessibility to support services for victims of crime.[50]

Just as striking in the United States is the large number of prosecutorial districts that pursue no community prosecution programs at all.[51] Particularly in smaller jurisdictions, such programs do not appear to be necessary to inform the chief prosecutor about the wishes of the public.

IV. Comparative Observations About Community Prosecution

We return now to the question of whether different accountability structures for prosecutors tend to produce different forms of community prosecution. Does community prosecution look any different when it grows out of a decentralized electoral environment (as in the United States) than it does in a centralized expert environment (as in the Netherlands)? There are reasons to think so. The centralized bureaucratic structure of the PPS in the Netherlands would, in theory, give prosecutors there a different set of reasons to pursue community prosecution, possibly leading to differences in the programs.

The broad-brush descriptions of community prosecution efforts in the two countries, set forth in the previous section, suggest some systematic differences in practice. The distinctions among community prosecution efforts in the two countries encompass the source for the programs, their rationales, and their coverage.

Consider first the source of the programs. In the Netherlands, the community prosecution efforts start at the highest levels of government and typically not from prosecutors themselves. The Ministry of Justice formulates national crime control policies that result in tripartite consultations and satellite offices. In the United States, on the other hand, prosecutors at the local level choose for themselves the community programs to institute—or choose not to pursue such programs at all.

The rationales for community prosecution programs also vary in the two countries. In the Netherlands, the programs seem designed to localize the work of prosecutors in a system built around uniformity. A focus on local conditions makes it possible to better coordinate the expertise and resources among the prosecutors, the local police, the local government, and the many nonjudicial agencies that play some part in preventing and responding to crime. In the tripartite consultations, the rhetoric emphasizes more efficient use of local expertise, not responsiveness to the local public. The decentralizing aspect of community prosecution receives more emphasis than the democratizing aspect in the Netherlands. Delivery of service with local expertise customized for local problems is the objective.

In the United States, on the other hand, community prosecution serves a remedial function. The democratizing aspect appears to be primary: decentralizing the prosecutor’s work is a way to listen for public priorities and to signal to the public that the prosecutor is responsive. Because the relationship between prosecutors and the public differs so much among localities, community prosecution may be truly necessary as a remedy in some places (particularly larger jurisdictions), while it amounts to a pointless public relations gimmick in others. Coordination of resources among different government agencies certainly has its place in community prosecution in the United States. From the beginning, however, the programs appeared in response to local groups who believed their public safety priorities were neglected.[52]

Finally, the coverage of community prosecution programs differs in the two countries. Community prosecution is more systematic and widespread in the Netherlands. It addresses a more pervasive gap in the Dutch system, serving as a counterweight to a system that has become strongly centralized within living memory. Because the impetus for the programs comes from outside the ranks of career prosecutors, the programs are more likely to foster relationships with government agencies outside criminal law enforcement circles.

In the United States, where prosecution is already radically decentralized and relatively democratized, community prosecution initiatives spread unevenly. One might expect to see community prosecution efforts in local jurisdictions that are the least homogeneous in socioeconomic terms, with an emphasis on outreach to communities that hold the least stake in the electoral system. Because career prosecutors initiate the programs in the United States, these programs also tend to focus on agencies with a clear preexisting connection to criminal enforcement.

Ultimately, all prosecutors must balance a set of conflicting ideals. One set of aspirations calls for uniformity and equality: public prosecutors should pursue cases “without fear or favor” because “no one is above the law and no one is below its protections.”[53] On the other hand, we tell prosecutors that “equal justice depends on individualized justice.”[54] They must account for the different circumstances of defendants, victims, and communities. Prosecutors in different jurisdictions aim for a different balance between these ideals, and community prosecution offers one way to tip the balance toward individualized justice when the need arises.


*     Professor of Law, Wake Forest University.  This Essay grew out of a presentation and discussion during a symposium of the Wake Forest Law Review on “Community Prosecution and Community Defense.”  I am grateful to Anthony Alfieri, Josh Bowers, Alafair Burke, Ben David, Bruce Green, Mike Schrunk, Robin Steinberg, and the editors of the Wake Forest Law Review (particularly Matt Antonelli and Wade Sample) for insights on the topic and reactions to my initial presentation.

Footnotes    (↵ returns to text)

  1. For a discussion of this issue in the legislative context, see generally Glen Staszewski, Reason-Giving and Accountability, 93 Minn. L. Rev. 1253 (2009).
  2. See generally Gerard Rainville & M. Elaine Nugent, Community Prosecution Tenets and Practices: The Relative Mix of “Community” and “Prosecution,” 26 Am. J. Crim. Just. 149 (2002) (surveying prosecutors to determine variations in the amount of time prosecutors devoted to community outreach and to traditional law enforcement).
  3. See Catherine M. Coles & George L. Kelling, Prevention Through Community Prosecution, 136 Pub. Int. 69, 77–78 (1999) (explaining that community prosecution draws on community views about priorities for criminal law enforcement to enhance the local sense of public safety); Susan P. Weinstein, Community Prosecution, FBI L. Enforcement Bull., Apr. 1998, at 19; Robert V. Wolf & John L. Worrall, Lessons from the Field: Ten Community Prosecution Leadership Profiles (2004), available at http://www.courtinnovation.org/sites/default/files/cp_lessons_from_the_field.pdf (describing common elements of community prosecution and community policing).
  4. See M. Elaine Nugent et al., The Changing Nature of Prosecution: Community Prosecution vs. Traditional Prosecution Approaches (2004), available at http://www.ndaa.org/pdf/changing_nature_of_prosecution.pdf (listing key elements of community prosecution as partnerships with community groups and varied enforcement methods, based on nationwide survey of 879 prosecutors’ offices); Barbara Boland, What Is Community Prosecution?, Nat’l Inst. Just. J., Aug. 1996, at 35, 35, available at https://www.ncjrs.gov/pdffiles/nijjcomm.pdf (describing an early effort at community prosecution in Multnomah County, Oregon).
  5. See generally Brian Forst, Prosecutors Discover the Community, 84 Judicature 135 (2000) (concluding that current forms of community prosecution do not reflect a meaningful improvement in making prosecutors accountable to citizens).
  6. See generally Thomas Weigand, Prosecution: Comparative Aspects, in Encyclopedia of Crime and Justice 1232 (Joshua Dressler ed., 2d ed. 2001).
  7. See Steven W. Perry, Prosecutors in State Courts, 2005, at 4, 9 (2006), available at http://bjs.ojp.usdoj.gov/content/pub/pdf/psc05.pdf.
  8. Steven W. Perry & Duren Banks, Prosecutors in State Courts, 2007 – Statistical Tables 1 (2011), available at http://bjs.ojp.usdoj.gov/content/pub
  9. For an example of a city attorney responsible for prosecuting misdemeanors in a court of limited jurisdiction, see The City of Phoenix Prosecutor’s Office, City of Phoenix, http://phoenix.gov/LAW/pros.html (last visited Apr. 8, 2012) (describing City of Phoenix Prosecutor’s Office).
  10. See Perry, supra note 7, at 2.
  11. See id.; Ronald F. Wright, How Prosecutor Elections Fail Us, 6 Ohio St. J. Crim. L. 581, 589 (2009).
  12. The exceptions are Alaska, Connecticut, Delaware, New Jersey, and Rhode Island. See Perry, supra note 7, at 2; Ronald F. Wright, Public Defender Elections and Popular Control over Criminal Justice, 75 Mo. L. Rev. 803, 805 (2010).
  13. See 28 U.S.C. § 541(a) (2006).
  14. See Perry & Banks, supra note 8, at 1 tbl.1.
  15. See Ronald F. Wright & Marc L. Miller, The Worldwide Accountability Deficit for Prosecutors, 67 Wash. & Lee L. Rev. 1587, 1587, 1590 (2010).
  16. See Catrien Bijleveld et al., Ethnic Minorities and Confidence in the Dutch Criminal-Justice System, in Legitimacy and Criminal Justice: International Perspectives 277, 286 (Tom R. Tyler ed., 2007).
  17. See Tony Paul Marguery, Unity and Diversity of the Public Prosecution Services in Europe: A Study of the Czech, Dutch, French and Polish Systems 112 (2008), available at http://dissertations.ub.rug.nl/FILES
  18. See Marguery, supra note 17, at 113; Country Report: The Netherlands, Eurojustice, 374, http://www.euro-justice.com/files/file.php5?id=23 (last visited Mar. 3, 2012) [hereinafter Country Report: The Netherlands].
  19. See Marguery, supra note 17, at 114; Country Report: The Netherlands, supra note 18, at 374–75.
  20. See Martine Blom & Paul Smit, The Prosecution Service Function Within the Dutch Criminal Justice System, in Coping with Overloaded Criminal Justice Systems: The Rise of Prosecutorial Power Across Europe 240 (Jörg-Martin Jehle & Marianne Wade eds., 2006); C.H. Brants-Langeraar, Consensual Criminal Procedures: Plea and Confession Bargaining and Abbreviated Procedures to Simplify Criminal Procedure, 11.1 Electronic J. Comp. L. 1, 2 (2007), available at http://www.ejcl.org/111/art111-6.pdf.
  21. See Erik Luna & Marianne Wade, Prosecutors as Judges, 67 Wash. & Lee L. Rev. 1413, 1481–84 (2010).
  22. See Doelder, supra note 17, at 196.
  23. See Joachim Herrmann, The Rule of Compulsory Prosecution and the Scope of Prosecutorial Discretion in Germany, 41 U. Chi. L. Rev. 468, 469 (1974); Robert Vouin, The Role of the Prosecutor in French Criminal Trials, 18 Am. J. Comp. L. 483, 485–86 (1970).
  24. See Doelder, supra note 17, at 188; Peter J.P. Tak, The Dutch Criminal Justice System 84 (2008) [hereinafter Tak, The Dutch Criminal Justice System]; Peter J. Tak, Sentencing and Punishment in the Netherlands, in Sentencing and Sanctions in Western Countries 151, 155 (Michael Tonry & Richard S. Frase eds., 2001).
  25. See Marianne Wade, The Januses of Justice–How Prosecutors Define the Kind of Justice Done Across Europe, 16 Eur. J. Crime Crim. L. & Crim. Just. 433, 439 (2008).
  26. See Johannes Fredrikus Nijboer, The Dynamics and Paradoxes of an Institution: The Public Prosecution Service in the Netherlands, 48 N. Ir. Legal Q. 378, 379 (1997).
  27. See id. at 387–88. The Board consists of five Attorneys General under the presidency of one Chairperson. Id.
  28. See id. at 380, 382; Blom & Smit, supra note 20, at 241–42; Alexander de Swart & Max Vermeij, The Netherlands, in The International Investigations Review 106 (Nicolas Bourtin ed., 2011).
  29. See generally David Downes & René van Swaaningen, The Road to Dystopia? Changes in the Penal Climate of the Netherlands, in Crime and Justice in the Netherlands 31, 34–50 (Michael Tonry & Catrien Bijleveld eds., 2007) (giving an overview of the history and political climate surrounding crime and imprisonment from 1945 to 1985).
  30. See L.E. de Groot-Van Leeuwen, De samenstelling van de rechterlijke macht, in Rechterlijke macht: Studies over rechtspraak en rechtshandhaving in Nederland 62 tbl.3.2 (E.R. Muller & C.P.M. Cleiren eds., 2006).
  31. See Nijboer, supra note 26, at 384; see also Downes & Swaaningen, supra note 29.
  32. See Dato W. Steenhuis, Coherence and Coordination in the Administration of Criminal Justice, in Criminal Law in Action: An Overview of Current Issues in Western Societies 229–30 (Jan van Dijk et al. eds., 1988).
  33. Doelder, supra note 17, at 201.
  34. See generally Catrien C. J. H. Bijleveld & Paul R. Smit, Crime and Punishment in the Netherlands, 1980–1999, in 33 Crime and Punishment in Western Countries, 1980–1999, at 161 (2005) (discussing the treatment of various offenses).
  35. Id. at 165.
  36. See id. at 207; Aernout Schmidt, Re-engineering Independence and Control: ICT in the Dutch Judicial System, in Justice and Technology in Europe: How ICT is Changing the Judicial Business 147, 155 (Marco Fabri & Francesco Contini eds., 2001).
  37. See Bijleveld & Smit, supra note 34, at 207; Tak, The Dutch Criminal Justice System, supra note 24, at 101.
  38. Cf. Heike Gramckow, Community Prosecution in the United States and Its Relevance for Europe, 3 Eur. J. Crim. Pol’y & Res. 112, 116–18 (1995).
  39. See A. Keith Bottomley, Blue-Prints for Criminal Justice: Reflections on a Policy Plan for the Netherlands, 25 Howard J. Crim. Just. 199, 199 (1986); René Van Swaaningen, Public Safety and the Management of Fear, 9 Theoretical Criminology 289, 297 (2005); Crime Prevention Information & News, Univ. of the W. of Eng., http://environment.uwe.ac.uk/commsafe/euneth.asp (last updated May 6, 2004) [hereinafter Univ. of the W. of Eng.]. 
  40. David Downes, Visions of Penal Control in the Netherlands, 36 Crime & Just. 93, 104–07 (2007); Univ. of the W. of Eng., supra note 39.
  41. Downes, supra note 40; Univ. of the W. of Eng., supra note 39.
  42. See Doelder, supra note 17, at 192; Kees van der Vijver & Olga Zoomer, Evaluating Community Policing in the Netherlands, 12 Eur. J. Crime
  43. See Blom & Smit, supra note 20, at 238–39; The Relation between the Public Prosecutor and the Police, Eurojustice, http://www.euro-justice.com
    /member_states/netherlands/country_report/673/ (last visited Apr. 8, 2012) [hereinafter Eurojustice].
  44. See Blom & Smit, supra note 20, at 238–39; Eurojustice, supra note 43; John Brown, The Netherlands: Tripartite Consultation, in Insecure Societies: Delinquency in Troubled Times 83, 102–03 (Audrey Brown ed., 1990).
  45. See Doelder, supra note 17; Hans Boutellier, Right to the Community: Neighbourhood Justice in the Netherlands, 5 Eur. J. Crim. Pol’y & Res. 43, 43 (1997).
  46. See Jan Terpstra & Inge Bakker, ‘Justice in the Community’ in the Netherlands: Evaluation and Discussion, 4 Criminology & Crim. Just. 375, 380 (2004).
  47. See Walter J. Dickey & Peggy A. McGarry, The Search for Justice and Safety Through Community Engagement: Community Justice and Community Prosecution, 42 Idaho L. Rev. 313, 315–17 (2006); Cecelia Klingele et al., Reimagining Criminal Justice, 2010 Wis. L. Rev. 953, 981–82 (2010); Wolf & Worrall, supra note 3, at xi, 30–31.
  48. See Kay L. Levine, The New Prosecution, 40 Wake Forest L. Rev. 1125, 1126–28 (2005); Wolf & Worrall, supra note 3, at 12–14.
  49. See Levine, supra note 48, at 1147–48; Wolf & Worrall, supra note 3, at 18.
  50. See Div. of Behavioral & Soc. Scis. & Educ., Nat’l Research Council, What’s Changing in Prosecution? Report of a Workshop 14–17 (Philip Heymann & Carol Petrie eds., 2001); Kelley Bowden Gray, Community Prosecution: After Two Decades, Still New Frontiers, 32 J. Legal Prof. 199, 200–01 (2008); Elaine Nugent & Gerard A. Rainville, The State of Community Prosecution: Results of a National Survey, 13 Prosecutor 26, 30–31 (2001).
  51. See Perry, supra note 7, at 9.
  52. See Boland, supra note 4, at 35–36 (explaining that Portland community prosecution began in response to business community concerns based in the remote sector of the city).
  53. Welcome to the Putnam County District Attorney’s Office, Putnam Cnty. N.Y. District Attorney’s Off., http://www.putnamcountyda.org/ (last visited Mar. 5, 2012).
  54. Memorandum from Att’y Gen. Eric H. Holder, Jr. to Federal Prosecutors (May 19, 2010), available at http://www.justice.gov/oip/holder

 

By: Josh Bowers*

Introduction

There is a broad swath of cases—perhaps the majority in many jurisdictions—where arrests are based on the allegations and observations of no witnesses except the arresting officers; where there are no concrete victims; where cases are typically resolved with some form of guilty plea at the first appearance or shortly thereafter; where there is almost no practical interval for any kind of discovery, and, in any event, such discovery would consist of little more than the arresting officer’s paperwork; and where there is even less practical opportunity for any kind of formal substantive litigation.[1]  When I practiced in New York City, we called these cases “disposables,” because that is precisely what we were expected to do with them.  These “disposable” cases are almost always public-order violations and misdemeanors—turnstile hops, public urination, disorderly conduct, loitering, graffiti on public property, prostitution, simple possession of drugs and marijuana, to name just a few of the many low-level offenses that have been the focus of aggressive order-maintenance policing initiatives in urban centers over the past two decades.

From the defendant’s perspective, available process in these disposable cases consists principally of the brief opportunity to convince the arresting officer to do otherwise and to persuade appointed counsel to push hard for a plea offer below the conventional market rate.  From the public’s perspective, process is inaccessible and unassessable.  The adjudication (and ultimate summary disposition) of these cases is a decidedly professional endeavor.[2]

The costs of this state of affairs are potentially significant.  Specifically, order-maintenance policing and prosecution initiatives inordinately tend to focus on the very communities where disorder is most likely found.[3]  And this creates something of a paradox.  Because disorder correlates with poverty, and poverty correlates with race, normatively and instrumentally defensible efforts to root out disorder may, counterintuitively, generate disorder by cultivating undesirable perceptions of unequal justice.[4]  That is, prosecutors and police may undermine their own efforts by unintentionally promoting destructive “connotations of racial hierarchy and domination.”[5]  In this way, order-maintenance enforcement may prove self-defeating.[6]  Significantly, lay and local participation in law enforcement may provide a counterweight to lay perceptions of unfairness and injustice.[7]  Indeed, public participation in criminal justice has the capacity to not just reshape pernicious perceptions of unfairness and injustice, but, perhaps, to promote fairness and justice in fact.[8]

Such an insight is not new to the literature on community policing and prosecution.[9]  In this vein, community-prosecution advocates have offered a number of radical proposals—neighborhood prosecution programs, community justice counsels, and other problem-solving initiatives—intended to promote local democratic decision making.[10]  In theory, I find no fault with such inventive reform, but I think we may have overlooked a more conventional option.  Instead of grasping for novel solutions outside the box, the system could do more with less by reconceptualizing the box itself.[11]  What I have in mind is a misdemeanor grand jury that would address the normative—or extralegal—question of whether a public-order charge is equitably appropriate in the particular case.  In other words, I propose reorienting the grand jury’s focus in two meaningful ways: first, from the technical question of probable cause to the normative question of whether charges are reasonable; and, second, from prospective serious felony prosecutions to low-level mala prohibita prosecutions that are likelier to raise tough normative questions and thereby to implicate equitable reasons against charging.[12]  In this Article, I posit that such reform effectively could promote goals consistent with the community-prosecution enterprise, which Tony Thompson has identified as decentralization of authority, accountability, and collaboration to promote problem solving.[13]

Before continuing, I should note that I have my reservations about community-prosecution and community-justice efforts more generally.  As critics and even some supporters of such initiatives have recognized, the very notion of community justice is amorphous—perhaps even vacuous and potentially dangerous.[14]  The precise boundaries of the relevant community and what counts as community prosecution are close to indefinable.[15]  And even if we could divine a precise definition, it might serve only to marginalize those subgroups that fell outside the lines.[16]

However, this Article was prepared for a symposium on community justice, and, for present purposes, I intend to operate within that paradigm.  If nothing else, I agree with Bob Weisberg, who has observed that the concept of community justice may serve as a useful heuristic—a stand-in for certain ill-defined, but nevertheless worthwhile, aspirations from which contemporary professionalized criminal justice has moved too far away.  By Weisberg’s reasoning, if we are careful, we may successfully use the “vocabulary” of community without being used by it.[17]  Thus, I offer this rough-and-ready proposal not as a one-size-fits-all universal solution, but as a potentially attractive option for prosecution offices that are dedicated already to the community-justice enterprise.[18]  In short, I make no constitutional or even legal claim.[19]  Rather, I submit that a district attorney’s office committed to community prosecution might advance its objectives effectively by taking the idea of an expressly normative grand jury seriously.

And, significantly, the reform that I have in mind would be no great stretch.  Specifically, as I explain in Part I, the grand jury historically served (and, in sub-rosafashion, continues to serve) as a normative check, notwithstanding its ostensible function as a probable-cause screen.  In Part II, I proceed from the descriptive to the normative and make the case for the normative grand jury, offering reasons to believe that the grand jury can provide a more desirable and effective equitable, rather than legal, screen.  And in Part III, I offer some ideas about how to construct an efficient screen that minimizes the danger of arbitrary or discriminatory decision making cloaked as equitable discretion.  Finally, in Part IV, I observe that the normative grand jury has the capacity to promote discourse, democratic values, and perceptions of systemic legitimacy—again, goals consistent with the community-justice movement.

I.  Upside-Down Grand Juries

The modern grand jury’s ostensible function is to test the legal sufficiency of criminal charges only.[20]  When it comes to this legal determination, the conventional debate has been over whether to describe the grand jury’s function as accusatory or adjudicatory in nature.[21]  More recently, however, a number of scholars have observed that this binary conception of the grand jury is overly simplistic.[22]  Instead, the grand jury fairly may be thought of as more of a quasi-legislative body than an executive or judicial body.  More to the point, when the grand jury refuses to indict a prospective defendant, it may do so for reasons that have little to do with the lack of probable cause.  Rather, the grand jury may base its decision on a determination that the charge is equitably unauthorized—that the charge is, on balance, unfair or contrary to community interests or norms.  According to Ric Simmons: “[G]rand juries have always done more than simply measure evidence against a given legal standard; frequently they have made discretionary, political judgments about the cases before them.”[23]  On this reading, the grand jury is more of a grassroots political “fourth branch” of government—one that serves to reshape the rough edges of the law in a decidedly populist fashion.[24]  It provides a mechanism for the intuitive expression of local sentiments that may deviate from general legislative directives or specific executive enforcement decisions.

By way of recent example, consider the decision of a New Orleans grand jury to reject homicide charges against a doctor and two nurses arrested for euthanizing patients in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.[25]  Or consider the decision of a New York City grand jury to reject felony gun possession charges against professional football player Antonio Pierce, who allegedly concealed from police a gun that a teammate had discharged accidentally.[26]  In both cases, it seems likely that the grand juries had probable cause to file the proposed charges.  Nevertheless, the bodies refused to indict, presumably based on what they perceived to be a lack of blameworthiness.[27]

Significantly, this conception of the grand jury as a “de facto local legislature” is consistent with the institution’s historical role.[28]  At common law, the grand jury tailored application of the prospective offense to fit the perceived culpability of the prospective offender.  Put differently, the early grand jury trafficked in equity, not legal standards and rules.  According to Roger Fairfax:

[T]he underlying premise . . . is that the grand jury’s defining purpose is to test the sufficiency of the evidence by determining whether probable cause exists.  To the contrary, the grand jury was never designed as a mere sounding board to test the sufficiency of the evidence. . . . Where the grand jury truly adds value is through its ability to exercise robust discretion not to indict where probable cause nevertheless exists.[29]

To put a finer historical point on it, consider this grand jury instruction from 1759, which provided that potential charges “need no Explanation your Good Sense & understanding will Direct ye as to them.”[30]  Thus, the determination was decidedly normative—an evaluation of “general moral blameworthiness.”[31]  In other words, the common law grand jury served as a tool of community justice—as a popular and localized democratic check on state power plays.

Indeed, almost every seminal and celebrated early case featured a grand jury that took a normative, not legal, stand.  For example, in 1681, English grand juries refused to indict Lord Shaftesbury and his confederate Stephen Colledge for treason.[32]  Likewise, in 1734, two grand juries refused to indict John Peter Zenger for libel against the Royal Governor of New York.[33]  Most commentators agree that these defendants were almost certainly legally guilty—or that, at a minimum, probable cause was apparent.[34]  Nevertheless, the grand jurors declined charges because they “were politically opposed to the prosecutions.”[35]

Once we come to understand the genuine and longstanding function of the grand jury, it becomes a bit clearer why contemporary grand juries so frequently indict: the body evaluates only the more serious—often mala in se—cases that raise relatively little normative disagreement between the prosecutor and grand jury about the wisdom of prospective charges.[36]  Specifically, in nineteen states and in the federal system, grand jury indictments are required to initiate felony charges only.[37]  Four states only require grand jury indictments for felony charges that carry potential sentences of life imprisonment or death.[38]  Conversely, almost no jurisdiction extends the grand jury requirement to misdemeanor charges.[39]  Indeed, the misdemeanor indictment is an almost unheard of anomaly.

Thus, there exists something of a disconnect.  Most lay and professional stakeholders already agree that suspected murderers, rapists, and robbers almost always oughtto be charged where probable cause exists to support such charges.[40]  However, reasonable minds may, and often do, disagree about optimal or fair levels of (or strategies for) enforcement of petty public-order offenses.[41]  Indeed, the anecdotal (and limited)[42] empirical evidence indicates that grand juries do, in fact, refuse to indict more frequently in cases involving less blameworthy conduct.  Specifically, a Texas study found that grand juries far more frequently disagreed with each other and prosecutors in cases involving drug crimes than cases involving crimes of passion.[43]  And grand juries reached divided votes one-third of the time in cases involving adult consensual sodomy but less than five percent of the time in all other cases.[44]

This, then, serves as a plausible rejoinder to the witticism that a grand jury readily would indict a ham sandwich.[45]  Simply put, it might be that the grand jury only has an opportunity to evaluate the ham sandwiches that are suspected of having done very bad things.  Comparatively, there may be other penny-ante ham sandwiches that are likelier to be normatively innocent, but that end up criminally charged on the prosecutor’s initiative alone.[46]  Thus, the institution of the grand jury presents something of an intriguing puzzle: the body is used principally to evaluate the serious cases that are least likely to provoke normative disagreement; and almost not at all to evaluate the borderline petty cases where the mala prohibita conduct in question implicates most directly the community’s multifaceted conceptions of what constitutes adequate quality of life in public spaces.[47]

Notably, however, the grand jury did not always approach cases in so decidedly an inverted fashion.  At common law, the grand jury not only analyzed prospective charges of rape, murder, and the like; it also considered whether and how the state should regulate a wide variety of relatively nominal victimless conduct.  According to Andrew Leipold: “Early grand juries might accuse individuals of offenses such as disgraceful speech, excessive frivolity, and failing to serve the public.  The latter charges could include failing to grind corn properly and ‘giving short measure’ when selling beer.”[48]  Whereas prospective charges like “excessive frivolity” potentially were subject to grand jury oversight at common law, the modern day equivalent—disorderly conduct—is almost never.  Rather, it is policed, prosecuted, and processed by professionals acting alone.

II.  The Normative Case for Normative Grand Juries

The descriptive claim, detailed above, is that the grand jury plays a normative role, but only for some of the cases, and only through a kind of deception.  Specifically, I would submit that contemporary grand jury practice is upside down and inside out.  It is upside down because the body has no opportunity to evaluate the very cases that most frequently raise persuasive equitable questions.  And it is inside out because the body is expressly authorized to evaluate only the legal (and not the equitable) merits of prospective charges.

A fundamental normative question remains, however.  Is the grand jury’s normative role normatively desirable (or, at least, defensible)?  Put differently, should the system aim to stamp out the grand jury’s covert equitable function, or should it bring that function to the fore?  More to the point, is a lay body competent to exercise equitable charging discretion, and, if so, when and how?

In this Part, I claim that the value of the grand jury does not necessarily fall with punishment stakes or evidentiary merit.  Rather, I suggest that lay bodies are better able to screen meaningfully criminal cases that are legally easy but normatively challenging.  And, significantly, petty order-maintenance cases are particularly likely to fall within this category.  These are the cases that are most prone to selective enforcement.[49]  And, as indicated, these are the cases that are least intrinsically blameworthy.[50]  In such circumstances, police and prosecutors come to use public-order offenses to punish some marginal conduct (but not other conduct) and to arrest and prosecute some borderline offenders (but not other offenders).  The consequent fear is real that police and prosecutors may fail to strike adequately the delicate balance between promoting the quality of life on neighborhood streets and minimizing perceived and actual executive overreach.[51]

A.     Equitable Discretion & Its Exercise

In a previous article and book chapter, I made the case for equitable discretion as a complement to the rule of law.[52]  Specifically, I argued that complete justicerequires law tempered by equity, lest it become, in Blackstone’s terms, “hard and disagreeable.”[53]  Moreover, I challenged the entrenched assumption that equitable charging decisions are best left to the unfettered discretion of the professional prosecutor, and I identified a number of reasons why prosecutors may underexercise their considerable discretion to decline “disposable” cases even in the not-uncommon circumstances where it is normatively appropriate for them to do so.[54]  Specifically, I explained that prosecutors are incentivized to charge “disposable” cases reflexively, because: (1) prosecutors know that these charges generate quick and easy convictions; (2) prosecutors are more likely to defer to arrest decisions in police-initiated cases; and (3) prosecutors are ill-equipped—by training and experience—to distinguish between equitably appropriate and inappropriate cases at the point of charge.[55]  That is, legal professionals tend not to particularize adequately, but instead to sort cases into boxes and process them accordingly.[56]  Finally, I offered data that show counterintuitively (but consistent with the institutional incentives and cognitive biases that I identified) that petty nonviolent public-order cases, in fact, are prosecuted at a far higher rate than violent felony cases involving concrete victims.[57]

In this Subpart, I plan to highlight certain arguments in favor of sharing equitable discretion between a lay body and the professional executive.  I do not intend to say that lay and local intuition is decidedly superior, only that some lay and local involvement is better than none when it comes to resolving equitable charging questions in normatively borderline cases.[58]  As I explained previously:

It is no simple task to determine how to optimally allocate sentencing discretion, but it is clearer that the answer ought not to be an exclusive grant of decision-making authority to the least transparent and most interested actor.  Instead, the objective ought to be a sharing of power.  Different institutional actors possess different proficiencies, and the criminal justice system ought to allocate discretion to tap respective competencies.[59]

This, then, is where the conventional wisdom goes wrong.  It is well established that the prosecutor need give no reason for a decision to charge.[60]  As long as the prosecutor stays within applicable legal limits (that consist of only probable cause and the rarely implicated constitutional doctrines of double jeopardy and selective, vindictive, or retaliatory prosecution), then her reasons for charging are taken to be her own.[61]  I do not deny that the prosecutor is most competent to determine office priorities and evidentiary strength of cases.  That is, she is the administrative and legal expert and ought to be empowered to exercise significant discretion within these domains.  But she has no special claim against lay people to the evaluative art of equitable discretion.  To the contrary, her equitable perspective is complicated by her professional position, whereas the lay decision maker is free to make moral judgments with fresh eyes that are unclouded by institutional incentives and biases.  This is what one nineteenth century legal scholar referred to as the jury’s “downright common sense, unsophisticated by too much learning.”[62]  Indeed, even Justice Rehnquist observed that the lay juror’s “very inexperience is an asset because it secures a fresh perception . . . , avoiding the stereotypes said to infect the judicial eye.”[63]

As the historical grand-jury instruction detailed above made plain, on moral questions the lay decision maker may trust her “Good Sense & understanding” of right and wrong.[64]  In this way, moral questions are eminently accessible to the layperson and distinctly within her capacity.[65]  Specifically, on the question of whether to charge, the layperson need determine only whether it is appropriate to prosecute the offender, notwithstanding legal guilt.  Unlike the legal inquiry, this equitable inquiry demands no specialized or technical training and, accordingly, no instruction from the prosecutor—just an intuitive judgment grounded in experiential wisdom.[66]  And because a lay body—by its very nature—brings a deinstitutionalized perspective to the charging decision, there may be value to a normative grand jury independent of the question of whether it is genuinely representative of the relevant community.  Concretely, a grand jury may better exercise equitable discretion not only because it is local but also because it is lay.

But, of course, from a community-prosecution standpoint, it is critical that the body represent the relevant community (in whatever way that community may be defined).  And, notably, studies demonstrate that perspectives on blameworthiness and on the optimal balance between order and liberty tend to vary across communities.  Thus, the problem with contemporary criminal justice is not just that it is professionalized but also that it is centralized, and that it thereby privileges one culturally constructed perspective above all others—specifically, the perspective of the professional law-enforcement community.

Even if this is not the wrong perspective, it is an incomplete perspective.  Bill Stuntz recognized this, terming this lack of local perspective in criminal justice a “governance problem”: “[For t]he detached managers of urban criminal justice systems . . . criminal justice policies are mostly political symbols or legal abstractions, not questions the answers to which define neighborhood life.  Decisionmakers who neither reap the benefit of good decisions nor bear the cost of bad ones tend to make bad ones.”[67]

By contrast, the historically disadvantaged communities that are the inordinate focus of both public-order crime and its enforcement have opportunities to observe firsthand the effects of order-maintenance policing and prosecution.  Thus, they are well situated to evaluate whether enforcement efforts do more harm than good within the particular context of the particular case.

On this score, I do not claim on original insight.  Rather, Stuntz explored previously this balance:

[R]esidents of all neighborhoods have two warring incentives. On the one hand, they want safe streets. . . . On the other hand, they are loath to incarcerate their sons and brothers, neighbors and friends. . . . The balance between those warring incentives looks quite different . . . to [those] outside the communities where crimes happen and punishment is imposed.[68]

And, Tracey Meares and Dan Kahan offered a similar argument: “[Members of communities affected by order-maintenance policing] are excruciatingly sensitive to the individual and societal costs of invasive policing, there’s no basis for court[] [actors] to presume that they are better situated than the members of these communities to determine . . . a reasonable trade off between liberty and order.”[69]

The value of lay and local participation in criminal justice cannot be overstated (even as it has been underused by the contemporary justice system).  It is “the judgment of community condemnation” that justifies imposition of the criminal sanction.[70]  But the more criminal justice is refracted through a professional prism, the less it comes to reflect its justificatory source.  Nowhere is local control more critical than in the order-maintenance context, but, unfortunately, nowhere is case-specific lay oversight more absent.

As I hinted in the last Subpart, this was not always the case.  At common law, “keeping the peace” (or what we might call order-maintenance enforcement today) was not a professional enterprise; it “was not about applying a particular set of rules” but was about public involvement in “a communal legal culture” that “‘depended on the presence and participation of people in local communities.’”[71]

Of course, there are valid reasons—readily illustrated by the historical record—to worry that such unfiltered expressions of community condemnation could undermine ordered and evenhanded justice.  But recognition of the limits of public participation does not entail its wholesale rejection.  To the contrary, the elusive answer to the question of how to allocate discretionary authority is to find the right balance.[72]  In striking that balance, the system ought to consider which decision makers’ judgments “are most fully amenable to public scrutiny.”[73]

This, then, is why the need is so great for some kind of normative screen in petty public-order cases.  It is in this domain that the criminal justice system has moved furthest away from its roots as a lay “exercise in self-government,” yet it is in this very domain that local input from the residents of high-crime neighborhoods is integral to the balance between the costs of order-maintenance crime and the positive and negative effects of enforcement efforts to maintain order.[74]

B.     The Limits of Legal Limits

At the point of charge (and even at the point of disposition), legal hurdles—like evidentiary sufficiency—are relatively inconsequential to the processing of order-maintenance cases.  First, legal checks do little to constrain prosecutorial discretion, because prosecutors lack the information to identify legally weak cases.[75]  Specifically, order-maintenance cases appear legally fungible to prosecutors because these prosecutors have access to only skeletal police paperwork that tends to mask evidentiary shortcomings or other legal problems.[76]  And prosecutors are unlikely to learn much new in the days or mere hours between initial charge and final plea.[77]  Indeed, as I have previously explored, when it comes to petty cases, all parties tend to bargain in the shadow of process costs, not in the undeveloped shadow of trial prospects.[78]

Second, legal checks do little to constrain prosecutorial discretion because prosecutors enjoy so many substantive options to lawfully—even if inequitably—pursue charges.  That is, most police observations of public disorder are sufficient to demonstrate violation of multiple criminal statutes.  Here, I need not rehearse the by-now unoriginal, but almost certainly accurate, over-criminalization literature.[79]  Suffice it to say, modern criminal codes cover a breathtaking amount of conduct that is not quite intrinsically bad but that is nevertheless contrary to the conventional order.  Moreover, even after the criminal-procedure revolution of the 1960s, the Court continues to provide significant discretionary authority to both police and prosecutors.[80]  Put simply, criminal codes and even constitutional search and seizure law serve less to impose limits and more to create opportunities—opportunities for police to discover evidence and make arrests and, thereafter, for prosecutors to charge.

Comparatively, when it comes to order-maintenance prosecutions, extralegal considerations carry potentially greater weight.[81]  In a world where so many people are subject to arrest and prosecution, authorities must pick and choose between the technically guilty offenders.[82]  Such discretionary justice is not per se problematic—indeed, it may be desirable—as long as discretion is exercised appropriately.  But, of course, whether discretion is exercised appropriately is the big question—perhaps the biggest question in all of criminal law and procedure.  My hope is not to solve that puzzle (were it even solvable).  Rather, I intend only to spotlight that legal limits—standing alone—are incapable of adequately promoting desirable discretion while constraining arbitrary actions or outright oppression.

In this vein, the normative grand jury—with its extralegal focus—could provide a valuable alternative check on the prosecutor’s ability to make the criminal case.  More importantly, the normative grand jury would provide a thin check only.  That is, the normative grand jury would not touch the prosecutor’s legal discretion.  This is critical because it may be that police and prosecutors appropriately require significant legal discretion to make arrests and initiate charges.  (I am skeptical that they need the almost plenary grants of arrest and charge authority that they possess, but I am willing to concede the point for present purposes.)  Thus, the normative grand jury would leave undisturbed these legal rules and standards intended to facilitate effective policing and prosecution.  The body would merely provide a buffer between the police and the prosecutor and between the prosecutor and her desired charge—a buffer analogous to the “circuitbreaker . . . in the state’s machinery of justice” that Justice Scalia envisioned for the petit jury in Blakely.[83]

By way of example, consider pretextual stops, arrests, and prosecutions.  Currently, police and prosecutors have unfettered authority to investigate and enforce a lesser offense as a proxy for a suspected serious offense.[84]  As a legal matter, this may be the right approach.  Generally, we may want to allow police and prosecutors to exploit traffic offenses and low-level regulatory crimes as a means to effectively fight the wars on drugs and terrorism.  But it does not follow that we consider all pretextual stops, arrests, and prosecutions to be equitable—that is, to be fair exercises of legal authority.  The normative grand jury would have the power only to evaluate the equitable reasonableness of the pretextual criminal charge separate from the legal grant of authority—that is, separate from the rule that pretextual investigations and prosecutions are constitutionally permissible.  In short, the normative grand jury would be able only to short-circuit a normatively problematic use of pretext.  It would be unable to undo the legality of pretext in the first instance.  The prosecutor could still seek the charge.  She just might fail to win it.  Thus, the grand jury would ask and answer the narrow question of whether this offender should be charged with this offense, whereas a subsequent grand jury would assess a subsequent case on its own contextualized terms.

In this way, the normative grand jury sidesteps a principal and persuasive objection to the conventional exercise of jury nullification: that jury nullification renders law a subjective manifestation of what the community believes it to be.[85]  In the case of petit jury nullification, the objection holds true, because the trial jury is tasked appropriately with a determination that is decidedly legalistic—that is, the bottom-line determination of legal guilt.  But, as indicated, the charging decision descriptively and properly involves more than legal analysis, and, therefore, a decision to decline prosecution affects the shape of the law less directly, if at all.  Thus, the grand jury’s exercise of equitable power is qualitatively different than impermissible jury nullification.  The grand jury is merely sharing equitable authority with another actor to whom such authority is already lawfully entrusted.  On this score, Roger Fairfax has argued that a grand jury’s “robust” exercise of discretion is wholly consistent with its “intended constitutional role” as more than “a mere probable cause filter.”[86]  According to Fairfax: “The term ‘grand jury nullification’ is somewhat of a misnomer . . . .  [T]he term has pejorative connotations, . . . does not capture the essence of the enterprise of the grand jury’s exercise of discretion, . . . and unfairly yokes grand jury discretion with petit jury nullification without careful consideration.”[87]  Grand jury discretion operates as a one-off check on the equities, but leaves the applicable law firmly in place.

This all highlights a critical insight: when it comes to concerns over the abuse of discretion, it is often not law that fails but equity and its lack of exercise.[88]  Or, rather, as I intend to argue in a separate article, it is the law’s failure to accommodate opportunities for the transparent and honest expression of equity by actors willing and able to make normative judgments unclouded by institutional incentive and cognitive bias.[89]  Unfortunately, but predictably, lawyers and legal academics have tended to focus reform energies on legal fixes and have largely ignored potential fixes that lie beyond law (or at least beyond what is conventionally considered to be law).  But legal constraints on discretion effectively may carry only so far.  Legal grants of authority may be over-inclusive but, if narrowed, they may underperform.  Aristotle understood this:

[T]he law takes account of the majority of cases, though not unaware that in this way errors are made. And the law is none the less right; because the error lies not in the law nor in the legislator but in the nature of the case; for the raw material of human behavior is essentially of this kind.[90]

Legal professionals understand this as well, but by dint of training or perhaps even self-interest they have concluded that there are no limits beyond the limits of law—save for electoral politics that can provide almost no case-specific oversight.  This professionalized and technocratic conception is misguided, however.  Equitable oversight offers a supplemental and almost untapped reservoir for the effective regulation of executive exercises of discretion.

There is nothing new to this insight.  Aristotle recognized it, as have modern philosophers and historians.  For example, Laura Edwards has argued that an overdependence on legal limits in the slaveholding South vindicated the “absolute” discretionary “power of the master” within those domains that fell without law.[91]  By contrast, the interests of marginalized groups—like slaves, women, and the poor—were better protected by “localized” efforts that “eschewed systemization,” that “valued personalized justice,” and that focused “more on people and their problems than on statutes and legal rules.”[92]

Still, what of the objection that localized efforts—here, a lay normative charging screen—risk arbitrariness or, worse still, discrimination or majoritarian tyranny?[93]  The pithy response is that the concern applies also to the current charging paradigm.  Indeed, bias and discrimination are endemic to any discretionary system.[94]  And, as indicated, it is already well established that the prosecutor freely may decline equitably to pursue any legally sufficient charge.[95]  Thus, the immediate choice is not between a proposed discretionary regime and a preexisting determinate charging regime; it is the choice about who may exercise equitable discretion and whether it should remain within the prosecutor’s exclusive domain.

There are powerful arguments that leaving such decisions to prosecutors promotes consistency and minimizes caprice.  But the arguments are not unassailable.  On the one hand, prosecutorial charging decisions may be constrained by office-wide policies and practices.[96]  On the other hand, as indicated, prosecutorial charging decisions may be shaped by institutional incentives and biases that do not correlate with normative blameworthiness or particularized justice.  Indeed, Bill Stuntz has attributed partially the lack of equal treatment in the criminal justice system to the decline of local democracy in law enforcement.[97]  Moreover, the lay body may promote consistency by virtue of the simple fact that it is a collective body that requires a majority to act.[98]  In other words, an idiosyncratic prosecutor may derail a pending charge; an idiosyncratic grand juror may not.[99]

In any event, the question is not whether a lay body—acting alone—could exercise charging discretion more consistently than the professional prosecutor, because the immediate proposal does not seek to allow the lay body to act on its own.  Rather, the proposal is to share power—to provide an interval for both groups to participatecollaboratively.  Again, the prosecutor would retain the power to initiate charges—perhaps even to resubmit rejected charges to a separate normative grand jury.[100]  In this way, the prosecutor would have the first (and perhaps middle) word, but the normative grand jury would have the last.  Such cooperation is at the core of what counts for community-prosecution advocates.[101]

More importantly, such cooperation is at the core of what constitutes moderate and evenhanded exercises of discretion.[102]  The normative grand jury would demand a kind of “reason giving” that would limit the discretion of the prosecutor even as it provided discretion to the lay body.  In this way, the body would not serve obviously to undermine consistency and other rule of law values, and could very well promote them, as highlighted by the expansive literature on the virtues of “reason giving.”[103]  As Stuntz explained: “[W]hen prosecutors have enormous discretionary power, giving other decisionmakers discretion promotes consistency, not arbitrariness.  Discretion limits discretion; institutional competition curbs excess and abuse.”[104]  Both sets of actors—the lay and the professional—have constructive roles to play in making discretionary judgments and constraining the discretion of others.[105]

At the risk of repetition, it is worth revisiting an earlier point: the contemporary criminal justice system operates according to the sometimes-misguided assumption that normative evaluation is secondary to mechanistic legal determinations.  In fact, as explored, the assumption is flat wrong in some contexts.  Specifically, when it comes to the enforcement of public-order crimes, equitable evaluation plays the more robust role.  The legal limits are so spartan that the prosecutor’s capacity (if not her will) to exercise discretion may be considered closer to a kind of sovereign grace.[106]  This fact, however, remains largely unappreciated precisely because the premise that legal limits matter serves to mask the operative principle of equitable discretion.  The cost of this state of affairs is not just a lack of transparency and honesty, but a systemic tendency to consistently shuttle evaluative authority to the least transparent actors—the professional prosecutors and police.  Martha Nusbbaum and Dan Kahan have made this point:

[R]ecognizing the evaluative conception of emotion in criminal law . . . can actually make it better, particularly if responsibility . . . is properly allocated among different decisionmakers. . . . [By contrast,] mechanistic doctrines will not stop . . . inappropriate . . . motivations.  They only drive those assessments underground.[107]

This perception serves not only “to disguise contentious moral issues,” but to promote autocratic decision making that, in the long run, promotes (or at least readily allows) arbitrariness and caprice.[108]

Nevertheless, I concede that arbitrariness and caprice are intractable concerns—concerns that are not incontrovertibly allayed by my proposal to share equitable discretion.  However, as I noted in the introduction, the immediate proposal is not intended for all jurisdictions, but principally only for those majority-minority jurisdictions that are committed to the community-prosecution enterprise already (and that are also most affected by public-order crime and its enforcement).  In these relatively homogenous jurisdictions, there is some hope that the most problematic forms of arbitrariness and discrimination may be minimized, albeit not eliminated.[109]  Indeed, as I detail in Part IV, one of the chief ancillary benefits of importing such a community-prosecution model is that it may counteract, as opposed to propagate, local perceptions of unequal justice, which, in turn, may promote normative and instrumental rule-of-law values and goals.

III.  Brass Tacks

How ought we structure a normative grand jury such that it could ensure both a robust and efficient screen over cases for which a necessary premium is put on speed?  An unfortunate byproduct of the Warren Court’s constitutional procedural revolution is a perceived false choice between formal procedures and unfettered discretion.  A separate option is informal procedure.[110]  It is an option that is ill suited to certain questions, like the bottom-line determination of legal guilt, but it may be ideally situated for a normative charging determination that is otherwise left to the unfettered discretion of the professional prosecutor.

Already, the historical grand jury provides an object lesson in (almost) workable informality. According to the Supreme Court, the early grand jury was an “institution [] in which laymen conduct[ed] their inquiries unfettered by technical legal rules.”[111]  Indeed, to this day, the grand jury operates free of the evidentiary rules that typify trials and even pretrial hearings.[112]  Thus, the grand jury may consider hearsay evidence, illegally obtained evidence, and otherwise incompetent evidence.[113]  In this way, the prosecutor is able to paint a complete picture for the grand jury and not just the picture to which she will be limited at trial.

The problem is that the prosecutor is typically unwilling to paint a complete picture.  Thus, the grand jury provides an insufficient screen, not because it lacks formality, but because it lacks inclusivity.  Specifically, the prosecutor’s ex parte presentation is unlikely to include the kinds of contextual arguments that auger in favor of charge mitigation or outright declination.  This, then, is the most radical component of my proposal.  If the normative grand jury is to be an effective community-prosecution tool, the defendant must be permitted to state his moral claim.[114]

It may seem odd to open the grand jury to the defendant and his attorney, and I concede that it is no small structural reform.  However, it should be noted that a fraction of states already provide the defendant a right to testify before the grand jury.[115]  In any event, there is nothing sacrosanct about the prevailing structure of the grand jury.  Indeed, it is inaccurate even to speak of a uniform or even dominant grand jury structure.  To the contrary, Ric Simmons has observed that there are “over fifty different types of grand juries, each with its own unique blend of structural rules, procedural constraints, and informal culture.”[116]  In fact, even the notion of the grand jury as prosecutorial domain is historically dubious.  At common law, the grand jury was closed not only to the defendant and his counsel but also typically to the prosecutor.[117]  Moreover, because the body is not even constitutionally required outside of the federal criminal justice system, jurisdictions are constitutionally free to reconstruct the institution however they may see fit.[118]  Put simply, a jurisdiction may implement freely an adversarial grand jury proceeding if it wishes.[119]

But just because an adversarial grand jury is constitutional (and even unoriginal) does not make it feasible.  Efficiency concerns remain.  And it may seem particularly farfetched that we can somehow expeditiously subject misdemeanor cases to an adversarial normative screen.  The efficiency objection is two-fold: in most jurisdictions, there are many more misdemeanor than felony cases; and adversarial proceedings require more time and effort than ex parte proceedings.  Indeed, order-maintenance cases are dubbed “disposables” precisely because they are considered unimportant and are meant to be resolved quickly and cheaply.  Again, the objection is sound, but I am not without plausible responses.

A.     Extralegal Arguments

Because of the unique mission and method of the normative grand jury, its proceedings may be cursory, yet not meaningless—that is to say, adversarial, yet not terrifically involved.  Critically, the lawyers’ arguments would not concern law.  Indeed, the normative grand jury could even be directed to presume legal guilt (or, at least, to consider the factual allegations in the light most favorable to the prosecution) in order to expeditiously proceed to the equitable particulars.  The advantage of an extralegal screen is that it need not accommodate itself to technical and time-consuming legal forms.  The lawyers’ arguments would be brief and conclusory.  That is, like its common-law progenitor, the normative grand jury would hear no evidence.  Rather, the prosecutor would have a minutes-long opportunity to present her allegations (which the jury might be instructed to accept) and to provide relevant background information (for example, criminal record) that might weigh in favor of charging.  Then, the defense attorney would have a minutes-long opportunity to offer a brief narrative, contextualizing the incident or the offender and illuminating the equitable reasons to forego charges.[120]

Ultimately, equitable judgments are intuitive judgments, and, as social psychologists have demonstrated, intuitive judgments are, by nature, “spontaneous, . . . effortless, and fast.”[121]  Thus, not only can lawyers be expected to make quick moral arguments to the normative grand jurors, but also the jurors can be expected to reach quick moral conclusions.  Notably, then, from an efficiency standpoint, the chief virtues of the normative grand jury are those aspects that make the proceeding look least like a typical rule-bound full-dress criminal trial—that is, the informality of its procedures and the extralegality of its focus.

Again, although such a stripped-down adversarial procedure would be unconventional, it would present no evidentiary problems because no rules constrain what evidence a grand jury may hear or from whom.  In any event, the kinds of arguments that I envision are not so unconventional as they might initially seem.  Lawyers make extralegal arguments of this nature all the time, albeit in contexts outside of charging.  Simply put, there exist already adversarial models for the kinds of short and snappy equitable arguments I have in mind—to wit, bail hearings, plea negotiations, and discretionary sentencing proceedings.

B.     Normative Models

Consider plea bargaining in misdemeanor cases.  In their classic treatments of the subject, Milton Heumann and Malcolm Feeley both emphasized that plea negotiations have far more to do with “fleshing out . . . the setting and circumstances of the incident . . . [and] the defendant’s background” than the legal merits of the pending charges.[122]  Or take, for example, the typical misdemeanor bail hearing.  The prosecutor and defense attorney offer the judge normative claims for and against release and its conditions, and the judge, for her part, reaches a decision that turns less on strength of case than on the persuasive force of the lawyers’ cursory equitable narratives.  Thus, the bail determination relies on a holistic understanding of the contextualized factual circumstances of the alleged incident and the contextualized social circumstances of the alleged offender.

The normative grand jury would consider a similarly succinct set of normative arguments but with a different punch line: instead of requesting minimal bail or release on recognizance, the defense attorney would ask the body to decline the charges.  This brief normative pitch could happen in the several minutes between counsel’s initial client interview (typically in the courthouse pens), and the defendant’s initial arraignment appearance.  Moreover, because the substance of the normative pitch to the grand jury would be largely duplicative of the defense attorney’s normative pitches in favor of a lenient summary disposition or a release on favorable conditions, the substance of the initial client interview would adequately prepare the lawyer for all three sets of arguments.  Finally, and significantly, because the defense attorney would offer an equitable narrative on behalf of her client, it would even be possible to keep the defendant out of sight in order to shield the defendant’s race or ethnicity (or simply just his charm or repellence) from the grand jury, thereby minimizing any risk of arbitrary or discriminatory decision making.[123]

C.     Available Resources

But even a quick proceeding entails costs.  And it would be fanciful to suppose that a jurisdiction could implement a normative grand jury without the infusion of additional resources.  But it is important to keep perspective on the relevant baseline.  As indicated, the immediate proposal is offered only for those jurisdictions that are committed to the community-prosecution project already.  Thus, the right comparison is not to the cost of conventional criminal justice, but to the cost of other available community-prosecution initiatives.

In any event, there are reasons to believe that the costs of a normative grand jury could be kept down.  First, to the extent the normative screen is effective and the grand jury declines to prosecute in some nontrivial proportion of cases, resources could be diverted to the grand jury from the courtrooms and lawyers’ offices that would otherwise be required to process these cases to disposition.  Second, and more provocatively, if I am right that conventional grand juries are upside down—that is, that they focus on the wrong cases (felony cases over which there is little normative disagreement)—then the system could divert grand jury resources away from the types of serious felony cases about which there is little normative disagreement, and toward the petty cases that raise more vexing equitable questions.[124]  Third, there exists already a veritable untapped font of prospective normative jurors.  Specifically, among citizens who report for petit grand jury duty, the most pervasive complaint is that time is wasted.  Prospective jurors sometimes spend hours or even days waiting to be assigned to trial jury panels.[125]  Courts could make productive use of juror downtime by placing prospective jurors on normative grand juries.  As indicated, the normative grand juror would require almost no instruction, because the body would apply no legal standard.  The juror would be asked simply to listen to the parties and to decide whether the charge ought to proceed, all things considered.

Finally, even if the normative grand jury were to prove prohibitively costly across the mass of order-maintenance cases, it could be used still in a representative sample.  That is to say, some screen is better than no screen when it comes to promoting the goals of community prosecution and constraining executive abuses of equitable discretion.

IV.  Core & Ancillary Advantages

Recall the core community-prosecution values—decentralization of authority, accountability, and collaboration.[126]  The normative grand jury not only could serve these ends, but also a collection of ancillary expressive and instrumental objectives as well.  First, the normative grand jury would inject a measure of public participation into a professional executive process where heretofore there is almost none.  It would thereby make criminal justice not only more transparent but also more democratic.[127]  Second, by this same measure, it would promote constructive dialogue between local communities and prosecutors (and even indirectly police) over what types of crimes should be charged and in which contexts.[128]  Third, it would promote perceptions of procedural legitimacy, both by providing the defendant an opportunity to state his moral case and by fostering lay and local influence over criminal-justice practice.[129]

A.     Transparency & Participation

The normative grand jury would inject a measure of public deliberation and meaningful process into the adjudication of cases that are currently fodder for a professional assembly line only.  As indicated, petty public-order cases typically terminate with a summary plea after summary decisions to arrest and charge.[130]  Thus, any lay oversight is more oversight, because almost no such cases currently proceed to trial—jury or otherwise.  If nothing else, the normative grand jury would foster a kind of “democratic visibility” by requiring the prosecutor to give persuasive moral reasons for her decision to initiate criminal charges. [131]

Beyond cultivating transparency, normative grand juries would provide a mechanism for “distributing participatory experiences among citizens.”[132]  Heather Gerken has argued that such participatory experiences are essential to achieve the kind of dynamic and inclusive democracy that transcends mere electoral politics and its incomplete winner-take-all formula.[133]  This is not to say that electoral politics are less than essential—only that they are incomplete.  Electoral politics provide the engine for crime creation and criminal justice policy in the abstract.  Jury politics complement electoral politics by providing an interval for contextualized democratic decision making—by bringing democracy down to the ground.  Thus, in Gerken’s terms, juries provide “a tool for aggregation [] of community judgments [and] interpretations of the law . . . when we cannot all sit at the same table to hash out such questions.”[134]  In this way, the immediate proposal is consistent with other “new governance” initiatives that endorse “bottom-up” democratic experimentalism controlled—or at least influenced by— the relevant stakeholders, as opposed to their ostensible representatives.[135]

Importantly, by permitting lay and local bodies to implement centralized legislative commands, the system conveys a “sign of trust” and “an acknowledgement of equal status” to electoral minorities.[136]  These groups are granted the dignity not only to participate but “the dignity to decide.”[137]  And, significantly, the more out-groups that are granted the dignity to decide collaboratively with in-groups, the more out-group members are likely to buy into the process—to take active, as opposed to apathetic, roles; to, therefore, “see the law as theirs.”[138]  And this, in turn, may serve to meliorate, as opposed to exacerbate, perceived and genuine divisions along lines of race and class.[139]

Moreover, the normative grand jury would facilitate democratic participation and expression early and often.  The charge is prerequisite to all criminal prosecution; by contrast, the jury trial is alienable (and often unavailable in misdemeanor cases).[140]  Thus, trial juries provide an anemic, or at least highly infrequent, normative check.  By contrast, normative grand juries could review most all petty cases and thus provide participatory experiences to a more significant proportion of the citizenry. [141]

A related advantage is that the normative grand jury would educate the public about law-enforcement objectives and efforts and would give the public an opportunity to provide feedback on particular or prospective exercises of state power.  The interaction would be dialogic in that the state also could learn what its citizenry was willing to tolerate and in what circumstances.  For example, the public might approve overwhelmingly of law-enforcement’s order-maintenance initiatives, in which case it would authorize most all public-order charges.  Or it might reject what it perceives to be state overreach in certain order-maintenance domains, in which case it would be less deferential.  In either event, the public would learn what professionals were doing, and the professionals would learn what the public was thinking.  Moreover, the educative advantages would advance the democratic advantages not only by facilitating “community participation,” but also by promoting a sense of “shared responsibility” in the administration of criminal justice.[142]  Previously, I offered a similar argument in a related context:

[A]n equitable sentencing jury not only provides a democratic check on the prosecutor; it forces the jury to take responsibility for its punishment decision.  It calls on laypersons to consider the potential punishment in light of the specific case, and—upon doing so—members of the sentencing jury are shaped and educated by that punishment decision going forward.  Pithily, what they take away from the jury box, they may bring to the ballot box.[143]

Thus, those who serve on normative grand juries could better learn the information necessary to hold politically accountable the district attorney, which, in turn, could provide a political incentive for police and prosecutors to adjust enforcement efforts to better reflect lay perspectives of justice and fairness.

Of course, it could be that police and prosecutors know better than the public what is in the public interest, in which case prosecutors could use normative grand juries (and other community-prosecution initiatives) as tools to emphasize the positive attributes of order-maintenance enforcement and to enlist the public in such enforcement efforts.  From a community-justice perspective, this is the right incentive: prosecutors should be encouraged to provide the reasons for state action.

Community prosecution is intended to bridge an almost inevitable gap.  Professional police and prosecutors are likely to share sets of beliefs that seem foreign to the lay public, while the public—even victims and offenders—is likely to share sets of beliefs that seem foreign to professional officers.  Prevailing institutional design offers no robust channel for sharing information across the divide.  On its own, electoral politics—even retail politics—operate at too high a level of abstraction and, in any event, are primarily concerned with the enforcement and adjudication of serious high-profile cases.[144]  By contrast, the normative grand jury could cultivate understanding between populations by exposing each group to the respective beliefs of the other.[145]  It would serve thereby as a conduit for productive case-specific dialogue between local communities and prosecutors over what types of crimes should be charged and in what contexts.

B.     Perceptions of Fairness & Justice

As indicated, the normative grand jury could potentially advance a series of democratic and expressive objectives—that is, the promotion of discourse, public participation, and liberal democratic values.  But, critically, by nurturing these intrinsically good objectives, the normative grand jury also could advance instrumental goals.  Specifically, as Paul Robinson and I explore in far greater detail elsewhere in this volume, people are likelier to comply with the law and its enforcement when they believe that procedures are fair and that the applied substantive law reflects accurately communal intuitions of normative blameworthiness.[146]  Herein lies the potential payoff for police and prosecutors.  Law enforcement may advance its objectives by cultivating perceptions of fairness and justice, even in circumstances where the prosecutor’s office or police department are unconcerned with these values for their own sake.[147]  Indeed, it is fair to presume that such instrumental benefits are what motivate many district attorneys and police chiefs to pursue community-justice reforms in the first instance.

Critically, the instrumental need is perhaps greatest in the order-maintenance context.  As Dan Kahan and others have recognized, the very jurisdictions that are the sensible focus of order-maintenance policing and prosecution are the same jurisdictions that tend to be plagued not just by crime and disorder but also by discordant relations between enforcement personnel and the predominately poor and minority lay citizenry.[148]  And such relations may be made worse by the kinds of aggressive tactics that tend to typify order-maintenance policing and prosecution.  In Kahan’s terms, an unfortunate “side effect” of order-maintenance enforcement is its potential to undermine perceptions of fairness and justice, and, ultimately, deference to the law and its enforcement.[149]

Robinson and I also examine the Court’s Fourth Amendment doctrine, which has empowered police to engage in such aggressive order-maintenance tactics.[150]  I need not rehash our claims here, but I do wish to highlight the degree to which the doctrine tends to bend in favor of law enforcement.[151]  I have my criticisms of the Court’s Fourth Amendment jurisprudence.[152]  If nothing else, the Court has come to rely too heavily on bright-line rules and thereby to endorse unreasonable claims about the reasonable man.[153]  For present purposes, however, I concede that the Court may be right, as a general matter, to provide police terrific legal discretion.  After all, effective policing requires the police officer to wear many hats.  He is a community caretaker, a public-safety agent, and an enforcer of law.[154]  And he often must act fast when determining the appropriate course of action in a given set of circumstances.[155]  Consequently, the Constitution can do only so much to regulate police authority without concurrently undermining police effectiveness.[156]

This illustrates the Aristotelian point I made earlier: generally applicable legal constraints on executive discretion can be made only so narrow before they unproductively serve to hamstring the sovereign.[157]  Nevertheless, even if legal deference is owed to executive actors, such deference comes at a potentially highpolitical (and therefore an instrumental) cost.  Specifically, the law may generate a political imbalance.  In the Fourth Amendment context, the Court’s rulings have created a kind of community-perspective deficit that risks undermining lay perceptions of systemic legitimacy.  That is, the professional law-enforcement community has a particular perspective of reasonable state action. It is, however, but one perspective.  There are many others.[158]  Yet the Court’s jurisprudence has prioritized the professional perspective and has provided law enforcement substantial leeway to act on that perspective.  When police and prosecutors exploit such authority, they risk communicating the normatively and instrumentally undesirable message to affected communities that a contrary perception of what constitutes reasonable enforcement is a perspective that “only ‘unreasonable’ people could hold.”[159]

Moreover, the presence of a community-perspective deficit may be particularly pronounced in majority-minority neighborhoods where, for culturally constructed reasons, individuals may be likelier to perceive coercion in even polite police requests.[160]  Tracey Maclin has made this claim (albeit in perhaps overblown terms):

[F]or most black men, the typical police confrontation is not a consensual encounter.  Black men simply do not trust police officers to respect their rights.  Although many black men know of their right to walk away from a police encounter, I submit that most do not trust the police to respect their decision to do so.[161]

But beyond the limits of law, community justice may provide an effective (principally) political antidote to a (principally) political problem.  Such initiatives may serve as mechanisms to take account of community perspectives that the law has failed to adequately consider.  In particular, the normative grand jury could promote perceptions of systemic legitimacy by accommodating local “understandings of reality” and by “reflect[ing] experiences and social influences peculiar to those subcommunities.”[162]  Equally important, an offender might grow more accepting of enforcement and less inclined to recidivate if his accusers were not a perceived occupying force but his own peers with whom he shared “linked fates.”[163]

I recognize, of course, that this vision may be starry eyed.  As I wrote at the start, it is hard enough to identify the relevant community on a given question, much less to ensure that a given body adequately (but not excessively) represents the interests of that community.[164]  Significantly, however, a normative grand jury could foster perceptions of legitimacy even if the accusers are insufficiently representative of the offender population.  That is, from a legitimacy standpoint, there may be advantages to lay participation for its own sake.  Specifically, social scientists have found that citizens tend to see lay decision making as more fair and procedurally legitimate than professionalized decision making.[165]  Thus, a prospective defendant may derive value from an opportunity to state his moral case and not just to accept a prefabricated plea.[166]  And the community may derive value from an opportunity not only to observe the prosecution of particular order-maintenance cases, but also to equitably influence its application.[167]

Conclusion

In this Article, I have explored one criminal-justice puzzle and two criminal-justice crises.  The puzzle is that the criminal justice system reserves for lay actors the mixed determinations of law and fact that they are least equipped to make, and forbids them from considering the commonsense questions of equitable discretion over which they—and not prosecutors—may enjoy potentially superior perspective.  The crises are the lack of meaningful and public process in order-maintenance enforcement and the unfettered and nontransparent scope of executive discretion.  This unfortunate reality is nothing new to critics of contemporary criminal justice.  In response, these critics have tended to respond somewhat in kind: they have endorsed reforms that are principally intended to promote criminal trials—either by banning or limiting the availability of plea bargains, or by streamlining adjudicatory practices.[168]

However, I think these efforts may be misguided on balance—at least as they pertain to petty order-maintenance cases.  First, plea bans may be ill-suited for the kinds of low-level cases where “the process is the punishment” and where, comparatively, plea bargaining may provide an efficient and sometimes even fair way out.[169] Second, informal trial processes run the risk of sacrificing the spoils of hard-fought constitutional battles.  Although it is largely true that the Warren Court’s constitutional criminal-procedure revolution has produced a top-heavy and often unworkable due-process model (especially for low-stakes cases), nevertheless, I remain wary of walking back from its protections in favor of some fictionalized historical summary-process ideal.

What to do then?  I do not claim to have the answer.  But I hope I have identified a relatively unexplored path: equitable (and not legal) lay (and not professional) oversight over discretionary (and not adjudicatory) decisions.  Thus, this Article sketches and defends a model for extralegal regulation of normatively misguided prosecutions.  Indeed, if there is anything to recommend to the historical justice system that included—in different degrees over different eras—such barbaric practices as mandatory death sentences, torture, and trials by ordeal, it is the fact that the system embraced a robust front-end role for lay grand juries to derail application of these practices.  Of course, the system included arbitrariness and discrimination—evils made worse by the unfettered influence lay actors enjoyed over criminal justice.  But that is precisely my point.  There is a balance to be struck.  Whereas professionals played too small of a part in the administration of historical criminal justice, they play too big of a part today.  We need a division of labor—that is, some (but not too much) outsourcing of equitable discretion from the professional actors who currently possess almost all such power to the lay actors who currently possess almost none. [170]

The overwhelming majority of public-order cases are easy legal cases.  But it does not follow that these easy legal cases provide equitably appropriate occasions for criminal prosecution and punishment.[171]  Prosecutors face challenges in determining which legally easy cases are which and what they ought to be worth.  And, in the face of cognitive and institutional biases, prosecutors are not well positioned to arrive at the right decisions on their own.

For the district attorney’s office that wisely seeks guidance from its constituents, the normative grand jury could represent a tool to advance contemporary community-prosecution goals—a tool that would remain consistent with the institution’s centuries-old role as the robust, transparently democratic, and decidedly equitable “voice of the people” in the charging process.[172]


        *     Associate Professor, University of Virginia School of Law.  I would like to thank Stephanos Bibas for helpful comments, Saverio Romeo for outstanding research assistance, and Ron Wright, Matt Antonelli, and Wade Sample for organizing the excellent symposium that gave rise to this Article.

        [1].   Josh Bowers, Legal Guilt, Normative Innocence, and the Equitable Decision Not to Prosecute, 110 Colum. L. Rev. 1655, 1705 n.232 (2010) [hereinafter Bowers, LGNI] (citing a study that found that approximately half of New York City cases are disposed of at the first court appearance); Josh Bowers, Punishing the Innocent, 156 U. Pa. L. Rev. 1117, 1163 n.231 (2008) [hereinafter Bowers, Punishing] (citing New York City statistics of high rates of first-appearance pleas); Ian Weinstein, The Adjudication of Minor Offenses in New York City, 31 Fordham Urb. L.J. 1157, 1168, 1170–72 (2004) (indicating that approximately half of all non-felony cases in New York City are resolved at the first appearance, typically by plea).

        [2].   Stephanos Bibas, Transparency and Participation in Criminal Procedure, 81 NYU L. Rev. 911, 913 (2006) [hereinafter Bibas, Transparency] (“Outsiders have few ways to learn about, let alone participate in, the progress of most pending cases . . . .”); Bowers, Punishing, supra note 1, at 1173.

        [3].   See generally Bernard E. Harcourt, Illusion of Order: The False Promise of Broken Windows Policing (2001); Josh Bowers, Grassroots Plea Bargaining, 91 Marq. L. Rev. 85 (2007) [hereinafter Bowers, Grassroots]; Dan M. Kahan, Reciprocity, Collective Action, and Community Policing, 90 Cal. L. Rev. 1513, 1529 (2002) [hereinafter Kahan, Reciprocity].

        [4].   See Kahan, Reciprocity, supra note 3, at 1529–30; see also Bowers, Grassroots, supra note 3, at 92, 98.

        [5].   Kahan, Reciprocity, supra note 3, at 1529; see also Josh Bowers & Paul H. Robinson, Perceptions of Fairness and Justice: The Shared Aims & Occasional Conflicts of Legitimacy and Moral Credibility, 47 Wake Forest L. Rev. 211 (2012).

        [6].   See generally William J. Stuntz, Self-Defeating Crimes, 86 Va. L. Rev. 1871 (2000).

        [7].   See Kahan, Reciprocity, supra note 3, at 1533 (observing that community policing efforts enabled the Boston Police Department “to target certain neighborhoods for order-maintenance policing without apparently provoking the resentment that the New York Police Department encountered”).  See generallyBowers & Robinson, supra note 5; William J. Stuntz, Unequal Justice, 121 Harv. L. Rev. 1969, 1973, 1976, 1994, 2012, 2031–32, 2039 (2007).

        [8].   Infra Part IV.A–B.

        [9].   See generally Anthony Alfieri, Community Prosecutors, 90 Cal. L. Rev. 1465 (2002); Anthony Thompson, It Takes a Community to Prosecute, 77 Notre Dame L. Rev. 321 (2002).

      [10].   Thompson, supra note 9, at 354–56. See generally Community Prosecution, Ctr. for Court Innovation, http://www.courtinnovation.org/topic
/community-prosecution (last visited Mar. 31, 2012).

      [11].   See generally Malcolm M. Feeley, Court Reform on Trial: Why Simple Solutions Fail 192 (1983) (“[T]o mobilize public support, reformers must often offer dramatic plans . . . [and] bold strategies . . . .  But these very strategies that facilitate innovation undercut implementation.”).

      [12].   See Ric Simmons, Re-Examining the Grand Jury: Is There Room for Democracy in the Criminal Justice System?, 82 B.U. L. Rev. 1, 23 (2001) (“The true power of the grand jury . . . manifests itself in the marginal cases . . . [where] the defendant has a credible or sympathetic story to tell.”); see also Adriaan Lanni,Implementing the Neighborhood Grand Jury, in Grand Jury 2.0: Modern Perspectives on the Grand Jury 171, 182 (Roger Fairfax ed., 2011) (observing that the grand jury plays a more robust normative role when it evaluates “more controversial charges—for example, prosecutions for minor drug offenses”).  See generally Bowers,LGNI, supra note 1 (defending the exercise of equitable charging discretion, particularly in petty public-order cases).

      [13].   Thompson, supra note 9, at 323, 354–55, 360; see also Anthony C. Thompson & Robert V. Wolf, The Prosecutor as Problem Solver: An Overview of Community Prosecution, Ctr. for Ct. Innovation, 4 (Oct. 2004),  http://www.courtinnovation.org/sites/default/files/prosecutor_as_ps.pdf (“Community prosecution at its core involves three key ingredients: problem-solving, community involvement, and partnerships.”).

      [14].   See, e.g., Robert Weisberg, Restorative Justice and the Dangers of “Community,” 2003 Utah L. Rev. 343, 343, 348, 374 (“‘[C]ommunity’ is a very dangerous concept.  It sometimes means very little, or nothing very coherent, and sometimes means so many things as to become useless in legal or social discourse.”).

      [15].   See Stephanos Bibas, Forgiveness in Criminal Procedure, 4 Ohio St. J. Crim. L. 329, 331 n.6 (2007) [hereinafter Bibas, Forgiveness] (observing that “‘community’ and ‘community members’ are nebulous concepts with unclear definitions, particularly in our far-flung, heterogenerous society”); Bibas, Transparency,supra note 2, at 914  (positing that communities are constituted of multiple overlapping subgroups: “people affected by a particular crime, residents of high-crime neighborhoods, voters, citizens, and aliens”); Thompson, supra note 9, at 323, 354 (“It is not at all obvious . . . what the term ‘community prosecution’ actually means. . . . [T]he concept of ‘community prosecution’ is not in any way self-defining.  As is apparent from the wide range of programs that lay claim to the name ‘community prosecution,’ one can give this vision of prosecutorial practice virtually any meaning.”).  My own unsatisfying definition of the relevant community is the same as Stephanos Bibas’s: “Locals affected by a particular crime.”  Bibas, Transparency, supra note 2, at 914.

      [16].   See Bowers & Robinson, supra note 5, at 234 (“[I]t is not clear how to go about coherently narrowing community to some subset of the sovereign whole.”); Weisberg, supra note 14, at 348 (observing that community justice risks many of the balkanizing pitfalls common to “identity politics” more generally).  Moreover, as I previously explored in an article about drug courts, there are reasons to be wary of so-called problem solving built against the backstop of conventional criminal justice.  Josh Bowers, Contraindicated Drug Courts, 55 UCLA L. Rev. 783, 830 (2007) [hereinafter Bowers, Drug Courts] (“[D]rug courts keep conventional justice—often in its most powerful forms—always in the background and close at hand.  Drug courts are not divorced from conventional justice; they are grafted indelibly onto it.”).

      [17].   Weisberg, supra note 14, at 374.

      [18].   See Bibas, Forgiveness, supra note 15, at 331 n.6 (observing that lay participation in criminal justice probably works best in “homogeneous communities”).

      [19].   However, in a separate work in progress, I do claim that Fourth Amendment reasonableness might have been read more expansively—specifically, as a mechanism to review the equities of prosecutorial charging decisions.  Josh Bowers, Equitable Constraints as Rules of Law (unpublished manuscript) (on file with author).

      [20].   See Roger A. Fairfax, Jr., Grand Jury Discretion and Constitutional Design, 93 Cornell L. Rev 703, 708 (2008) (“[T]he modern conception assumes that the grand jury should indict if the government presents enough evidence to establish probable cause that the accused committed the alleged crimes.”); Model Grand Jury Charge, U.S. Courts (Mar. 2005), http://www.uscourts.gov
/FederalCourts/JuryService/ModelGrandJuryCharge.aspx (“The purpose of the Grand Jury is to determine whether there is sufficient evidence to justify a formal accusation against a person—that is, to determine if there is ‘probable cause’ to believe the person committed a crime.”).

      [21].   See, e.g., Niki Kuckes, The Democratic Prosecutor: Explaining the Constitutional Function of the Federal Grand Jury, 94 Geo. L.J. 1265, 1271–89 (2006).  As between the two, the consensus view is the body is more accurately considered an appendage of the executive than the judiciary.  United States v. Williams, 504 U.S. 36, 51 (1992) (describing the grand jury as an “accusatory” not an “adjudicatory” body); United States v. Cleary, 265 F.2d 459, 461 (2d Cir. 1959) (observing that the grand jury is “[b]asically . . . a law enforcement agency”); Fairfax, supra note 20, at 708 n.7 (describing adjudicatory conception as the dominant view); Andrew D. Leipold, Why Grand Juries Do Not (And Cannot) Protect the Accused, 80 Cornell L. Rev. 260, 271 (1995) (“It is . . . common knowledge that the grand jury . . . is now a tool of the Executive.”).

      [22].   Simmons, supra note 12, at 2 (2002) (“In theory, an indicting grand jury is convened to evaluate the sufficiency of the evidence according to a fixed legal standard.  In practice, its functions are more subtle and complex.”).

      [23].   Id. at 3; see also Fairfax, supra note 20, at 706 (“Where the grand jury truly adds value is through its ability to exercise robust discretion not to indict where probable cause nevertheless exists . . . .”); Kuckes, supra note 21, at 1269 (discussing the conception of a grand jury as a body that “may properly consider not only the sufficiency of the evidence, but also the wisdom of the prosecution, community priorities, the relative culpability of the accused, and a host of other discretionary factors”).

      [24].   United States v. Eisenberg, 711 F.2d 959, 964 (11th Cir. 1983) (“[T]he grand jury is a unique body and is not a part of either the executive or the judicial branch.”); United States v. Udziela, 671 F.2d 995, 999 (7th Cir. 1982) (“[T]he grand jury is a constitutional fixture in its own right, belonging to neither the executive nor the judicial branch.”); Simmons, supra note 12, at 10.  Notably, even the Supreme Court has recognized that the grand jury sometimes plays such a role.  See Williams, 504 U.S. at 47 (observing that the grand jury functions “as a kind of buffer or referee between the Government and the people”); Vasquez v. Hillery, 474 U.S. 254, 263 (1986) (“The grand jury does not determine only that probable cause exists to believe that a defendant committed a crime . . . .  The grand jury is not bound to indict in every case where a conviction can be obtained.”); see also United States v. Ciambrone, 601 F.2d 616, 629 (2d Cir. 1979) (discussing the “implicit” power of the grand jury to grant mercy to guilty accused); United States v. Cox, 342 F.2d 167, 190 (5th Cir. 1965) (Wisdom, J., concurring) (highlighting the “unchallengeable power” of grand juries “to shield the guilty”).  Even Chief Justice John Roberts once observed that “a significant role for the grand jury has been not to indict people even though the Government had the evidence to indict them.”  Transcript of Oral Argument at 16–17, United States v. Resendiz-Ponce, 549 U.S. 102 (2006) (No. 05-998).

      [25].   Sheri Fink, The Deadly Choices at Memorial, N.Y. Times Mag., Aug. 30, 2009, at 28, 30.

      [26].   Burress Indicted, Pierce Not, in Gun Case, United Press Int’l (Aug. 3, 2009, 3:54 PM), http://www.upi.com/Sports_News/2009/08/03/Burress-indicted
-Pierce-not-in-gun-case/UPI-98281249314867 (quoting Pierce’s attorney that “the grand jurors . . . concluded, as they should have, that [Pierce] acted as any reasonable person would have”).

      [27].   Simmons, supra note 12, at 49 (summarizing examples of cases in which grand juries may have rejected “borderline” cases).

      [28].   Ronald J. Allen, Joseph L. Hoffman, Andrew D. Leipold, Debra Livingston & William J. Stuntz, Comprehensive Criminal Procedure 1084 (3d. ed. 2011).  See generally Stuntz, Unequal Justice, supra note 7, at 1989 (“[J]uries were exercising powers of moral evaluation—powers the substantive law of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries vested in fact finders, not just in legislatures.”).

      [29].   Fairfax, supra note 20, at 706.  As Ron Wright explained, colonial grand juries “did not refuse to indict because of a lack of proof that the accused had violated a criminal statute” but rather because “they fundamentally disagreed with the government’s decision to enforce these laws at all.”  Ronald F. Wright, Why Not Administrative Grand Juries?, 44 Admin. L. Rev. 465, 469 (1992); see also Simmons, supra note 12, at 5 (“[F]rom the beginning, the grand jury was a political body.”).

      [30].   William E. Nelson, Americanization of the Common Law: The Impact of Legal Chance on Massachusetts Society 26 (Univ. of Ga. Press 1994) (1975).

      [31].   Francis Bowes Sayre, Mens Rea, 45 Harv. L. Rev. 974, 988 (1932).

      [32].   Simmons, Re-Examining the Grand Jury, supra note 12, at 10–14.

      [33].    Id. at 11.

      [34].   Id. at 10–11.  Additional historical examples include “no true bills” returned against violators of unpopular colonial tax and sedition acts.  Sara Sun Beale, Grand Jury Law and Practice § 1:3 (2d ed. 1997) (“The refusal to indict in these cases appears to have been based on the jurors’ approval of the conduct in question, and not on the finding that the defendants were innocent of the conduct charged against them.”); Fairfax, supra note 20, at 722; Leipold, supra note 21, at 285 & n.131.

      [35].   Simmons, supra note 12, at 11.

      [36].   Id. at 31 & n.136 (reporting an indictment rate of 99.6% for federal grand juries in 1984, a 99.5% rate for federal grand juries in 1976, and a consistent indictment rate of more than 99%).

      [37].   Beale, supra note 34, at 8–11.

      [38].   Id.

      [39].   Id. at 8–13.

      [40].   Paul H. Robinson, Reply, in Criminal Law Conversations 61, 62 (Paul H. Robinson et al. eds., 2009) (“[L]ay judgments about core wrongdoing are intuitional.”).

      [41].   Specifically, Paul Robinson has observed that “as a matter of common sense, the law’s moral credibility is not needed to tell a person that murder, rape, or robbery is wrong[,]” but, by contrast, “at the borderline of criminal activity, where there may be some ambiguity as to whether the conduct really is wrong.”  Paul H. Robinson, Why Does the Criminal Law Care What the Layperson Thinks Is Just? Coercive Versus Normative Crime Control, 86 Va. L. Rev. 1839, 1865 n.84 (2000) [hereinafter Robinson, Crime Control]; see also Richard J. Bonnie et al., Criminal Law 215 (3d ed. 2010) (“Modern laws define a great many crimes that are not mala in se but only mala prohibita. . . . [S]uch offenses, [arise out of] no ‘innate sense of right and wrong.’” (quoting State v. Boyett, 32 N.C. (10 Ired.) 336, 343–44 (1849))); Paul H. Robinson & John M. Darley, Justice, Liability, and Blame: Community Views and the Criminal Law 13 (1995) (arguing that while mala prohibita offenses are “less intuitively improper conduct” there is “significant potential for disagreement . . . between code and community with regard to ‘victimless crimes,’ such as prostitution, gambling, or distribution of certain drugs”); Bowers, LGNI, supra note 1, at 1667 & n.45.

      [42].   Simmons, supra note 12, at 31 (“Grand jury statistics are notoriously difficult to obtain.  Most prosecutors’ offices . . . are reluctant to publicize the fact that grand juries reject any cases at all.”).

      [43].   Robert A. Carp, The Harris County Grand Jury—A Case Study, 12 Hous. L. Rev. 90, 111, 115 & tbls. 11, 13 (1974).  Specifically, Carp found that Houston grand jurors reported disagreeing with prosecutors two-and-one-half times more frequently in cases involving drug crimes than in cases involving crimes of passion.  Remarkably, a Bronx prosecutor reported almost the same statistic: that New York City grand juries are two-and-one-half times more likely to refuse to charge drug felonies than felonies overall.  Simmons, supra note 12, at 34, 50 (observing that grand juries are likelier to play an equitable role in “cases on the margins”).

      [44].   Carp, supra note 43, at 111 tbl.10; cf. Lawrence v. Texas, 539 U.S. 558 (2003) (invalidating a Texas sodomy statute that criminalized adult consensual same-sex sexual activity).

      [45].   The quote is commonly attributed to Sol Wachtler, former Chief Judge of the New York Court of Appeals.  United States v. Navarro-Vargas, 408 F.3d 1184, 1195 (9th Cir. 2005).  Wachtler learned the power of the grand jury first hand.  He was prosecuted, convicted, and sent to prison for harassing his mistress and for threatening to kidnap her daughter.  Lawrence Van Gelder, Ex-Judge Wachtler to Move from Prison to Halfway House, N.Y. Times, Aug. 27, 1994, at 21, available athttp://www.nytimes.com/1994/08/27/nyregion/ex-judge
-wachtler-to-move-from-prison-to-halfway-house.html; see also William J. Campbell, Eliminate the Grand Jury, 64 J. Crim. L. & Criminology 174, 174 (1973) (“[T]he grand jury is the total captive of the prosecutor.”); Simmons, supra note 12, at 29 (“For the last forty years, commentators and practitioners alike have almost uniformly called for the grand jury’s reform or outright abolition, claiming that the institution is no more than a rubber stamp for the prosecutor.”).

      [46].   See generally Bowers, Punishing, supra note 1 (exploring the concept of normative guilt and innocence).

      [47].   Moreover, there is strong reason to believe that the grand jury is not all that good at fulfilling its ostensible legal function.  Specifically, Andrew Leipold has argued persuasively that a trained magistrate—that is, a legal technician—is better equipped to answer the legal question of whether the probable-cause standard is met.  Leipold, supra note 21, at 394; see also Campbell, supra note 45, at 178 (arguing that the “laymen who make up the grand jury possess neither the skills nor the training” for the “sophisticated” legal task of measuring probable cause, and, thus, the grand jury “operates as a sounding board for the predetermined [legal] conclusions of the prosecuting official”); Simmons, supra note 12, at 45 (“Grand jurors are inherently unqualified to perform this statutory duty . . . [of] evaluat[ing] whether or not there is sufficient evidence to establish reasonable cause that the defendant committed a crime.”).

      [48].   Leipold, supra note 21 at 283 n.120; see also Ernest S. Griffith, History of American City Government: The Colonial Period 217 (1938) (describing grand jury presentments for illegal tread on wheels of carts and for liquor violations); Richard D. Younger, The People’s Panel: The Grand Jury In The United States, 1634–1941 at 7–8 (1963) (describing colonial grand jury presentments for neglecting a ferry, drunkenness, disgraceful speech, breach of the Sabbath, and idle living).  Even as late as 1930, one scholar described grand-jury indictments for violations of “[d]og law,” “[b]awdy house,” “[f]ish law,” “[g]ambling,” “[h]unting without license,” “[c]onducting dance in unlicensed hall,” “[c]ontributing to delinquency of minor,” “[d]riving without lights,” “[i]ndecent conduct,” “[l]ottery tickets (possession of),” “[l]eaving scene of motor accident,” “[n]uisance,” “[p]erverted practice,” “[p]ublic profanity,” “[r]oad nuisance,” “[s]peeding,” and “[v]agrancy.”  Wayne L. Morse, A Survey of the Grand Jury System, 10 Or. L. Rev. 101, 131 tbl.II-A (1931).

      [49].   Bowers, supra note 16, at 806–07 (“Enforcement may be selective simply because drug crime is everywhere, but the police cannot be.  Police rationally concentrate on poor and urban–often minority—communities because drug use is more readily discoverable in these areas.”); William J. Stuntz, Race, Class, and Drugs, 98 Colum. L. Rev. 1795, 1810, 1820–22 (1998) (“Looking in poor neighborhoods tends to be both successful and cheap. . . . Street stops can go forward with little or no advance investigation. . . . [T]he stops themselves consume little time, so the police have no strong incentive to ration them carefully.”).

      [50].   See supra note 45 and accompanying text.

      [51].   See generally Josh Bowers, Grassroots, supra note 3; Kahan, Reciprocity, supra note 3; Stuntz, supra note 6.

      [52].    Bowers, LGNI, supra note 1; Josh Bowers, Mandatory Life and the Death of Equitable Discretion, in Life Without Parole: The New Death Penalty 1, 36–37 (Austin Sarat, ed. forthcoming 2012) (on file with author) [hereinafter Bowers, LWOP].

      [53].   1 William Blackstone, Commentaries, *62; Bowers, LGNI, supra note 1, at 1672 (“Complete justice demands both the simple justice that arises from fair and virtuous treatment and the legal justice that arises from the application of legal rules.”); see also Bowers, LWOP, supra note 52 (manuscript at 36–37).

      [54].   See Bowers, LGNI, supra note 1, at 1655, 1657–58.

      [55].   See id. at 1660, 1702.

      [56].   Bowers, LWOP, supra note 52 (manuscript at 17) (“[T]he prosecutor is a  trained professional, and the trained professional typically develops heuristics that may frustrate adequate contextualization.”).  According to Blackstone, such dependence on “established rules and fixed precepts” has the capacity to “destroy [equity’s] very essence” by “reducing it to positive law.”  1 Blackstone, supra note 53, at *61–62.

      [57].   Bowers, LGNI, supra note 1, at 1716–17.

      [58].   Jeffrey Abramson, We, The Jury: The Jury System and the Ideal of Democracy 18 (1994) (“[L]ocal knowledge . . . qualifies the juror[s] to understand the facts of the case and to pass judgment in ways that a stranger . . . could not. . . . [T]hey know the conscience of the community and can apply the law in ways that resonate with the community’s moral values and common sense.”).

      [59].   Bowers, LWOP, supra note 52 (manuscript at 24).

      [60].   Bowers, LGNI, supra note 1, at 1659–60 (describing conventional wisdom).

      [61].   Id.

      [62].   Edward R. Wilder, Trial of Issues of Fact—Jury v. Judges, 13 W. Jurist 391, 395 (1879).

      [63].   Parklane Hosiery Co. v. Shore, 439 U.S. 322, 355 (1979) (Rehnquist, J., dissenting).  As I have written elsewhere:

This is a theme to which lower courts have returned repeatedly: that lay jurors are “not likely to get into the habit of disregarding any circumstances of fact, or of forcing cases into rigid forms and arbitrary classes;” that “the good sense of a jury . . . that take[s] a common-sense view of every question” is sometimes to be preferred to the judgment of the legal professional who “generalizes and reduces everything to an artificial system formed by study.”  These courts have recognized an Aristotelian insight: that evaluation of just deserts is not mechanistic and technical, but, instead, draws on practical wisdom about “the common concerns of life”—an intuitive kind of wisdom that the layperson consults naturally.

LWOP, supra note 52 (manuscript at 21) (quoting Hamilton v. People, 29 Mich. 173, 190 (1874); State v. Williams, 2 Jones L. (47 N. Car.) 257, 269 (1855); State v. Schoenwald, 31 Mo. 147, 155 (1860)).

      [64].   Nelson, supra note 30, at 26.

      [65].   As I have written elsewhere:

There are plausible reasons to believe that lay bodies contextualize the retributive inquiry better than legal technicians do.  More than the professional, the layperson has the capacity and inclination to cut through the thicket of legal and institutional norms (that are not the layperson’s stock in trade) to the equitable question of blameworthiness that is and ought to be central.

LWOP, supra note 52 (manuscript at 20–21).

      [66].   Josh Bowers, Blame by Proxy: Political Retributivism & Its Problems, A Response to Dan Markel, 1 Va. J. Crim. L. (forthcoming 2012), available athttp://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=1945743 [hereinafter Bowers, Blame by Proxy] (“[T]he full measure of moral blameworthiness is to be found in neither code nor casebook—court nor classroom.  It is the product of neither executive nor judicial pronouncement.  To the contrary, it arises out of the exercise of human intuition and practical reason, applied concretely to the particular offender and his act.”); Bowers, LGNI, supra note 1 at 1725–26 (“[P]rofessionals are not so uniquely competent to reach normative determinations, and lay bodies are not so obviously inept.  Accordingly, the criminal justice system should experiment with charging decisions to find some interval for lay participation in the [inculpation of another.”]) (internal quotation marks omitted).

      [67].   Stuntz, Unequal Justice, supra note 7, at 1974; William J. Stuntz, The Collapse of American Criminal Justice 7–8 (2011) [hereinafter, Stuntz, Collapse] (“If criminal justice is to grow more just, those who bear the costs of crime and punishment alike must exercise more power over those who enforce the law and dole out punishment.”).

      [68].   Stuntz, Unequal Justice, supra note 67, at 1981–82; see also id. at 2040 (“From the perspective of those who pay for the never-ending battle against crime in the coin of safety and freedom, criminal justice is no longer an exercise in self-government—not something that residents of high-crime neighborhoods do for themselves, but something people who live elsewhere do to them.”).

      [69].   Dan M. Kahan & Tracey L. Meares, Foreword: The Coming Crises of Criminal Procedure, 86 Geo. L.J. 1153, 1168 (1998) (arguing in favor of deferring to inner-city judgments about the balance of liberty and order).

      [70].   Henry M. Hart, Jr., The Aims of the Criminal Law, 23 Law & Contemp. Probs. 401, 404 (1958).

      [71].   Jessica K. Lowe, A Separate Peace? The Politics of Localized Law in the Post-Revolutionary Era, 36 Law & Soc. Inquiry 788, 793 (2011) (discussing and quoting Laura F. Edwards, The People and Their Peace: Legal Culture and the Transformation of Inequality in the Post-Revolutionary South 65 (2009)); see alsoStephanos Bibas, The Machinery of Criminal Justice (2012).  In his brilliant article, Bill Stuntz attributes to the influence of local democracy the relative egalitarian nature of urban criminal justice in the Gilded Age, and “[n]owhere was the power of local democracy more evident than in battles over vice.”  Stuntz, supra note 7, at 1975, 1996.

      [72].   Bowers, LGNI, supra note 1, at 1725; Heather K. Gerken, Second-Order Diversity, 118 Harv. L. Rev. 1099, 1104, 1145 (2005) (arguing that granting local minorities the authority to decide may serve as a “counterweight” to the prevailing dominant “influence model”); Douglas E. Litowitz, Kafka’s Outsider Jurisprudence, 27 Law & Soc. Inquiry 103, 132–33 (2002) (“[B]oth insider and outsider perspectives have an important role to play in any comprehensive account of law . . . .  [O]utsider and insider perspectives can mediate each other . . . .  The goal is to play multiple perspectives against each other in a kind of hermeneutic conversation . . . .”).

      [73].   Dan M. Kahan & Martha C. Nussbaum, Two Conceptions of Emotion in Criminal Law, 96 Colum. L. Rev. 269, 362–64 (1996).

      [74].   Stuntz, supra note 7, at 2040.

      [75].   Bowers, LGNI, supra note 1, at 1701–02.

      [76].   Id. at 1702.

      [77].   Id. at 1705–06.

      [78].   Bowers, Punishing, supra note 1, at 1134 (“In low-stakes cases, process costs dominate . . . .”).

      [79].   Bibas, Transparency, supra note 2, at 932–34 (“[C]riminal laws do not create binding obligations but rather a menu of options for [professional] insiders.”);see also Bowers, Blame by Proxy, supra note 67, at 1; Bowers, LGNI, supra note 1, at 1693–96, 1698, 1700–04; ; William J. Stuntz, Plea Bargaining and Criminal Law’s Disappearing Shadow, 117 Harv. L. Rev. 2548, 2554, 2557–58 (2004)[hereinafter Stuntz, Plea Bargaining]; Stuntz, Unequal Justice, supra note 7, at 2001 (“Laws like these give prosecutors more cards to play . . . .”).

      [80].   Hartman v. Moore, 547 U.S. 250, 265–66 (2006); Atwater v. Lago Vista, 532 U.S. 318, 354 (2001); Whren v. United States, 517 U.S. 806, 813, 818–19 (1996); Bordenkircher v. Hayes, 434 U.S. 357, 358, 364–65 (1978); People v. Robinson, 767 N.E.2d 638, 642 (N.Y. 2001).

      [81].   Bowers, LGNI, supra note 1, at 1693–96, 1700–04, 1708; see also supra notes 49–50, 52 and accompanying text.

      [82].   Stuntz, Self-Defeating Crimes, supra note 6, at 1892; Stuntz, Race, Class, and Drugs, supra note 49, at 1795, 1831.

      [83].   Blakely v. Washington, 542 U.S. 296, 306–07 (2004); see also Williams v. Florida, 399 U.S. 78, 100 (1970) (observing that the value of the jury “lies in the interposition between the accused and his accuser of the commonsense judgment of a group of laymen”); Jenia Iontcheva Turner, Implementing Blakely, 17 Fed. Sent’g Rep. 106, 111 (2004) (noting that the Court’s reasoning in the Blakely line of cases extends also to “moral . . . decision-making”).

      [84].   See, e.g., Whren, 517 U.S. at 813 (permitting pretexual traffic stops by narcotics officers); Costello v. United States, 350 U.S. 359, 359–61 (1956) (involving pretextual tax-evasion prosecution of suspected mobster).

      [85].   See generally Andrew D. Leipold, Rethinking Jury Nullification, 82 Va. L. Rev. 253 (1996).

      [86].   Fairfax, supra note 20, at 720.

      [87].   Id. at 708 n.10; see also id. at 717 (discussing the “long shadow cast by petit jury nullification” and how “deep skepticism” toward this type of nullification animates much of the scholarship and law); Kuckes, supra note 21, at 1269 n.19 (“[J]ury nullification . . . criticisms do not readily apply to grand juries, which have the valid power to decline prosecution even on meritorious criminal charges.”); Simmons, supra note 12, at 48 (“The term ‘grand jury nullification’ is . . . a misnomer because it equates the grand juror’s proper exercise of discretionary judgment with a trial juror’s improper decision to acquit those whom have been proven guilty.”).  I must concede that, several years ago, when I first considered the normative function of the grand jury, I too used the term “grand jury nullification.”  Josh Bowers,Grand Jury Nullification: Black Power in the Charging Decision, in Criminal Law Conversations, supra note 40, at 578, 578.  However, I have since come to the conclusion that nullification is the wrong label.

      [88].   Bowers, Equitable Constraints as Rules of Law, supra note 19.

      [89].   Id.; see also Kahan & Nussbaum, supra note 73, at 374 (“It is when the law refuses to take responsibility for its most contentious choices that its decisionmakers are spared the need to be principled, and the public the opportunity to see correctable injustice.”).

      [90].   Aristotle, The Nicomachean Ethics, at 1137b 14–20 (J.A.K. Thomson & Hugh Tredennick trans., Penguin Classics rev. ed. 2004) (c. 384 B.C.E.).

      [91].   Laura F. Edwards, The People and Their Peace: Legal Culture and the Transformation of Inequality in the Post-Revolutionary South 239–40 (2009) (quoting State v. Mann, 13 N.C. (2 Dev.) 263, 266 (1829)).

      [92].   Lowe, supra note 71, at 790 (describing, but not fully subscribing to, Edwards’ perspective); cf. Stuntz, Unequal Justice, supra note 7, at 2031–32 (discussing criminal justice in the Gilded Age and concluding that “moderation and equality” depend upon putting equitable discretion “in the hands of residents of those neighborhoods where the most criminals and crime victims live.”).

      [93].   Younger, supra note 48, at 128–29 (noting grand jury refusals to charge members of the Ku Klux Klan); Simmons, supra note 12, at 14 (discussing grand jury refusals to charge whites with violence against African-Americans in the reconstruction south); Fairfax, supra note 20, at 722.

      [94].   Bibas, Forgiveness, supra note 15, at 347 (“[A]ll of these concerns are legitimate but far from fatal.  Discrimination, arbitrariness, and variations in temperament, eloquence, and attractiveness are endemic problems in criminal justice.  Remorse, apology, and forgiveness are at least neutral metrics and criteria to structure and guide discretion.”); cf. Kenneth Culp Davis, Discretionary Justice 21 (1969) (“[T]he conception of equity that discretion is needed as an escape from rigid rules [is] a far cry from the proposition that where law ends tyranny begins.”).

      [95].   Courts have indicated that it is appropriate for prosecutors to exercise such equitable discretion.  Pugach v. Klein, 193 F. Supp. 630, 634 (S.D.N.Y 1961) (“[The prosecutor never has a] duty to prosecute [because] problems are not solved by the strict application of an inflexible formula.  Rather, their solution calls for the exercise of judgment.”).  For an argument that equitable charging discretion is inevitable, desirable, and ultimately under-exercised, see generally Bowers, LGNI, supranote 1.

      [96].   However, it should also be noted that such policies and practices constrain not only arbitrary decision making, but also decision making that is appropriately sensitive to the equities of the particular case.

      [97].   Stuntz, Unequal Justice, supra note 7, at 1973, 1976, 1995, 2012, 2031–33, 2039 (arguing that “equality and local democracy go hand in hand” and that public and locally accountable exercises of equitable discretion “promot[e] consistency, not arbitrariness”); see also Bowers, LGNI, supra note 1, at 1676 (“By embracing case-specific equitable valuation, the system is not any less consistent per se (even if the inevitable inconsistencies are more apparent); in fact, such a system may even be more consistent and less arbitrary, especially where normative judgments are made by locally responsive and comparatively more transparent lay collectives.”).

      [98].   Fairfax, supra note 20, at 715 n.49 (indicating that, unlike a petit jury, a single holdout cannot derail a prospective charge).

      [99].   See Douglas G. Smith, Structural and Functional Aspects of the Jury: Comparative Analysis and Proposals for Reform, 48 Ala. L. Rev. 441, 485 (1997) (“The jury may be a superior institution to fill the factfinding role if for no other reason than that it is a group decisionmaking body rather than a single individual.”);see also Laura Appleman, The Plea Jury, 85 Ind. L.J. 731, 753 (2010) (“There is an undeniable advantage [to] having a group, instead of a single actor . . . since the breadth of a group’s experience is necessarily much wider than just one, regardless of expertise.”).

    [100].   Double jeopardy would not apply to the rejected charges.  Beale, supra note 34, § 8:6 (“Double jeopardy imposes no bar to resubmission because the grand jury has determined only that the evidence presented did not establish probable cause to indict the accused.”); see Crist v. Bretz, 437 U.S. 28, 29 (1978) (“[J]eopardy attaches when the jury is empanelled and sworn.”).  However, if the normative grand jury is to be more than toothless, I would think there would need to be some reasonable limits on resubmission.  See Simmons, supra note 12, at 19 (“[A]llowing re-submissions prevents the grand jury from acting as an effective check on the prosecutor . . . since the state effectively can ignore any action the grand jury takes without legal repercussions.”); id. at 9 (“Of course this defiance did not help Colledge in the end. . . . [T]his second grand jury dutifully indicted Colledge, and he was immediately tried and executed.”); see also Leipold, supra note 21, at 281–82.  Perhaps, the prosecutor would be permitted to resubmit upon a showing of probable jury bias or other improper motivation.  Significantly, a minority of states do limit statutorily the authority of prosecutors to resubmit charges.  Beale, supra note 34, at § 8:6.

    [101].   Alfieri, supra note 9, at 1469 (“Community-prosecution programs . . . affor[d] opportunities for citizen-state collaboration and . . . encourag[e] grassroots justice initiatives.”); Thompson, supra note 9, at 354–55, 360 (noting the decentralization, accountability, and collaboration involved in contemporary community prosecution programs).

    [102].   Margareth Etienne, In Need of a Theory of Mitigation, in Criminal Law Conversations, supra note 40, at 630, 631 (“[T]o leave these hard questions in the hand of any one institutional actor—the judge, jury (or commonly, the prosecutor)—is to leave that group susceptible to accusations of caprice and lawlessness.”).

    [103].   Frederick Schauer, Giving Reasons, 47 Stan. L. Rev. 633, 657 (1995) (“[W]hen institutional designers have grounds for believing that decisions will systematically be the product of bias, self-interest, insufficient reflection, or simply excess haste, requiring decisionmakers to give reasons may counteract some of these tendencies.”); Mathilde Cohen, Comparing Reason Giving (unpublished manuscript) (on file with author) (observing that reason giving may “encourag[e] consistency . . . and promot[e] the rule of law . . . [because] [t]he practice of reason-giving limits the scope of available discretion over time by encouraging judges to treat similarly situated cases alike and to treat differently situated cases differently”).

    [104].   Stuntz, supra note 7, at 2039 (emphasis added).

    [105].   As I observed previously:

[T]he risk of abuse of equitable discretion is endemic—as is the risk of abuse across human endeavors. But this endeavor ought not to be abandoned just because unchecked equitable discretion paradoxically may empower decision-makers to behave inequitably by, for example, exacerbating the oppressive treatment of traditionally subjugated groups.  The risk of abuse merely underscores the need for conscientious institutional and legal design intended to express and cabin equitable discretion optimally.

Bowers, LWOP, supra note 52, (manuscript at 15–16).

    [106].   Id.; Bowers, Equitable Constraints as Rules of Law, supra note 19.

    [107].   Kahan & Nussbaum, supra note 73, at 360, 362–64 (indicating that efforts to strip or conceal exercises of equitable discretion may lead only to their arbitrary, “clumsy and offhand” expression).

    [108].   Id. at 274; Dan M. Kahan, Ignorance of Law is an Excuse— But Only for the Virtuous, 96 Mich L. Rev. 127, 154 (1997) (“The moralizing that occurs with [the] criminal law . . . [is] on balance a good thing, and [is] probably inevitable in any event, but [it] ought at least to be made openly.”); cf. Schauer, supra note 103, at 658 (noting that when an official “announc[es] an outcome without giving a reason” she engages in an “exercise of authority.”).

    [109].   Bibas, Foregiveness, supra note 15, at 331 n.6 (observing that lay participation in criminal justice probably works best in “homogenous communities”).

    [110].   See John Langbein, Torture and Plea Bargaining, 46 U. Chi. L. Rev. 3, 21 (1978) (proposing an informal “streamlined . . . procedure” as “a middle path between the impossible system of routine adversary jury trial and the disgraceful nontrial system of plea bargaining”).

    [111].   Costello v. United States, 350 U.S. 359, 364 (1956); see also Simmons, supra note 12, at 5 (“[E]arly grand juries heard no evidence and did not even need to have firsthand knowledge of the cases that came before them . . . .”).

    [112].   Fed. R. Evid. 1101(d).

    [113].   See United States v. Calandra, 414 U.S. 338, 349–50 (1974) (holding that the grand jury may consider illegally obtained evidence); Costello, 350 U.S. at 363 (holding that the grand jury may consider hearsay).

    [114].   See Simmons, supra note 12, at 24 (“[G]iving the defendant the right to testify makes sense if the grand jury is actually performing a broader, more political role.”).

    [115].   Id. at 23–24 & n.103 (indicating that only four states provide defendant a statutory right to testify before the grand jury).

    [116].   Id. at 16.

    [117].   Indeed, remarking on the Colledge trial, King William III’s Solicitor General indicated that the “matter of admitting counsel to a grand-jury hath been . . . a very unjustifiable and unsufferable one.”  Sir John Hawles, Remarks on Colledge’s Trial, 8 Howell’s State Trials 723, 724 (T. B. Howell ed., 1816). In his opinion, the grand jury “ought to . . . not rely upon the private opinion of counsel, especially of the king’s counsel, who are, or at least behave themselves as if they were parties.” Id.  Likewise, in 1806, the United States Attorney for Kentucky sought admission to the grand jury that was considering the indictment of Aaron Burr.  The request was taken to be “novel and unprecedented” and was denied.  Helene E. Schwartz, Demythologizing the Historic Role of the Grand Jury, 10 Am. Crim. L. Rev. 701, 734 (1972).

    [118].   See Hurtado v. California, 110 U.S. 516, 538 (1884).

    [119].   Nor am I the first to propose an adversarial grand jury.  See Simmons, supra note 12, at 23–24 (discussing proposals to provide defendants rights to testify and present evidence and arguments to the grand jury).

    [120].   Because the defense attorney would present the normative arguments for the defendant, there is less concern that the defendant would implicate himself.  Cf.Simmons, supra note 12, at 23 (observing that, given the right, a defendant “will rarely testify” before a grand jury, because he “opens himself up to very real liabilities”).  I should add that—at least in the petty-crime context—I find the concern with self-incrimination overblown because these cases so rarely proceed to trial in any event.  Nevertheless, I am skeptical whether an efficient normative grand jury could include the presentation of testimony—either from the defendant or anyone else.  An additional advantage of allowing the defense attorney to speak for the defendant is that it minimizes the risk that the grand jury would decline charges on the bases of such irrelevant factors as defendant charisma.  See, e.g., Bibas, Forgiveness, supra note 15, at 347 (“Some offenders and some victims are more eloquent and attractive than others, which may increase their ability to win forgiveness and mercy.”); Ekow Yankah, Good Guys and Bad Guys: Punishing Character, Equality and the Irrelevance of Moral Character to Criminal Punishment, 25 Cardozo L. Rev. 1019, 1020–21 (2004) (arguing that people read character signals to conclude—often incorrectly—that an actor is blameworthy in a particular situation).

    [121].   Chris Guthrie, Jeffrey J. Rachlinski & Andrew J. Wistrich, Blinking on the Bench: How Judges Decide Cases, 93 Cornell L. Rev. 1, 7 (2007); see alsoJonathan Haidt, The Emotional Dog and Its Rational Tail: A Social Intuitionist Approach to Moral Judgment, 108 Psychol. Rev. 814, 817 (2001) (claiming that moral judgments are products of quick moral intuitions followed by after-the-fact moral reasoning).

    [122].   Malcolm M. Feeley, The Process is the Punishment: Handling Cases in a Lower Criminal Court 179 (1979) (noting that the defense attorney tries to individualize his client and distinguish the incident from the “normal” instance of the charged crime); see, e.g., id. at 164 (“You wouldn’t want to louse up this guy’s whole life for this measly prank.”); Milton Heumann, Plea Bargaining: The Experiences of Prosecutors, Judges, and Defense Attorneys 32 (1977) (“You get . . . a first offender on a drunk driving case, and suppose the guy has got a wife and six kids . . . .  [Y]ou get a [prosecutor] to say, ‘Hell, how am I going to cost this guy his job, getting him a divorce, blow his family, put his kids on welfare for six months . . . .”); id. at 40 (“[H]ere’s a nice kid . . . he’s a college kid.”); id. at 109 (“Now look.  He’s an old guy.  He’s sixty-two years old, how about six months?”); id. at 151 (“Army backgrounds, both with tremendous records in the service, all kinds of citations and everything else, fully employed, good family backgrounds, no criminal records . . . .  These men shouldn’t have felony records for the rest of their lives . . . .”); see also Feeley, supra, at 162–65 (highlighting normative plea-bargaining arguments based on remorse, clean record, the potential loss of educational and employment opportunities, family and social support, and the bad character of the arresting officer).

    [123].   See supra notes 88–99 and accompanying text.

    [124].   For felony cases, courts could employ the cheaper mechanism of a magistrate’s preliminary hearing, which—in that context—is also more effective, because a legal technician can be expected to do better assessing the legal determination of probable cause, and that legal determination is comparatively more important in the serious cases where selective enforcement and normative disagreement are less likely concerns.  Indeed, a number of states have substituted preliminary hearings for grand jury proceedings in felony cases, and the data indicate that magistrates are somewhat likelier to reject proposed felony charges for lack of probable cause.  Allen et al., supra note 28, at 1037.

    [125].   See James N. Canham, One Day, One Trial, 16 Judges’ J., no. 3, 1977 at 34, 36 (“Extended service leads to frustration and boredom, due often to under-utilization, and the resulting resentment towards the courts is not conducive to the dispensation of justice.”); Joanna Sobol, Note: Hardship Excuses and Occupational Exemptions: The Impairment of the “Fair Cross-Section of the Community,” 69 S. Cal. L. Rev. 155, 223 (1995) (citing studies and stating, “Our failure to use jurors efficiently is the principal reason why, for most citizens, jury duty is synonymous not with a meaningful opportunity to perform an important public service, but rather with aggravation and endless waiting . . . .  [Jurors’] number one complaint about jury duty is that their time is wasted at almost every opportunity.”).

    [126].   See supra note 13 and accompanying text.

    [127].   See infra Part IV.A.

    [128].   See infra Part IV.A.

    [129].   See infra Part IV.B.

    [130].   See supra p. 101.

    [131].   Gerken, supra note 72, at 1122; see also Cohen, supra note 103, at 15 (“[R]eason-giving is fundamental to a democratic regime because free and equal citizens should be treated not merely as objects of rule-application and rule-making, but also as autonomous agents who take part in the law of their own society.”); Kahan & Nussbaum, supra note 73, at 363 (observing that professional decision-makers would be compelled “to accept responsibility for their moral assessments and to give reasons for them in a public way.”); Schauer, supra note 103, at  658 (“[G]iving reasons becomes a way to bring the subject of the decision into the enterprise . . . and a way of opening a conversation rather than forestalling one.”).

    [132].   Gerken, supra note 72, at 1143–44; see also Heather K. Gerken, Dissenting by Deciding, 57 Stan. L. Rev. 1745, 1748 (2005) [hereinafter Gerken,Dissenting] (advocating disaggregated democratic institutions—like juries—that provide decision-making authority to conventionally powerless political minorities).

    [133].   See generally Gerken, supra note 72.

    [134].   Id. at 1138; see id. at 1106 (arguing that “[d]isaggregated institutions” have the benefit of “facilitating mass participation and aggregating community judgments”).

    [135].   Howard Erlanger et al., Is It Time for a New Legal Realism?, 2005 Wis. L. Rev. 335, 357; see, e.g., Stuntz, Collapse, supra note 67, at 11 (“[T]he more urgent need is for a better brand of politics: one that takes full account of the different harms crime and punishment do to those who suffer them—and one that gives those sufferers the power to render their neighborhoods more peaceful, and more just.”).  See generally William H. Simon, Solving Problems vs. Claiming Rights: The Pragmatist Challenge to Legal Liberalism, 46 Wm. & Mary L. Rev. 127 (2004).

    [136].   Gerken, supra note 72, at 1143–44; cf. Schauer supra note 103, at 658 (“[G]iving reasons may be a sign of respect.”).

    [137].   Gerken, supra note 72, at 1143–44.

    [138].   Id. at 1147 (“[T]he more poor people and people of color are involved in the decisionmaking process, the more likely it is that members of these groups will take an active role in the process.”); see also Gerald E. Frug, The City as a Legal Concept, 93 Harv. L. Rev. 1057, 1070 (1980) (“Power and participation are inextricably linked: a sense of powerlessness tends to produce apathy rather than participation.”); Gerken, supra note 72, at 1144–45 (“It may help electoral minorities feel that they have gotten a ‘fair shake’ from the majority, and thus feel more invested in the political process.”).

    [139].   Gerken, supra note 72, at 1145 n.120.

    [140].   See generally Baldwin v. New York, 399 U.S. 66 (1970); Duncan v. Louisiana, 391 U.S. 145 (1968).

    [141].   Appelman, supra note 99, at 760 (observing that “jury trials are few and far between” and that there is a systemic need for public participation exercised frequently).

    [142].   Williams v. Florida, 399 U.S. 78, 100 (1970) (discussing the value of a lay jury).

    [143].   Bowers, LWOP, supra note 52, (manuscript at 30–31) (proposing an equitable sentencing jury and observing that “[u]nder the proposed reforms, the relationship between the politics of crime and the punishment of crime might prove somewhat more dynamic” because “[t]he jury’s equitable decision might serve to bridge” the divide between “abstract litigation and specific incidents of crime”).

    [144].   Bowers, Grassroots, supra note 3, at 111 (“[T]he target communities of public-order enforcement are not those that typically wield terrific electoral clout.”); Bowers, LGNI, supra note 1, at 1714 (“Consequently, district attorneys’ electoral prospects rarely rise or fall on their handling of isolated minor cases.”).

    [145].   James Forman, Jr. & Shaimaa Hussein, Presentation at Faculty Workshop, Georgetown Law: Isolation, Empathy, and the Politics of Crime (Sept. 15, 2009).

    [146].   See generally Robinson & Darley, supra note 41, at 6 (“Each time the system is seen to convict in cases in which no community condemnation is appropriate, the system weakens the underlying force of the moral sanction. . . . If the criminal law is seen as unjust in one instance, its moral credibility and its concomitant compliance power are, accordingly, incrementally reduced.”); Bowers, LWOP, supra note 52, (manuscript at 22–23) (“[F]acilitating visibility and local participation has an added advantage: a criminal-justice system that equitably empowers lay bodies is likelier to be seen as legitimate and morally credible. Specifically, individuals tend to perceive lay decision-making to be more procedurally fair than professional decision-making.”); Bowers & Robinson, supra note 5; Robinson, Crime Control, supra note 41, at 1839 (arguing that punishment in the absence of community condemnation undermines the normative force of the criminal law and thereby undermines crime control); Louis Michael Seidman, Soldiers, Martyrs, and Criminals: Utilitarian Theory and the Problem of Crime Control, 94 Yale L.J. 315, 333 (1984) (“The evidence is all around us that large numbers of people are willing to play the crime game when the threatened punishment no longer communicates moral disapproval.”).

    [147].   Kahan, Reciprocity, supra note 3, at 1533 (observing that when law enforcement cultivates perceptions of legitimacy, “citizens are [more] likely to be more forgiving of isolated instances of police misconduct”).

    [148].   Id. at 1529–30.

    [149].   Jeffrey Rosen, Excessive Force: Why Patrick Dorismond Didn’t Have to Die, New Republic, Apr. 10, 2000, at 24, 27 (describing order-maintenance policing as “a drug whose primary effect is that it will reduce crime, and its side effect is that it may exacerbate political tensions”); see also Bowers, Grassroots, supra note 3, at 91–94 (discussing how when police who respond too aggressively to “borderline” behavior, they risk producing sympathy for the rule breakers, creating fear and loathing in law-abiding citizens towards order-maintenance policing); Jeffrey Fagan & Garth Davies, Street Stops and Broken Windows: Terry, Race, and Disorder in New York City, 28 Fordham Urb. L.J. 457, 461-63 (2000) (documenting legitimacy costs of order-maintenance policing); Kahan, Reciprocity, supra note 3, at 1529 (“The perception that order-maintenance policing visits unequal burdens on minorities is likely to reinforce . . . disrespect . . . .”).

    [150].   Bowers & Robinson, supra note 5, at 219–226.

    [151].   See, e.g., Virginia v. Moore, 553 U.S. 164 (2008) (holding that a misdemeanor arrest supported by probable cause is per se reasonable, even if the misdemeanor arrest is contrary to state law); Illinois v. Caballes, 543 U.S. 405 (2005) (holding that individuals have no reasonable expectation of privacy against drug-sniffing dogs); Atwater v. City of Lago Vista, 532 U.S. 318 (2001) (holding that a misdemeanor arrest supported by probable cause is per se constitutionally reasonable, no matter how trivial the criminal incident); California v. Greenwood, 486 U.S. 35 (1988) (holding that defendants have no reasonable expectation of privacy in their bagged trash); Oliver v. United States, 466 U.S. 170 (1984) (holding that individuals have no reasonable expectation of privacy in open fields); Smith v. Maryland, 442 U.S. 735 (1979) (holding that individuals have no reasonable expectation of privacy in their telephone records); United States v. Miller, 425 U.S. 435 (1976) (holding that individuals have no reasonable expectation of privacy in their bank records).  But see, e.g., Kyllo v. United States, 533 U.S. 27, 40 (2001) (recognizing a reasonable expectation of privacy against the use of a thermal imager to detect heat emanating from a home).

    [152].   See generally Bowers, Equitable Constraints as Rules of Law, supra note 19.

    [153].   Dan M. Kahan et al., Whose Eyes Are You Going to Believe? Scott v. Harris and the Perils of Cognitive Illiberalism, 122 Harv. L. Rev. 837, 888 (2009) [hereinafter Cognitive Illiberalism]; see also Albert W. Alschuler, Bright Line Fever and the Fourth Amendment, 45 U. Pitt. L. Rev. 227, 235–41 (1984); Bowers & Robinson, supra note 5, at 227 (“Courts may endorse ostensible reasonable beliefs that the reasonable public does not, in fact, share—that the public, instead, perceives to be either too deferential to the criminal class or, conversely, insufficiently protective of any citizen (save for the very paranoid).”).

    [154].   Chicago v. Morales, 527 U.S. 41, 106, 109 (1999) (Thomas, J., dissenting) (“Police officers are not . . . simply enforcers of the criminal law.  They wear other hats . . . .  [Thus,] the police inevitably must exercise discretion . . . .  That is not to say that the law should not provide objective guidelines for the police, but simply that it cannot rigidly constrain their every action.”).

    [155].   Graham v. Connor, 490 U.S. 386, 396–97 (1989) (“The calculus of reasonableness must embody allowance for the fact that police officers are often forced to make split-second judgments—in circumstances that are tense, uncertain, and rapidly evolving.”).

    [156].   For these same reasons, I am skeptical about the degree to which we may subject police decision making to popular oversight.  Thus, I acknowledge the limits of my own proposal: as a community-justice tool, the normative grand jury would do its work on the prospective prosecutorial charge, not directly on police investigation and arrest decisions.  The body’s impact on police decision-making would be tangential, if at all.  I welcome sensible community-policing reforms, but I am uncertain how to sensibly craft them, and thus such reforms are not my focus.  In short, I see persuasive reasons to conclude that police deserve deference in circumstances where prosecutors may not—reasons that I plan to explore in greater detail in a separate article.  Bowers, Equitable Constraints as a Rule of Law, supranote 19.

    [157].   See supra text accompanying notes 90–91 (discussing Aristotelian insight about the scope of effective rules).  But, as Aristotle understood, equitable constraints may pick up where legal constraints must necessarily leave off.  Id.; see also Bowers, LGNI, supra note 1, at 1705–12 (discussing how equitable considerations may offer a greater pool of options than legal remedies).

    [158].   See supra text accompanying notes 62–63 (positing the various fresh perspectives of lay decision makers).

    [159].   Kahan et al., Cognitive Illiberalism, supra note 153, at 842. See generally Bibas, Transparency, supra note 2, at 916 (observing that professionalized insider-dominated criminal justice “impairs [lay] outsiders’ faith in the law’s legitimacy and trustworthiness, which undercuts their willingness to comply with it . . . [, thus] imped[ing] the criminal law’s moral and expressive goals as well as its instrumental ones.”).

    [160].   Tracey Maclin, “Black and Blue Encounters”—Some Preliminary Thoughts about Fourth  Amendment Seizures: Should Race Matter?, 26 Val. U. L. Rev. 243, 250 (1991) (“[T]he dynamics surrounding an encounter between a police officer and a black man are quite different from those that surround an encounter between an officer and the so-called average, reasonable person.”).

    [161].   Id. at 272.

    [162].   Kahan et al., Cognitive Illiberalism, supra note 153, at 884–85.

    [163].   Kahan & Meares, supra note 69, at 1176; see also Simmons, supra note 12, at 55 (observing that “grand juries enhance a perception of justice” among defendants and grand jurors).

    [164].   See supra note 14 and accompanying text.  See generally Kim Forde-Mazrui, Jural Districting: Selecting Impartial Juries Through Community Representation, 52 Vand. L. Rev. 353 (1999).

    [165].   Bowers & Robinson, supra note 5, at 226-27; Robert J. MacCoun & Tom R. Tyler, The Basis of Citizens’ Perceptions of the Criminal Jury: Procedural Fairness, Accuracy, and Efficiency, 12 Law & Hum. Behav. 333, 338 (1988); Simmons, supra note 12, at 61 “[I]n general individuals believe—rightly or wrongly—that a jury of lay people is a fairer and more objective arbiter in a criminal case than is a trained, professional ‘expert’”).

    [166].   Allan Lind & Tom R. Tyler, The Social Psychology of Procedural Justice 106 (1988) (“The perception that one has had an opportunity to express oneself and to have one’s views considered by someone in power plays a critical role in fairness judgments.”); Tom R. Tyler, Why People Obey the Law 163 (2006) (observing that “an opportunity to take part in the decision-making process” contributes significantly to perceptions that procedures are fair); Bowers & Robinson, supra note 5, at 216 (“[P]rocedures are [perceived to be] legitimate . . . when they provide opportunities for . . . interested parties to be heard.”);Rebecca Hollander-Blumoff, Just Negotiation, 88 Wash. U. L. Rev. 381, 390 n.37 (2010) (“Research has suggested that the opportunity for participation may be important to individuals even when their participation is unlikely to affect the decision.  This suggests that on some occasions, even nonmeaningful voice may lead individuals to assess a process as more fair.”).

    [167].   Bowers & Robinson, supra note 5, at 248 (discussing the importance of decision control to perceptions of legitimacy).

    [168].   Albert Alschuler and Stephen Schulhofer have expressed support for the so-called “Philly model” that features stripped-down bench trials to lesser charges.  Albert W. Alschuler, The Changing Plea Bargaining Debate, 69 Calif. L. Rev. 652 (1981); Steven J. Schulhofer, Is Plea Bargaining Inevitable?, 97 Harv. L. Rev. 1037 (1984); cf. Is Plea Bargaining a Cop-Out?, Time, Aug. 28, 1978, at 44 (“Here we have an elaborate jury trial system, and only 10% of the accused get to use it.  That’s like solving America’s transportation problems by giving 10% Cadillacs and making the rest go barefoot.” (quoting Alschuler)).  John Langbein has expressed support for the kinds of informal jury trials that typified common-law criminal justice.  Langbein, supra note 110, at 21 (proposing an inquisitorial “streamlined . . . procedure” as “a middle path between the impossible system of routine adversary jury trial and the disgraceful nontrial system of plea bargaining”); cf. Steven Zeidman, Perspective: Time to End Violation Pleas, N.Y.L.J., April 1, 2008, at 2, col. 3 (proposing a ban on first-appearance guilty pleas).  See generally Bibas, Machinery, supra note 71.

    [169].   See, e.g., Feeley, supra note 122; see also Heumann, supra note 122; Bowers, Punishing, supra note 1, at 1120.

    [170].   See generally Bowers, LWOP, supra note 52 (making a similar claim about lay equitable sentencing discretion).

    [171].   See generally Bowers, LGNI, supra note 1.

    [172].   Simmons, supra note 12, at 11.

Bowers_LawReview_9.12

 

By: Josh Bowers* & Paul H. Robinson**

Introduction

A growing literature suggests that a criminal justice system derives practical value by generating societal perceptions of fair enforcement and adjudication.[1]  Specifically, perceptions of procedural fairness—resulting in perceptions of the system’s “legitimacy,” as the term is used—may promote systemic compliance with substantive law, cooperation with legal institutions and actors, and deference to even unfavorable outcomes.[2]  A separate literature suggests that a criminal justice system derives practical value by distributing criminal liability and punishment according to principles that track societal intuitions of justice.[3]  Specifically, perceptions of substantive justice—resulting in perceptions of the system’s “moral credibility”—would seem to promote compliance, cooperation, and deference.  By contrast, a criminal justice system perceived to be procedurally unfair or substantively unjust may provoke resistance and subversion, and may lose its capacity to harness powerful social and normative influence.[4]

This Article examines the shared aims and overlaps in operation and effect of these two criminal justice dynamics—the “legitimacy” that derives from fair adjudication and professional enforcement and the “moral credibility” that derives from just results—as well as the occasional potential for conflict.  Specifically, in this Article, we aim to isolate and define the parameters of each dynamic, to compare and examine their similarities and differences, and to explore the settings in which the two run together or (more rarely) cross-wise.  In this way, our overarching objective is to clear the air.  To date, legal scholars have tended to invoke the two dynamics too casually, to ignore one but not the other, or to conflate or confuse the two.  Thus, we intend to provide something of a primer: a useful and necessary analytic framework for ongoing debates into the advantages, limits, and dangers of moral credibility and legitimacy.  But we do not stop there.  We stake out tentative positions within these debates.  That is, we endorse the prevailing view that moral credibility and legitimacy are promising—indeed, critical—systemic enterprises, and we make a number of tentative claims about when and to what degree a system ought to pursue or prioritize each enterprise.  Particularly, we anticipate significant crime-control advantages for a system that enjoys perceptions of both moral credibility and legitimacy, but we conclude that—for empirical and theoretical reasons—moral credibility ought to be the principal objective in uncommon circumstances in which a system may effectively pursue only one.

In Part I, we explore the shared aims of legitimacy and moral credibility.  In Part II, we discuss the practices, procedures, and rules that produce, undermine, or implicate perceptions of procedural fairness and substantive justice, and we identify potential pitfalls and dangers for a criminal justice system committed to generating perceptions of fairness and justice.  In Part III, we confront the critical question of whether perceptions of fairness and justice effectively promote deference to law and legal authorities and institutions.  In Part IV, we attempt to explain why a criminal justice system may come to adopt and implement practices, standards, and rules that deviate from societal perceptions of fairness and justice.  Finally, in Part V, we examine the interesting issues raised when legitimacy and moral credibility conflict with one another, and we sketch our vision for how a system ought to resolve the tension.

I.  The Shared Aims of Legitimacy and Moral Credibility

A.     Legitimacy

In law, as in life, legitimacy is a term invoked so casually that it sometimes seems to signify little more than a vague aspiration.  However, in the criminal-justice context, the term has come to represent something more precise.  Criminologists, social psychologists, and political scientists have refined the concept to mean a “belief that legal authorities are entitled to be obeyed and that the individual ought to defer to their judgments.”[5]  In this Article, we focus principally on the work of Tom Tyler, not because he is a leading legitimacy theorist and empirical researcher, but because over the past two decades his work has generated the most attention in the legal academy, and we are particularly concerned with the ways in which legal scholars have, to date, used (and misused) his contributions.

Tyler has argued persuasively that the law’s legitimacy (or at least a perception of it) is critical to a well-functioning criminal justice system and to public safety more generally.  Specifically, effective crime control depends on volitional deference to substantive law and to its enforcement and adjudication.  And, significantly, perceptions of procedural fairness may well facilitate such deference.  The importance of the legitimacy project cannot, therefore, be oversold.  It is a terrifically promising enterprise that may serve to promote the very goals that are (and ought to be) central to criminal justice: compliance with statutory law and cooperation with legal authorities and institutions.

Procedure is legitimacy’s starting point.[6]  People come to obey the law and cooperate with legal authorities because they perceive their institutions to operate fairly.  In this way, perceptions of procedural fairness facilitate a kind of normative, as opposed to purely instrumental, crime control.[7]  Put differently, citizens of a procedurally just state comport their behavior to the substantive dictates of the law not because the state exercises coercive power (or, at least, not exclusively because of it), but because they feel a normative commitment to the state.  Unlike conventional deterrence theory, which presumes the necessity of carrots and sticks, legitimacy harnesses the power of internal commitment and volitional participation.[8]  Legitimacy replaces the Holmesian “bad man” with the “faithful man”—an individual who complies with the law not because he rationally calculates that it is in his best interest to do so but because he sees himself as a moral actor who divines that it is right to defer to legitimate authority.[9]

Critically, perceptions of procedural fairness are outcome independent.[10]  In other words, a defendant or victim need not realize her objective in order to conclude that enforcement or adjudicatory practices are legitimate.  Likewise, an ordinary citizen need not determine that the law expresses her personal notion of morality in order to accept its validity.  In this way, procedural fairness differs from outcome-driven normative and psychological approaches to criminal justice (like distributive justice generally and moral credibility specifically) that examine whether the law produces results that accord with communal intuitions of just deserts.[11]  Because the concept of procedural fairness is not dependent upon piecemeal review of substantive outcomes, positive or negative perceptions possess significant potential to motivate or undermine deference to power, thus transferring broad discretionary authority to the state.[12]  In this way, legitimacy may produce compliance and cooperation with not just an immediate enforcement effort but across codes and cases, and even actors and institutions.[13]  Thus, for legal authorities, cultivating perceptions of legitimacy is of particularly useful and flexible value.[14]

But what does the public perceive to be legitimate procedures and practices?  What minimum standards are shared across demographics and cultures?  We can provide no definitive answers to these questions in this space.  Nevertheless, a fair consensus has developed over the principal criteria that typify procedural fairness.  Legitimacy may be measured by the quality of decision making or the quality of treatment of defendants.[15]  More specifically, procedures are legitimate when they are neutral, accurate, consistent, trustworthy, and fair—when they provide opportunities for error correction and for interested parties to be heard.[16]  Legal authorities are legitimate when they act impartially, honestly, transparently, respectfully, ethically, and equitably.[17]  The criminal justice system that optimally expresses these values is not only morally defensible but also quite probably stable and effective.

B.     Moral Credibility

It has long been assumed that in determining how to distribute punishment—how much to whom?—the goals of doing justice and fighting crime inevitably conflict.  The traditional crime-control principles of deterrence, rehabilitation, and incapacitation of the dangerous would distribute criminal liability and punishment in ways quite different from the distributive principle of moral desert.  Retributivists and utilitarian crime-control advocates commonly saw their dispute as irreconcilable, and in a sense it is.  However, what has been referred to as the “empirical desert” or “moral credibility” literature has argued that, in another sense, these two fundamental aims of criminal justice may not conflict.  Doing justice may be the most effective means of fighting crime.[18]

The hitch is that it is not moral philosophy’s deontological notion of justice that has crime-control power, but rather the community’s shared principles of justice, what has been called “empirical desert.”  This turns out to be both good and bad for constructing a distributive principle for criminal liability and punishment.  On the one hand, unlike moral philosophy’s deontological desert, empirical desert can be readily operationalized—its rules and principles can be authoritatively determined through social science research into people’s shared intuitions of justice.  On the other hand, people’s shared intuitions of justice are not justice, in a transcendent sense.  People’s shared intuitions can be wrong.  In the end, however, the retributivist may find that an instrumentalist distributive principle of empirical desert will produce far more deontological desert than any other workable principle that could or would be adopted.[19]

As has been argued elsewhere, the crime-control benefits from distributing punishment according to people’s shared intuitions of justice are thought to arise from a variety of sources.[20]  Some of the system’s power to gain compliance derives from its potential to stigmatize, which can be a powerful, yet essentially cost-free, control mechanism for many offenders.  Yet a criminal law can stigmatize only if it has earned moral credibility with the community it governs.  That is, for conviction to trigger community stigmatization, the law must have earned a reputation with the community for accurately reflecting the community’s views on what deserves moral condemnation.  A criminal law with liability and punishment rules that conflict with a community’s shared intuitions of justice will undermine its moral credibility.

Another value of moral credibility comes from the fact that effective operation of a criminal justice system depends on the cooperation, or at least the acquiescence, of the system’s witnesses, jurors, police, prosecutors, judges, offenders, and others.  To the extent that people see the system as in conflict with their judgments of justice, that acquiescence and cooperation is likely to fade and be replaced with resistance and subversion.[21]  Subversion and resistance may take the form of either an impulse toward apathy or an impulse toward self-help.[22]  That is, people may turn to vigilantism in reaction to a perceived failure of justice.  More commonly, people may resist or subvert the system in less dramatic ways.  Witnesses may lose an incentive to offer their information or testimony.  Citizens may fail to report crimes in the first instance.  Jurors may disregard their jury instructions.  Police officers, prosecutors, and judges may make up their own rules.  And offenders may resist adjudication processes and punishments rather than participate in them.

An even greater power of moral credibility comes through a less obvious mechanism.  The real power to gain compliance with society’s rules of conduct lies not in the threat of official sanction but rather in the influence of the forces of social and individual moral control.[23]  It is the networks of interpersonal relationships, the social norms shared among those relationships and transmitted through those social networks, and the internalization of those norms that control people’s conduct.  The law is not irrelevant to these forces.  Criminal law plays a central role in creating and maintaining the social consensus necessary for sustaining moral norms.  In a society as diverse as ours, the criminal law may be the only society-wide mechanism that transcends cultural and ethnic differences.[24]  Thus, its most important real-world effect may be its ability to assist in the building, shaping, and maintaining of these norms.  It can help build and harness the compliance-producing power of interpersonal relationships and personal morality, but only if it has earned a reputation for moral credibility with its community.  A criminal law that has been found to be off the mark in its past condemnations and punishments can be simply dismissed as just “wrong again.”

The criminal law with moral credibility also can gain deference and compliance in the particularly difficult case of borderline or new offenses.  If the law has earned a reputation as a reliable statement of community views, people are more likely to defer to its commands as morally authoritative in those borderline cases in which the propriety of the conduct is unsettled or ambiguous in the mind of the actor.  This can be an important role.  In a society with the complex interdependencies of ours, seemingly harmless conduct can have seriously harmful consequences.  When the conduct is criminalized, one would want the citizen to respect the law even if he or she does not fully understand why it is forbidden.  Such deference is more likely where citizens have come to see the criminal law as accurate in announcing condemnable behavior.[25]

The extent of the criminal law’s effectiveness in all these respects—in harnessing the power of stigmatization, in reducing resistance and subversion to a system perceived as unjust, in facilitating, communicating, and maintaining societal norms, and in gaining compliance in borderline cases—is to a large extent dependent on the degree to which the criminal law has gained moral credibility in the minds of the citizens governed by it.  If the law assigns liability and punishment in ways that the community[26] perceives as consistent with its shared intuitions of justice, it gains deference, cooperation, and compliance.  If its judgments regularly conflict with community views, its work is undermined by those who see it as unjust.  Recent empirical studies have confirmed these effects of a system’s moral credibility.  The studies suggest that the greater the perception that the criminal law’s liability and punishment rules conflict with a person’s own judgments of justice, the less likely the person is to respect that criminal law as a moral authority and, therefore, the less likely to support, cooperate, and comply with that criminal law.[27]

II.  Shaping Reputation

What do we know about public perceptions of the legitimacy of police practices and adjudicative procedures?  What do we know about public perceptions of the moral credibility of liability and punishment rules?  In this Part, we explore what is understood about how criminal justice systems develop reputations for legitimacy or moral credibility, and we conclude that—at least when it comes to the legitimacy of specific enforcement and adjudication practices and procedures—what is understood is not yet enough.

A.     Creating Legitimacy

By now, scholars have tested legitimacy in a variety of legal contexts and even in social settings beyond the law.[28]  Our analysis is limited to a slice of the existing work that relates to two criminal-justice contexts: what constitutes professional and unprofessional enforcement practices, and what constitutes fair and unfair adjudicative procedures.  Within these narrow domains, scholars have done both substantial work and, we think, not quite enough.  They have examined perceptions of legitimacy among a host of subpopulations: suspects, defendants, witnesses, victims, and ordinary citizens.[29]  They have studied procedural fairness in courthouses, in police precincts, and on police beats.  And they have consistently found that fair treatment affects attitudes toward legal authorities (though fairness may play a greater or lesser role, depending on the particular context and circumstance).[30]  But beyond the most obviously controversial enforcement tactics and adjudicatory procedures, surprisingly little is known about which practices laypersons perceive to be most professional and unprofessional, fair and unfair.[31]  The gap is especially unfortunate because legitimacy has the potential to do its best work at the margins.  More concretely, public perceptions would seem to hold the most sway on otherwise close questions.

One difficulty is that there is no clear consensus on which mechanism or mechanisms lead people to adopt perceptions of legitimacy in the first instance.  In their seminal early study, John Thibaut and Laurens Walker indicated that individuals prefer fair procedures because such procedures are ultimately more likely to produce just outcomes.[32]  In short, a fair procedure fosters a greater likelihood of a just substantive outcome, even if that favorable outcome does not, in fact, come to pass in the immediate case.  By contrast, Tom Tyler has argued that procedural fairness has normative value wholly independent of outcome because legitimate practices convey respect for the individual and thereby promote self-esteem.[33]  More recently, Kees van den Bos, Allen Lind, and others speculated that fair procedures might influence systemic satisfaction by reducing uncertainty.[34]  In short, the question is unsettled and is just one of many ripe areas for continued study.

Other open questions concern what marks the essentials of professional enforcement and fair adjudication, whether some values are more essential than others, and whether perceptions of any such minimum standards are universal across cultures and experiences (and are therefore largely resistant to habituation, education, and attempted manipulation).  It would seem to us that perceptions of procedural fairness are more malleable than intuitions about distributive justice.  After all, we see striking consistency across cultures when it comes to perceptions of the relative severity of different types of misconduct.[35]  By contrast, we see dramatic differences in the procedural norms honored by otherwise similar liberal Western states.[36]

Beyond such rough-and-ready speculation, however, we do not attempt to answer these questions.  For present purposes, we think it enough to review the extant scholarship and highlight certain unexplored or underexplored practices and procedures, many of which are neither obviously legitimate nor illegitimate, but that present potentially fruitful areas for future examination of the question.

1.     Fair Enforcement

Professional policing regulates social behavior through fair procedures and practices.  As indicated, a fair procedure may consist of fair decision making or fair treatment.  Specifically, people are likelier to perceive police decision making as fair when officers make decisions according to readily discernible and generally applicable rules, standards, and guidelines.  Likewise, people are likelier to perceive police treatment as fair when officers behave in manners that are trustworthy, equitable, dignified, and respectful.[37]

Almost certainly, the police lose perceived legitimacy when they intentionally or willfully (or even recklessly or negligently) employ excessive force.  This is a somewhat straightforward issue, and it need not detain us long.  It goes without saying that, for any number of normative and instrumental reasons beyond perceptions of legitimacy, police should refrain from the kinds of abuses of power made infamous by the beating of Rodney King,[38] the killing of Arthur McDuffie,[39] or the sodomizing of Abner Louima.[40]  Instances of extreme and intentional illegitimate behavior, even if isolated, may profoundly impact perceptions of the legitimacy of legal authorities because “people are more strongly influenced by negative experiences than by positive experiences.”[41]  This asymmetry is not terrifically surprising.  Individuals—at least those who start out believing their institutions are legitimate—anticipate positive experiences with authority.  Consequently, their positive perceptions remain somewhat static following fair treatment but may be undercut by even a single instance of unfair treatment.  Moreover, in the digital age, instances of police abuse are likelier to be recorded and broadcast to a wider audience, as demonstrated recently by the negligent homicide of Oscar Grant by a transit officer in Oakland, California—a killing that was captured by six separate cell-phone video cameras.[42]  And, of course, such images of negative treatment are likelier to be disseminated virally than banal images of respectful or pleasant police-citizen encounters.

More difficult questions arise when police engage in run-of-the-mill unprofessional practices—when they are brusque, insensitive, rude, or dishonest.  For instance, police sometimes engage in the illegitimate practice of providing doctored testimony or police reports to justify arrests, searches, or identification and interrogation procedures—the so-called “testilying” phenomenon.[43]  More generally, police may behave impolitely, aggressively, or dismissively in their day-to-day interactions with civilians.  Again, it may be enough to say that—for reasons of human decency and procedural fairness—police should strive to interact civilly with suspects, witnesses, victims, and the general public.  But beyond such platitudes, the existing literature offers some lessons.  First, police may undermine perceptions of legitimacy by showing force rather than soliciting consent politely (even in circumstances where force is justifiable and where consent is not legally required).[44]  Second, isolated incidents of low-level unprofessionalism are likelier to influence individuals’ attitudes toward the police when the contact is citizen-initiated, as opposed to police-initiated.[45]  Third, negative perceptions of unprofessional policing may prove persistent enough to affect, in turn, perceptions of prosecutorialpractices and judicial adjudicative procedures.  Specifically, Jonathan Casper found that “aspects of police treatment . . . spill over onto defendant evaluations of their experience with courtroom personnel and their general sense of fair treatment.”[46]

The thorniest questions involve police practices that are merely controversial—practices that may be considered procedurally unfair from one view, but that also may be defensible from some valid alternative perspective or for some valid alternative reason.  It is especially interesting to consider whether the Supreme Court’s constitutional acceptance or rejection of these borderline police practices aligns with the public’s perceptions of procedural fairness.  By way of example, constitutional criminal procedure questions frequently turn on analyses of expectations, understandings, or beliefs of the so-called “reasonable man.”  Yet, the Court has done almost no work to determine whether its conceptions of the reasonable layperson dovetail with what people actually find fair in a given context.  For instance, to determine whether police have engaged in a search subject to Fourth Amendment inquiry, a court must ask whether police have intruded on a defendant’s reasonable or legitimate expectation of privacy.[47]  To reach this determination, the court must make an evaluative judgment of which activities (and in what contexts) a given society at a given time perceives to be sufficiently private to merit constitutional protection.  But the Court provides no empirical bases for its assertions of what constitutes reasonable expectations of privacy within communities.  The danger is that the average person may find the Court’s folk psychological assessment of the average person’s beliefs to be disingenuously cramped or expansive.[48]  In such circumstances, the public may come to perceive unfairness along any of three dimensions.  First, the public may consider the court to be dishonest, nontransparent, or perhaps even biased.  Second, the public may take the court to be insufficiently sensitive to societal needs for effective law enforcement.  Third, the public may construe the court to be an unaccountable and nonresponsive body that substitutes its own preferences for popularly held value judgments.

To illustrate, the Supreme Court has held that a person has no reasonable expectation of privacy in her closed trash,[49] her bank[50] and telephone records,[51] or her real property as viewed aerially.[52]  Conversely, the Court has held that a person possesses a reasonable expectation of privacy in the heat emanating from her home.[53]  These intuitions are not definitively inaccurate.  For instance, social-science findings indicate that average lay perceptions, in fact, appear to align with the Court’s determinations[54] that police implicate no reasonable expectation of privacy by (1) subjecting luggage to dog sniffs for contraband,[55] (2) tracking vehicles’ movements remotely,[56] or (3) observing private property from hovering helicopters.[57]  But, when the Court relies on intuitions, it runs a significant risk that those intuitions may be wrong.  After all, judicial intuitions are just that—divinations of societal expectations grounded in no more than a hunch; deductions about what, to use Justice Harlan’s phrasing, “society is prepared to recognize as ‘reasonable.’”[58]  Thus, it may be that the public agrees that, say, a person lacks a reasonable expectation of privacy against everyone once she has “knowingly exposed” information to anyone.[59]  But it may well be otherwise.  Indeed, the few social scientists who have studied these questions have found that the public disagrees with the Court on at least some Fourth Amendment search questions.  For instance, one study found that the public perceives the practice of allowing police to inspect bank records to be highly intrusive, notwithstanding judicial tolerance for the practice.[60]

Of course, this concern is not exclusive to constitutional questions of what courts and the public perceive to be reasonable expectations of privacy.  Analogously, in the context of Fourth Amendment consent questions, courts ask whether defendants reasonably feel free to refuse police requests.[61]  In the context of Fourth Amendment seizure questions, courts ask whether defendants reasonably feel free to leave or otherwise end police encounters.[62]  Again and again, in the context of constitutional regulation of police conduct, courts take up questions of societal perspective without the benefit of empirical guidance.  As indicated, a given court’s intuitions may be right.  Indeed, the social science indicates that lay perceptions apparently align with the judicial determination that police may not solicit consent based on false claims of legal authority to search.[63]  But, on other questions, it appears that courts may have it wrong.  For instance, public perceptions are apparently at odds with decisions that, on the one hand, prohibit further interrogation once a suspect asks for counsel[64] and, on the other, authorize undercover agents to trick a suspect into confessing to crime.[65]  In a similar vein, findings suggest that—notwithstanding the Court’s view to the contrary[66]—reasonable people rarely feel free to refuse police requests.  Specifically, one study found that eighty percent of suspects acquiesced to police search requests because they believed that the police would search even without consent.[67]  Another study found that most suspects did not feel free to leave or refuse to answer police questions in the context of street stops and bus interdiction.[68]

As these studies suggest, when courts pay insufficient attention to public perceptions, they may come to make unreasonable claims about the reasonable man.  Courts may endorse ostensible reasonable beliefs that the reasonable public does not, in fact, share—that the public, instead, perceives to be either too deferential to the criminal class or, conversely, insufficiently protective of any citizen (save for the very paranoid).  To the extent judicial intuitions deviate from the lay perspective, courts risk undermining perceptions of legitimacy both by misapplying the relevant standard and by empowering police conduct that the public may find normatively problematic.  Admittedly, courts may be less than perfectly competent to analyze and utilize social science, but good-faith efforts to do so are undoubtedly superior to empty reliance on rank speculation.

The takeaway is not just that courts should take seriously—at least as a factor—lay perceptions of fairness but that social scientists should get serious about the business of measuring those perceptions.  For instance, social scientists could measure lay perspectives toward court decisions empowering police to arrest suspects for even nonjailable offenses (like driving without a seatbelt);[69] to engage in pretextual stops and suspicion-less drug interdiction;[70] to follow a fleeing suspect without triggering constitutional inquiry;[71] and to use evidence of flight to support a finding of reasonable suspicion or probable cause.[72]  In formulating these and other investigatory rules and standards, the Court has appealed to its notions of “common sense,” of “ordinary human experience,”[73] and of the “practical considerations of everyday life”[74] without demonstrating that the public shares its notions.  The public may approve of, say, high-volume, relatively unintrusive police practices, likeTerry stops and frisks, or it may instead favor low-volume (but perhaps more intrusive) practices, like house searches.  The legitimacy project potentially has much to say on these questions.  And, by listening, the system may cultivate deference for its rules and institutions.

Significantly, the Court may not be alone in reaching unfounded empirical conclusions about public perceptions.  A number of scholars have invoked the legitimacy project to advance pet projects and advocate pet reforms.  For instance, for academics and observers troubled by the racially and economically disparate impacts of policing, it is tempting to conclude, without firm empirical bases, that urban communities find unfair aggressive order-maintenance policing and stop-and-frisk practices.[75]  This is not to say that the claim is incorrect.  To the contrary, there are strong indications that heavy-handed and targeted policing does indeed engender public disaffection and thereby may prove counterproductive (particularly in the historically disadvantaged communities that tend to be subject to high levels of enforcement).[76]  But that is not the point.  The point is that we do not definitively know.  And, in such circumstances, academics should resist the temptation to rely too casually on the legitimacy project as a fulcrum to leverage idiosyncratic preferences and conceptions of what constitutes professional policing.  Academics may appropriately offer policy prescriptions based on suggestive data, but they ought to acknowledge that the data is less than clear.

How, then, might an academic appropriately confront concerns about the perceived legitimacy of borderline practices?  The glib one-word answer is “carefully.”  But, of course, we need to say more.  The scholar must keep a focus on the complexities of legitimacy questions.  Practices are multifaceted, and the public may perceive as fair or unfair some aspects or the frequency of a given practice.  Thorough analysis of legitimacy questions, thus, demands thorough understanding of the practice in question.  By way of example, consider the aforementioned practices of order-maintenance policing and attendant stops and frisks—policing practices that have been the subject of particularly sharp criticism from scholars and civil libertarians who believe that such efforts have “reduce[d] the perceived legitimacy of the police in the eyes of the public,”[77] especially where the efforts have been concentrated in predominately poor and minority high-crime neighborhoods.[78]

A brief description of each practice is in order.  First, order-maintenance policing concentrates enforcement efforts on petty public-order offenses.  The strategy is typically based on the broken windows theory, which posits that disorder, if tolerated, may foster an environment of more serious crime.[79]  Numerous urban police departments—most notably, the New York City Police Department (“NYPD”)—have embraced order-maintenance policing over the past two decades, leading to hundreds of thousands of additional arrests for minor crimes.[80]  Second, stop-and-frisk procedures (or so-called Terry stops and frisks) consist of brief detentions and searches based on “reasonable suspicion”—a standard that is less than probable cause.[81]  Specifically, under Terry, an officer has constitutional discretion to stop a suspect and frisk him for a weapon where the officer can articulate specific facts to support a reasonable suspicion that the suspect is armed and has committed, is committing, or is about to commit a crime.[82]  Significantly, stop-and-frisk practices and order-maintenance policing are related, because a department that prioritizes public order will often come to rely heavily on stop and frisk.[83]  For instance, use of Terry stops by the NYPD skyrocketed dramatically from approximately 97,000 such stops in 2002, to more than 160,000 stops in 2003, to nearly 580,000 stops in 2009.[84]

Without question, these policing efforts can be aggressive, but have they, in fact, generated disapproval from the public?  Or is the academic perception of backlash a false academic perception of public perception?  On this central question, there is a remarkable lack of empirical evidence.  In all likelihood, the answer is nuanced.  On the one hand, there appears to be a genuine perception among at least some people in some neighborhoods that stop-and-frisk and order-maintenance policing practices are invidious and thereby unfair.[85]  On the other hand, most people approve of Terry stops and frisks.[86]  Ultimately, there is probably significant variation in perspective within and across populations.[87]  Specifically, even if the general public favors these practices, residents of high-crime neighborhoods would seem to be more conflicted.  These residents internalize directly both the costs and benefits of policing and crime, and they appear to harbor anxieties about each.[88]  In such circumstances, police walk a fine line between impressions of callous disregard and repressive overreach.  And, to effectively chart this course, police could benefit from rigorous empirical study of the levels of enforcement that targeted communities perceive to be too much or not enough.  But, to date, there has been too much shouting and too little study.

Finally, questions about the perceived legitimacy of stop-and-frisk and order-maintenance policing are complicated by questions about the perceived legitimacy of racial profiling—yet another nuanced question.  And a further complication is that the public may fail to differentiate what is and is not racial profiling in the first instance.  Specifically, for present purposes, we take racial profiling to be the practice of using race qua race as a factor in enforcement decisions.[89]  This practice is, therefore, to be distinguished from other types of profiling that merely may correlate to race or ethnicity.[90]  On the one hand, the public seems to overwhelmingly support the use of drug-courier and terrorist profiles.[91]  On the other hand, there appears to be something closer to cross-demographic consensus that racial profiling, as we define it, is illegitimate.[92]  Making matters more complicated still, different demographic groups tend to disagree about whether a particular practice is motivated by race (and therefore an instance of what we take to be genuine racial profiling).[93]  For instance, one study indicated that although whites tended to find racial profiling problematic they were less likely to perceive borderline police conduct to be discriminatory.[94]  Perhaps for that reason, perceptions by whites of normatively problematic police conduct were not shown to influence levels of deference in a statistically significant way, whereas such perceptions were shown to influence deference levels amongst minorities.[95]  Put simply, minorities appear likelier to believe that illegitimate police practices are not just unfair in the general sense, but also biased against them.

And two final observations that further muddy the analyses of racial profiling specifically and order-maintenance policing and stop-and-frisk practices generally: First, there also appear to be generational gaps in perceptions of profiling.[96]  Second, perceptions of profiling—and controversial police practices more generally—are elastic.  At distinct historical moments, tactics like profiling may look different to the discerning public.[97]  Put differently, perceptions of profiling have shifted over time depending on the salient reference point.  For example, we could compare responses to the beating of Rodney King, to the 9/11 terrorist attacks,[98] to the problem of illegal immigration,[99] to the violence associated with the Mexican drug trade.

Ultimately, the extent to which any of these three related policing practices—order-maintenance policing, stop-and-frisk practices, and racial profiling—negatively influence communal perceptions of legitimacy turns on a definition of the relevant community.  In the separate context of empirical desert, we think it makes sense to define the relevant community as the populace covered by a contemplated liability or punishment rule, because the reach of substantive criminal law typically extends all the way to the state’s borders.  But discretionary enforcement practices are more often developed and implemented locally and, accordingly, should remain locally responsive.[100]  Thus, in the context of legitimacy, a narrower definition of community may be warranted, but it is not clear how to go about coherently narrowing community to some subset of the sovereign whole.[101]  Moreover, it is not even clear whether the appropriate measure of community ought to be geographic, cultural, or sociodemographic.  Undoubtedly, there are defensible (or at least workable) definitions, but questions will remain over whose perceptions should matter when opinions are split within a given community.  For instance, we might prioritize the perceptions of those most affected by police practices, those most affected by crime, those constituting a democratic majority, those who are members of historically subordinated minorities, or those who are likelier to defer to legitimate authority (if such groups are identifiable).

Finally, because of the malleability of perceptions of fairness, legitimacy advocates must reconcile themselves to the fact that a system premised even partially on legitimacy may come to adopt procedural rules and standards that may vary from place to place, community to community, and time to time—a scenario that some may find especially problematic when it comes to purportedly nationally applicable standards and rules.[102]  Such variation is not indefensible—and, in fact, may be desirable, even in the constitutional context—but it may require advocates to stake out cognizable positions on seemingly unrelated questions, like the feasibility and appropriateness of theories of localism and popular constitutionalism.[103]  In short, the issues at play are inexorably complex.  But, significantly, they are not insoluble.  Academics and reformers ought to pursue legitimacy-based arguments, but they ought to take care to ensure that their arguments are sufficiently theorized before they may effectively invoke perceptions of legitimacy to resolve controversial public-policy questions.

2.     Fair Adjudication

The legitimacy project could also provide insight into lay perceptions about procedural rules and standards that regulate prosecutors and courts.  For instance, it might be useful to inquire into whether laypersons favor inclusion of an actual-innocence verdict option; whether they are troubled by the lack of a constitutional claim for actual innocence; or whether they perceive as fair such things as standing requirements, exhaustion doctrines, peremptory challenges, speedy-trial rules, double jeopardy, the inability of prosecutors to comment on a defendant’s exercise of her right to remain silent, or the inability of jurors to learn of sentencing consequences pre-verdict.  With respect to all of these procedural rules and standards, social scientists could ask whether there are disconnects between adjudicative practices and public perceptions of fairness, and whether any such rifts undermine perceptions of systemic legitimacy more generally and ultimately deference to law and legal authorities.

One of the most contentious procedural rules is the exclusionary rule.[104]  And, because it is so controversial, it has been the subject of some promising research into its perceived legitimacy.  Perhaps somewhat surprisingly, one study found that an overwhelming majority of respondents disapproved even of using illegally obtained evidence for impeachment purposes (a maneuver that the Supreme Court constitutionally has authorized).[105]  More recently, Kenworthey Bilz found that public perceptions of the rule may be parsed according to the particular rationale offered for its use.[106]  According to Bilz, the public endorses the rule when it is used to promote the integrity of the criminal justice system, but less so when it is used to promote deterrence only—a significant finding that runs counter to the conventional (and almost exclusive) judicial reliance on the deterrence rationale.[107]  Of course, this raises the question of whether the exclusionary rule serves aggregate systemic integrity because conceptually the rule can only advance integrity along one dimension by sacrificing it along another.

Concretely, the exclusionary rule limits the ill-gotten gains of the state by granting an undeserved windfall to factually guilty defendants.  On one reading, such a tradeoff is no affront to systemic integrity; it is the price of integrity—the cost of honoring the presumption of innocence and the corresponding allocation of the burden of proof to the state.  But, significantly, it may not be perceived as such by the public.  The paradox of the exclusionary rule is that the court must tolerate the illegality of one party or another: the state that builds a case unlawfully or the guilty defendant who gets off scot-free.  To determine which is the lesser evil, it would be wise to consider the perceptions of the public.  And, to that end, more empirical study is needed.  For instance, social scientists might inquire whether people consider the exclusionary rule to be procedurally unfair where (as is almost certainly the case) it leads to unequal treatment and under-enforcement for reasons unrelated to desert or factual guilt.  Or they might ask a more nuanced question: whether people believe that crime severity should factor into decisions of whether the exclusionary rule applies—a position the Court has steadfastly rejected.[108]  At a minimum, the research thus far supports the notion that courts should probably give more credence (or at least some lip-service) to the expressive integrity justification for the exclusionary rule, and should perhaps rely less upon the commonly invoked utilitarian deterrence justification that the public apparently feels is comparatively less important.

And the exclusionary rule is not the only procedure designed to both regulate executive actors and to promote integrity.  The same could be said of, say, speedy trial[109] and double jeopardy[110] rules and standards, which also provide undeserved windfalls to at least some guilty defendants.  Public perceptions of these rules and standards may turn on the degree and type of state fault and precisely what bad acts the defendant is alleged to have done.  For example, when it comes to double jeopardy, the public may be likelier to perceive as unfair and unjust intentional prosecutorial efforts to file successive charges that just pass the formulaic Blockburgertest over unintentional prosecutorial slip-ups that just fail it.[111]  Likewise, when it comes to speedy trial, the public may disapprove of exploitative shorter delays over inadvertent or even negligent longer ones.[112]  Or it may be that, in each instance, the public perceives fault to be relatively unimportant to the question of whether the trial delay or successive prosecution is procedurally just.  Again, it may depend, to a degree, on whether public perceptions of fairness turn principally on sanctioning (and thereby deterring) abusive exercises of executive power or on promoting the integrity of the criminal justice system more generally.  In short, there is a lot to unpack and much room for further study.

Comparatively, researchers have done substantially more work on public perceptions of bargained dispositions, the dominant adjudicatory practice in American criminal justice.[113]  These studies reveal that most Americans disapprove of plea bargaining—as many as four-fifths, according to some studies.[114]  However, it is unclear whether these negative public perceptions of the practice are products of procedural or substantive objections—that is, whether the public disapproves of the lack of trials and attendant formal process and transparency (legitimacy objections) or of the perceived lenient, harsh, or unequal outcomes (distributive-justice objections).[115]  By contrast, practitioners overwhelmingly and predictably approve of plea bargaining as a necessary tool to efficiently manage high caseloads.[116]  Somewhat more surprising are studies that have found that defendants may approve of bargaining and may derive similar, or even greater, satisfaction following pleas than trials.[117]  The reasons are unclear.  It may be that defendants appreciate the ability to exercise some dominion over their own fates—a kind of “process control” that “may foster a greater sense of participation.”[118]  It may be that the very informality of the plea process makes it more comprehensible to defendants than professionally dominated and highly technical rule-bound trials.[119]  It may be that defendants appreciate the certainty of guilty pleas or (like practitioners) the efficiency of avoiding the process costs of trials.[120]  Or it may be that defendants are more satisfied with sentencing outcomes after pleas than trials.

Plainly, there is much more to explore concerning lay perceptions of plea bargaining and whether and to what degree those perceptions are shaped by procedural practices, as opposed to substantive results.  Additionally, there are a number of corollary or subsidiary bargaining practices that have received almost no attention at all.  For instance, it is unclear what laypersons think of arguably strained judicial constructions of “voluntariness” in the plea-bargaining context.[121]  Likewise, it is unclear what laypersons think of so-called Alford pleas—equivocal pleas in which defendants accept guilt while protesting innocence.[122]  And it is also unclear what laypersons think of other nontraditional pleas, like cooperation agreements.[123]  Under cooperation agreements, cooperating defendants are ultimately punished not according to desert, but according to the crime-control value of the help that they provide to legal authorities.[124]  Indeed, some of the most culpable defendants may receive the most significant discounts because they have the most information to sell.  These utilitarian bargains may serve instrumental goals,[125] but only at retributive costs that the public may perceive to be unfair and unjust.[126]  Finally, it is unclear what laypersons think of reforms intended to provide victims with more significant roles in plea bargaining and adjudication generally.[127]

B.     Creating Moral Credibility

Studies confirm that laypeople think of criminal liability and punishment in terms of desert—the moral blameworthiness of the offender—and not in terms of other principles, such as general deterrence and incapacitation, which have been so popular with system designers during the past several decades.[128]  Thus, people naturally expect that a criminal justice system will distribute criminal liability and punishment so as to do justice.

However, studies have shown that current liability and punishment rules commonly undermine the criminal law’s reputation for doing justice.  One recent study showed that a wide range of modern crime-control doctrines treat cases in ways that dramatically conflict with laypeople’s intuitions of justice.[129]  The conflict exists for such standard doctrines as “three strikes” and other habitual offender statutes, high penalties for drug offenses, adult prosecution of juveniles, abolition or narrowing of the insanity defense, strict liability, felony murder, and criminalization of regulatory violations.  The conflicts were shown to undermine the criminal law’s moral credibility with the subjects.[130]  Previous studies had results consistent with those results.[131]

It appears, then, that to build moral credibility, the criminal law must avoid conflict with the community’s principles of justice.  While there is still much work to be done, current research tells us something about community views on a wide variety of criminal law issues, including studies on: objective requirements of attempt; creating a criminal risk; objective requirements of complicity; omission liability; use of deadly force in self-defense; use of force in defense of property; citizens’ law enforcement authority; mistake or accident defenses; culpability requirements generally; culpability requirements for complicity; voluntary intoxication; individualization of the objective standard of negligence, insanity, immaturity, and involuntary intoxication; duress and entrapment defenses; felony murder; causation requirements; and punishment for multiple offenses.[132]  Other studies have examined lay intuitions on whether guilt should be determined according to objectivist or subjectivist views of criminality,[133] on competing theories of blackmail,[134] on offense grading distinctions,[135] and on competing theories of justification.[136]

The studies make clear that current criminal law regularly deviates from the community’s justice judgments.  And with each instance, the law risks undermining its moral credibility with the community.  While many of the deviations are sufficiently minor to have little impact on their own, the cumulative effect of the many deviations can have a substantial practical impact, as Part III discusses.  Consider this summary of studies, as reported by Robinson and Darley.[137]

The studies report many sources of law-community conflict in relation to the criminal law’s secondary prohibitions, such as inchoate offenses, omission liability, and complicity liability.[138]  Modern American criminal codes commonly would impose liability where laypersons would not, or would impose considerably less.  Consider a variety of examples of such conflicts.  Subjects found the dangerous proximity test embodied in the common law a more proper test for attempt liability than the substantial step test of the Model Penal Code (“Code”), upon which most modern American criminal codes are based.[139]  Subjects gave more weight to renunciation of a criminal attempt even when that attempt had progressed far enough to trigger liability.[140]  The respondents believed that unsuccessful attempts to assist in a crime called for little or no liability,[141] which is more consistent with the common law rule than the Code’s treatment, which imposes full offense liability.[142]  Subjects gave a person who intends murder, but creates only a slight risk of causing a slight harm, a sentence greatly reduced from the Code’s treatment of the act as attempted murder.[143]  Subjects did not give an accomplice to crime the level of liability equal to that they assigned to the principal, contrary to the Code’s approach.[144]  Finally, subjects found a person who failed in his or her duty to rescue a person from death to be somewhat culpable but not for murder, again in conflict with the Code.[145]

The conflicts moved in the other direction as well, with respondents imposing greater liability than that imposed by modern codes, or assigning liability in cases in which the codes do not.  For example, subjects assigned liability to individuals who develop a settled intention to commit a crime, even though modern codes assign none unless that intention is translated into action.[146]  Likewise, respondents imposed some liability on persons who failed to assist a person in distress, although modern American codes typically do not.[147]

These points of conflict are really just symptoms of conflicts in broad perspective between laypersons and the Code.  Note that respondents consistently assigned reduced liabilities to individuals who play secondary roles in the commission of a crime, even though the Code assigns them liabilities equivalent to the principal.  Also, subjects assigned reduced liability for the violation of secondary prohibitions (such as attempt), even though the Code assigns liabilities equivalent to those assigned for the substantive offense.  That is, the results suggest that the community is more “harm-oriented” than is the Code, at least in grading the seriousness of wrongdoing.[148]

The criminal law’s justification defenses show a variety of points of conflict with community views.[149]  The subjects considered the justifications to be more compelling than the modern legal codes in a variety of instances.  When force is used in self-defense, in defense of property, or to apprehend a fleeing offender, respondents frequently assigned no liability in cases to which the Code did.[150]  Even when respondents assigned liability, they typically would grade the violation as considerably lower than would the Code.[151]  The differences between community standards and criminal codes becomes apparent when studies examine what people think is justifiable in defense of property, and even more apparent in the cases involving a citizen who uses force to apprehend a criminal fleeing a crime or to apprehend a person thought to be a criminal fleeing a crime.  The respondents were willing to tolerate the use of more force than the Code permits, and assigned lesser sanctions to defendants for the use of force even in the instances in which they felt that some blame ought to accrue.[152]

Studies of the culpability requirements for offenses revealed several points of conflict between community views and criminal law.[153]  For example, there is a general approval of the law’s tendency to make a major differentiation between reckless and negligent commission of an offense.  Subjects imposed significantly different liability assignments depending on whether the individual was reckless with respect to the various elements specified as relevant by modern codes, or merely negligent.[154]  Most codes assign no higher liability for an offense (other than homicide) committed knowingly or purposefully than one committed recklessly.  Subjects, in contrast, assigned higher liability for higher culpability than recklessness.[155]  Subjects also distinguished recklessly committed offenses from negligently committed ones, but unlike the general code treatment, sometimes assigned significant liability even for negligently committed offenses.[156]  In general, to accurately reflect communal judgments, drafters should redraft codes to have liability vary with the culpability level of the offender.

A similar result emerged when studies examined the culpability requirements for complicity.  The codes set purposefulness as to assisting the principal as the minimum requirement for complicity, but respondents were willing to assign liability to a person who knowingly, or even recklessly, assists.  Respondents assigned different and lower levels of liability as the culpability level decreased, which again suggests that the community would prefer differences in grading based upon differences in culpability.[157]

The voluntary intoxication studies found a pattern of judgments that was broadly consistent with the legal treatment of the cases.  Specifically, “codes commonly use negligence as the trigger point for the attribution of liability, and so do subjects, thus supporting the codes’ adoption of that standard rather than one triggered by a higher degree of culpability.”[158]  However, respondents were considerably influenced by the degree of pre-intoxication culpability that the person had with respect to commission of the offense, while the codes typically do not consider that factor.[159]

A person is negligent if he or she disregards possible risks that a reasonable or prudent individual would consider.  “Traditionally codes have treated this as an objective standard, not to be varied as a function of, for instance, the lower intelligence of the person whose conduct is being judged.”[160]  However, some modern codes have partially individualized the standard, directing the decision maker to take account of some personal characteristics of the offender.[161]  There is no developed theory of which factors should be taken into account; “[i]nstead, judges (and, to a lesser extent, juries) are allowed to determine which attributes should be considered.”[162]  A study seeking to discover which attributes subjects considered to be appropriate for individualization of the reasonable person standard gave complex results: it found both lowered and raised standards.[163]  This suggests that the modern trend toward individualizing the objective reasonable person standard has support among the community.  But the absence of an obvious principle tends to confirm the practical need for some greater guidance on the issue.  Leaving judges to decide ad hoc, as is now the case, is not likely to generate results consistent with community views.

The studies show that systematic conflict with the community also exists within doctrines of excuse.[164]  While the subjects recognized mental incapacity as a valid basis for exculpation, they preferred formulations of the insanity defense that recognize both a control and cognitive deficit; respondents seem to conclude that dysfunction of either type is a valid trigger for exculpation.[165]  Yet a majority of state codes recognize cognitive dysfunction but not control dysfunction as a basis for the defense.[166]

The studies recognized duress scenarios as providing at least a mitigation of liability; the degree of mitigation is a function of the respondent’s perception of the degree of coercion in the particular situation.[167]  Codes instead set a single cut-off standard in which the offender either gets a full defense or full liability.  Respondents used similar considerations to evaluate entrapment cases, rejecting as unimportant the Code’s formulation of the defense, which requires that it be given only when a police agent supplies the inducement that leads the person to commit the crime.[168]  This suggests that they would be happy to have the entrapment defense disappear as a separate defense, and be subsumed under the duress defense.[169]

Studies found that respondents’ intuitions about the appropriate grading for different variants of offenses differ from those reflected in the modern legal codes.[170]  For example, respondents regarded forcible rapes as similar in grade irrespective of the parties’ prior relationship, while the Code varies the offense grade by prior relationship.[171]  With regard to felony murder, respondents preferred what might be termed a “felony-manslaughter rule” (with a standard “accomplice discount”) rather than the modern approach that extends murder liability to all participants.[172]

It is clear that respondents agreed with the general tendency in modern legal codes to distinguish grades of offenses within as well as between offenses, and typically favored additional grading distinctions not made by the Code.  For example, in causation studies, subjects graded various causal contributions to a death differently, assigning less liability to persons who intended to kill but did not succeed in directly doing so, although death later occurs in some more indirect way.[173]  The subjects’ interest in more specific grading also is similar to their conflict with the tendency of modern codes toward dichotomous judgments as compared to the respondents’ more continuous judgments.  As noted above, they see the degree of contribution in complicity, or how far the offender has progressed in an attempt, or the strength of the causal connection in homicide cases as grounds for adjusting liability along a continuum, as opposed to the law’s judgment to set a fixed point on the continuum that will judge the conduct to be either complicity or not, an attempt or not, full causal accountability or none.

The problems of sentencing for multiple offenses also suggest a structural change in current law.  Presently, multiple offenses typically are dealt with either by concurrent sentences, which impose no additional sentence for a second offense, or by a consecutive sentence, which effectively doubles the penalty.  Respondents, in contrast, assigned sentences for a second offense that added to but did not double the sentence for the first offense, and continued this pattern for further offenses.  Their approach matches that of the United States Sentencing Commission guidelines.[174]  If the law were to better reflect community views, that approach would be more widely adopted.

C.     The Problem of Perception

Perceptions mediate the normative force of procedural fairness and empirical desert, but perceptions, of course, may be wrong.  By way of historical example, trials by ordeal and other irrational modes of adjudication were probably considered legitimate during the early Middle Ages, even though they almost certainly were not.[175]

In other words, the legitimacy project for its part does not actually demand that procedures be fair, only that they appear to be.  And the moral credibility project for its part does not actually require that substantive rules produce just results, in a transcendent sense, only that they reflect people’s shared moral intuitions.  An element of relativism thereby creeps in: there may be moral truth about the distributive justice of a given rule or the fairness of a given procedure, but popular perceptions of fairness and justice may be otherwise.[176]  In this way, the emphasis on perception raises three potential problems.  First, a fair procedure or just rule may be misconstrued as unfair or unjust (false negatives).  Second, an unfair procedure or unjust rule may be misconstrued as fair or just (false positives).  Finally, a questionable but nontransparent procedure or rule may not be perceived at all.

To some extent, these concerns may be beside the point for present purposes, as our principal focus is whether, when, and how perceptions of fairness and justice facilitate effective crime control—that is, our focus is on the implications of perceptions, as opposed to their truth.  In any event, one of us is highly skeptical whether deontological facts are operationalizable.[177]  Assuming there are moral absolutes (a big assumption), we believe that tapping lay perceptions is the best (albeit imperfect) way to come closest to discovering them.  Nevertheless, we must acknowledge the potential for lay perceptions to fall short of the mark.  This is a particular concern when it comes to perceptions of procedural fairness because they are more likely to be malleable cultural constructs and are therefore less likely to accurately reflect some higher truth.[178]

In an effort to not sell short the objections, we think it appropriate to say a bit more about each potential problem of perception—that is, false negatives, false positives, and nontransparency.  First, as to false negatives, we concede the inevitability of the problem.  Even a credible and just government may commit some salient misstep, and such a blunder may trigger a pernicious spillover effect that leads citizens to misperceive as unfair or unjust even normatively defensible governmental actions, standards, or rules.[179]  These misperceptions could thereafter lead to a loss of deference—for instance, the nullification of a justifiable prosecution or the violation of a justifiable law.  Some scholars have posited that this is precisely what happened domestically during the Vietnam conflict: frustrations with the government’s foreign policies contributed to the counterculture’s perception that the nation’s drug laws were similarly unjust.[180]

Second, the reverse—false positives—may also exist.  Under some circumstances, the most problematic forms of racial profiling may implicate the danger.  Specifically, consider the example of an officer who stops and searches an individual after drawing unwarranted inferences of culpability based solely on skin color.  Imagine further that the officer employs a soft tone and exhibits a gentle demeanor.  For obvious reasons, courteousness is commendable, but the fear is that the officer may use polite words and kind manner to manipulate the subtler aspects of police-citizen interactions to create a false perception that she is not engaged in racial profiling, even when she is.[181]  In short, one set of legitimate practices may mask others that potentially are illegitimate.  Put differently, police may play professional and unprofessional practices off of one another.  As Tyler and Wakslak found:

[P]olice behavior shapes the attributions people make . . . .  Those who believe that the police are neutral are less likely to feel profiled . . . .  Those who experience high quality interpersonal treatment—politeness, respect, acknowledgment of their rights—are also less likely to feel that they have been profiled.[182]

This tendency of people to confuse respectful policing for unbiased policing may be good for police and even for public safety, particularly if profiling is a somewhat intractable product of unconscious motivation, but it is not categorically good to the degree we are committed to more than just normative crime control—to the degree we care also about the fairness and equity of police procedures in reality.

This is not to say that police should succumb to rude or abrasive impulses.  It is desirable for police to be courteous, but not when civility is window dressing; it is desirable for police to give reasons for actions, but not when reasons are pretexts.  It is, therefore, somewhat chilling that certain legitimacy advocates endorse steps like “mitigat[ing] by courteous behavior and an explanation” stops of people who “have done nothing wrong.”[183]  Such advice amounts to the perceptual tail wagging the dog.  If police stop people for doing nothing wrong, we should look for feasible ways to minimize that practice, not to merely change public perceptions of it.  We should want normatively troubling police conduct exposed, not hidden.  Moreover, in this context, false perceptions of procedural fairness may prove particularly harmful because perceptions of fairness (unlike moral intuitions) would seem to be more often culturally constructed and accordingly potentially polarizing.  Specifically, a social group that has grown accustomed to inordinate police stops may perceive racial profiling where another group perceives polite policing.[184]  No matter who is right in a given case, the consequences are divisive.

But what if the public is aware of racial profiling yet approves of it?  As indicated, we think (but do not know definitively) that this is not the case.  We believe that the public shares the Court’s perspective that racial discrimination demands a special justification—what the Court refers to as strict scrutiny.[185]  Indeed, we suspect that it is precisely for this reason that police are so unwilling to acknowledge racial profiling.  That is, police recognize that the public typically perceives the practice to be illegitimate, even if it is sometimes (or even typically) instrumentally effective.  But, as indicated, perceptions are elastic and may change over time.[186]  For instance, in the wake of, say, future terrorist attacks or immigration crises, a majority may come to more firmly tolerate or even welcome profiling.[187]  In such circumstances, popular considerations of systemic legitimacy may fail adequately to constrain excessive state power.  On this reading, approval of racial profiling could describe a false positive in the face of more pressing antisubordination and countermajoritarian principles.  In this way, genuine invidious practices may illustrate the outer-bounds of normative theories that permit popular intuition to shape criminal justice policy.

There are examples of adjudicative false positives as well.  For instance, a defense attorney may successfully push an ill-advised and self-serving plea deal on her client simply by communicating persuasively and politely and thereby cloaking self-dealing in a professional facade.[188]  By way of further example, several academics have recommended reforms (which we endorse) intended to grant crime victims greater opportunity to be heard.[189]  But there are sound reasons—most notably, efficiency and equal treatment[190]—to provide victims with only a “voice” and not with guarantees of “decision control.”[191]  From the standpoint of the legitimacy project, this is not a problem: “voice” procedures enhance perceptions of legitimacy, irrespective of whether the voices are heeded.[192]  Concretely, “process control” is all that matters—that is, the ability to shape the manner in which information is conveyed to the decision maker.[193]  But when an adjudicative procedure has no potential to affect outcome, the perception that it is fair may be chimerical.  The argument here is that such a procedure does little more than exploit the cognitive biases that lead people to believe that merely by participating they can affect uncontrollable events.[194]  Of course, a ready response to this is that victim impact statements and similar reforms do, in fact, have at least the capacity (albeit not the authority) to affect adjudicatory decisions.  But we should at least be cognizant of the concern that a preference for “process control” may create opportunities for legal authorities to package procedures and practices in perceptually appealing ways, even if the packages are empty in fact.[195]  Put simply, seemingly fair and just procedures may just serve institutional ends at the expense of fairness and justice.

Another false positive may be found in the administration of juvenile justice in the years before the Court’s influential decision in In re Gault, which extended many constitutional procedural rights to respondents in delinquency hearings.[196]  Significantly, the Court noted that juvenile courts had come to adopt arbitrary and unfair procedures by propagating a hollow perception of the proceeding as “one in which a fatherly judge touched the heart and conscience of the erring youth by talking over his problems, by paternal advice and admonition.”[197]

At a macro-level, the greatest risk of false positives undoubtedly arises out of corrupt governments that are erroneously perceived to be fair and just.  An unjust society will perceive its unjust procedures and rules to be just—even where these procedures and rules merely reproduce that society’s backward worldview.  Put differently, bankrupt intuitions may do nothing to check bankrupt institutions.  To the extent that people buy into the illogic and injustice of, say, a fascist or racist system—such as Nazi Germany or the Jim Crow South—levels of deference remain unaffected (at least among the unsubordinated classes).

Do the dangers of false negatives and positives mean that we should abandon empirical desert and legitimacy?  Not at all.  In the first instance, people’s intuitions are probably right far more often than they are wrong.  In any event, the fact that perceptions may be wrong weighs in favor of pursuing both projects in an effort to increase the likelihood that they will not only foster normative crime control but that they will check each other’s work.  Ideally, citizens may come to reject a corrupt regime’s procedures as illegitimate, even if they erroneously perceive its liability and punishment rules to be just.  Or they may come to reject its rules as unjust even if they erroneously perceive its means to be fair.  This underscores an intriguing fact: perfect deference may be undesirable because it is through disobedience and not deference that the legitimacy and moral credibility of the state are tested.[198]  Instances of lawlessness force the unjust state to advertise its immorality and injustice, and they provide the just state with opportunities to demonstrate the normative worth of its rules and institutions.

Third, and finally, legitimacy and moral credibility have no normative force if the public fails to even perceive the rule or procedure in question.  This is less of a concern with liability and punishment rules than with policing and adjudicatory procedures because substantive rules tend to be more transparent than procedures.[199]  And this is less of a concern with policing than with adjudication because people have more contact with police than courts.  Still, there are concerns.  For example, we have raised a number of potentially illegitimate, low-visibility procedures, standards, and rules—statutes of limitations, the exclusionary rule, standing requirements, speedy-trial rules, exhaustion doctrines, peremptory challenges, and Alford pleas.  But, ultimately, any arguments about the normative authority of empirical desert and procedural fairness with respect to these procedures, standards, and rules must be tempered by the fact that the general public may not even be aware that they exist.

III.  Producing Deference

Certainly, fairness and justice are worthwhile independent of their consequences, but these values are all the more desirable if they also facilitate effective crime control.  Does a system’s reputation for being fair and doing justice make the system more successful at fighting crime?  What evidence exists to support claims of such positive practical effects?

A.     The Effects of Undermining Legitimacy

The advantages of producing deference are obvious, and legitimacy is a particularly appealing mechanism to achieve the objective because perceptions of legitimacy possess the potential to produce deference broadly.  A populace that finds its legal authorities and institutions to be legitimate ought to be likelier to acquiesce to even those rules and enforcement measures that fail to generate categorical (or even very much) support.

The bulk of studies drawing this link between perceptions of legitimacy and deference have examined the question through the lens of police practices.  For example, Tyler has found that racial profiling affects compliance among minorities, but not among whites, who are less likely to perceive the practice.[200]  Another study found that even garden-variety police unprofessionalism may affect deference.  Specifically, John McCluskey found that police are more likely to generate compliance when they interact with individuals courteously and patiently.[201]  Likewise, McCulskey linked forceful entry tactics with noncompliance and noncooperation—an important finding that calls into question the efficacy of hard-nosed police tactics such as “blue swarming,” in which police use strength in numbers to compel compliance, rather than politely soliciting cooperation through even-toned requests.[202]

These and other studies provide robust support for the null hypothesis that perceptions of legitimacy do, in fact, correlate with higher levels of cooperation and lower rates of recidivism.[203]  But questions of causation remain open, and confounding variables may exist.  For instance, in Tyler’s seminal study, subjects were asked to self-report both their perceptions of the criminal justice system and their commission of petty offenses.[204]  From the results, Tyler inferred a link between perception and compliance.[205]  The inference is no doubt strong, but, of course, it could be that law-abiding respondents are likelier to perceive the criminal justice system to be fair.  Or it could be that the respondents with less faith in the criminal justice system were more willing to self-report violations, but not necessarily likelier to commit them.  Tyler mitigated these concerns by using a longitudinal study design that measures deference at two points (as compared to a cross-sectional study that would have provided only a snapshot in time), but the concerns, nonetheless, remain.[206]

A separate study similarly found that individuals were less likely to recidivate if they perceived their arrests to be legitimate.[207]  But, as stated before, it could be that people who perceive arrests to be legitimate are also people for whom misconduct is aberrational.  Again, the causal arrows may flow the other way: subjective perceptions of legitimacy may be produced by moral commitment to law and legal authorities—not vice versa.[208]  Or it could be that police officers act differently toward agreeable suspects (those who exhibit decency, contrition, or congeniality), and these suspects thereafter perceive their interactions with police to be legitimate.  If these internal attributes correlate with deference to law and legal authorities, then fair treatment may be incidental to recidivism rates.

Additionally, some commentators have highlighted high rates of acquittal in certain poor and minority communities—the so-called “Bronx Jury” phenomenon—as evidence that negative systemic perceptions translate to diminished willingness to cooperate with legal authorities.[209]  But higher acquittal rates do not necessarily represent lawless jury nullification; they may simply reflect good-faith application of a legally defensible (albeit distinct) culturally constructed conception of what constitutes proof beyond a reasonable doubt.[210]  And even if historically disadvantaged groups do, in fact, nullify at higher rates, uncooperative juror conduct may not be motivated by perceptions of procedural unfairness; it could be a product of perceptions of substantive injustice or something else entirely.[211]

Finally, as indicated, with respect to order-maintenance policing, academics claim (with fair intuitive support) that heavy-handed police tactics have engendered backlash in some predominately poor and minority neighborhoods.[212]  Yet crime rates have dropped dramatically during the same period, including (and often especially) in many of these same neighborhoods.  It could be, then, that perceptions of illegitimacy have had little or no effect.[213]  Or it could be that crime declines would have been substantially greater had it not been for perceptions of procedural injustice.  Or it could be that, as an initial matter, order-maintenance policing is not in fact perceived to be illegitimate or that it has had no discernible effect on the crime decline one way or another.[214]  We simply do not have certain answers to these questions.

Perhaps most importantly, many legitimacy studies fail to get to the specific question of deference in the first instance.  Instead, they measure only satisfaction with the law or legal authorities and extrapolate from there.[215]  The inductive leap from satisfaction to deference is strong, but it is still a leap.  Perception is one transitive step removed from compliance with law and cooperation with legal authorities.  Other studies fail to parse out what precisely is meant by deference.  Specifically, perceptions of legitimacy may influence compliance with substantive law, or they may facilitate cooperation with enforcement and adjudication procedures, or they may do both, or they may do neither.  And a lack of cooperation itself may be sliced into weak or strong versions: apathy or outright defiance.  The better studies consider the question of deference directly, but even some of these studies base their findings solely on self-reports of how respondents think they would respond to hypothetical unfair treatment.[216]

Ultimately, then, for all the research indicating that procedurally just treatment enhances systemic approval, there is less to indicate that legitimate procedures do, in fact, influence rates of compliance with substantive legal rules and cooperation with legal authorities.[217]  But we should not be too cynical.  Claims of deference may be nonfalsifiable, but in settings where public-policy choices must be made, policy makers may be wise to assume that perceptions of legitimacy do have a sizable effect on rates of compliance and cooperation (at least in some settings).  If nothing else, Tyler’s central premise is appealing and intuitively sound as a matter of pure analytic reasoning: “If people view compliance with the law as appropriate because of their attitudes about how they should behave, they will voluntarily assume the obligation to follow legal rules.  They will feel personally committed to obeying the law, irrespective of whether they risk punishment for breaking the law.”[218]

B.     The Effects of Undermining Moral Credibility

What evidence exists that differences in the criminal law’s moral credibility with the community will track differences in the effectiveness of the criminal justice system?  The most obvious hint may come from common sense.  If citizens see the criminal justice system as unjust, what motivation would they have to assist it—volunteering as a witness, assisting investigations and enforcement—or to defer to it—following its rules even when prosecution is unlikely, following the jury instructions given, joining in the stigmatization of conduct labeled criminal even when its condemnability is unclear, or internalizing the societal norms that criminal law embodies?  Common sense tells us that people are more likely to resist and subvert a criminal justice system that they see as unjust than they are to assist and defer to it.[219]

Anecdotal evidence supports this commonsense view.  The notoriously unjust Soviet criminal justice system, ruled by coercion and threat and tainted by politics and ideology, earned little moral credibility (or legitimacy) with the public.[220]  As Peter Solomon concludes, “Soviet experience demonstrates that indiscriminate and coercive use of the criminal law approaching naked repression discredits both the law and the regime that sponsors it.”[221]  Russian crime rates increased under Soviet rule.[222]  Further, when overwhelming state control was lost with the collapse of the Soviet Union, crime spiked.[223]  Having destroyed its moral credibility with the community, the system had little ability to control conduct through the forces of social or normative influence.[224]

What recent research has shown is that this effect is not limited to instances of dramatically bad reputations, as in the Soviet Union.  Even minor changes in moral credibility incrementally affect people’s willingness to acquiesce, assist, and defer to the criminal law.  One technique used in social science research on such issues is an experiment in which subjects are told of injustices in the current criminal justice system that they did not previously know about, and are then tested to see whether the new information changes their view of the system and their willingness to assist and defer to it.  Obviously the subjects came to the experiment with decades of prior information about the system—its operation is a common feature of news reports—and they no doubt had a pre-existing view as to the system’s moral credibility.  Within this context, there is a limit to how much an experimenter can change a subject’s view in the brief period of the experiment.  Yet, the studies show that even incremental changes in perceptions of justness can and do incrementally change people’s willingness to assist and to defer.

In the most recent and direct study,[225] researchers exposed adult subjects to a range of real-world cases relying upon modern crime-control doctrines that produced results inconsistent with the subjects’ notions of justice.  Subjects’ willingness to assist and to defer when faced with a number of specific kinds of situations was tested before and after this exposure.[226]  Subjects were asked, for example, whether they would report various offenses by other persons; turn in evidence to the police; report their own accidental violation; conclude that the prohibition of certain conduct by the law meant that the conduct was in fact morally condemnable; or conclude that the law’s imposition of a serious penalty meant that the conduct at issue was in fact morally condemnable.[227]  In a separate study, the same researchers tested the same willingness of subjects to assist and to defer by using two random groups: one that had been exposed to the unjust cases and one that had not.[228]  Both studies showed similar results: subjects exposed to the unjust cases were less willing to assist and to defer to the criminal law.[229]

Another study tested for the same effects using pre-existing data from large population surveys collected by others.  Existing national databases were examined to see what, if any, relation the system’s moral credibility had on the effective operation of the criminal justice system.[230]  One large national survey database involved telephone interviews with Americans who recently participated in criminal court proceedings.[231]  Bivariate and multivariate statistical techniques were used to determine whether their responses to the survey questions were consistent with a view that the system’s moral credibility increased their willingness to defer to the courts to resolve a similar case in the future.[232]  The findings support the study conclusions reported above, which is significant because it involves people who have actual experience with the criminal courts.  Respondents with criminal court experience who viewed their community courts as morally credible in dealing with criminal cases (specifically those involving violence, drugs or alcohol, and delinquency) expressed a greater willingness to defer to the criminal justice system in the future.[233]  Subjects who perceived failures in the criminal justice system were significantly less likely to say they would defer to the system in the future.[234]

A number of previous studies, described below, confirm related points.  Some show the existence of a relationship between an individual’s disbelief in the morality of a particular law and his or her willingness to obey that law.  Other studies show that the degree to which people report that they have obeyed a law in the past and plan to obey it in the future correlates with the degree to which they judge that law to be morally valid.  Still other studies go further to show how perceptions of injustice might lead to more generalized flouting of the law.

A number of studies have focused on how beliefs about the morality of a particular law can affect compliance with it.  In one such study, Herbert Jacob showed a greater relation between compliance and a law’s perceived moral correctness than between compliance and perceived likelihood of punishment for violating it.[235]  He concluded that “[t]he relationship between compliance and legitimacy [perceived moral correctness] appears to be considerably stronger than the one between compliance and perceptions of severity or certainty of sanctions.”[236]  In another study, Grasmick and Green found similarly that “three independent variables—moral commitment, perceived threat of legal punishment and threat of social disapproval—appear to constitute a concise and probably exhaustive set of factors which inhibit illegal behavior.”[237]  Likewise, Silberman’s study of 147 undergraduates at a small private university, suggested that “[w]hen public sentiment in general disapproves [of a] given offense, it is relatively unlikely to occur.  Similarly, serious criminal activity is less likely to occur among those who show a high degree of moral commitment, even though these individuals might commit less serious offenses.”[238]

These studies demonstrate that perceptions of the moral correctness of particular laws can affect compliance with them.  Other studies have gone further to show how perceptions of the immorality of a particular law or of some act of the criminal justice system can lead to more generalized effects on compliance.  One, in particular, is a recent investigation by Janice Nadler that looked at how knowledge of injustices by the criminal justice system can affect intentions to comply with the law.[239]  Nadler found that subjects exposed to cases that they viewed as unjust were more likely in a subsequent mock trial to engage in juror nullification.[240]

A similar study by Greene presented unjust cases and also examined their effect on subjects’ attitudes.[241]  Greene reached conclusions similar to Nadler’s.  Subjects who had read cases in which the legal system behaved in ways counter to their moral intuitions rated themselves “more likely to take steps aimed at changing the law, less likely to cooperate with police, more likely to join a vigilante or watch group, and less likely to use the law to guide behavior.”[242]  He further concluded that “overall, subjects appeared less likely to give the law the benefit of any doubt after reading cases where the law was at odds with their intuitions.”[243]

A more recent study by Mullen and Nadler showed how the perception of moral injustice in the legal system can increase rates of deviant behavior.[244]  The researchers found that exposure to outcomes that are inconsistent with a person’s strongly held moral beliefs increases the likelihood of him or her engaging in deviant behavior.[245]

Finally, people’s common compliance with tax laws raises interesting issues related to these points.  Large numbers of American citizens pay their taxes even though the penalty for tax evasion is not great and the probability of detection is trivial, thus, the expected cost of such a crime is quite small.[246]  For these reasons, many legal scholars believe that the threat of official sanction does not explain why such large numbers of citizens pay taxes.[247]  A survey by Karyl Kinsey sheds some light on the underlying forces.[248]  When people reported that a friend or coworker, after contact with the IRS, had been made to pay more taxes than they properly owed, the people thought the tax laws generally were less fair and were more likely to intend to cheat on their taxes in the future.  Nadler, in reviewing the study, commented that “[t]he results of the tax study suggest that exposure to reports of an unjust legal outcome in a particular situation might lead to lower perceived fairness of the law more generally, which in turn can lead to noncompliance with the law in the future.”[249]

Taken together, these studies suggest that knowledge of systematic injustice produced by the criminal justice system, particularly when it is intentional, can have a range of deleterious effects on people’s attitudes and on their behavior.  People are less likely to comply with laws they perceive to be unjust.  They may also be less likely to comply with the law generally when they perceive the criminal justice system as tolerating such injustice.  The studies also show that these effects are not limited to noncompliance, but apply generally to undermine cooperation and assistance with the legal system.  Further, perceptions of injustice undermining the system’s moral credibility can also affect its ability to harness the normative forces of social influence and the internalization of norms.  The flip side, of course, is that if the criminal justice system reflects ordinary perceptions of justice, it can take advantage of a range of psychological mechanisms that serve to increase assistance, cooperation, compliance, and deference.

IV.  Countervailing Interests: The Attraction of Unfairness and Injustice

Given the practical benefits that flow from building a reputation for fairness and justice, why has the current criminal justice system adopted practices, procedures, and rules that conflict with these values?  Sometimes the reason is simply a failure to appreciate the detrimental effects, such as those examined in the preceding Part.  Alternatively, those who shape the rules and practices simply may not realize just how unfair or unjust they are perceived to be.  After all, there may be a disconnect between lay and professional perspectives, because the viewpoints of police, prosecutors, and judges are shaded and shaped by their professional training and experience.[250]  Put differently, what technocrats perceive to be fair and just is not necessarily what laypersons perceive to be fair and just.  Criminal-justice functionaries may simply be too institutionalized to tap and assess their own intuitions as means to effectively decipher prevailing lay beliefs.[251]

But in circumstances where experts do accurately decipher lay perceptions, there may be countervailing instrumental advantages that weigh in favor of maintaining even those procedures and rules that the public perceives to be unfair or unjust.  In other words, there may be independent reasons—good-faith justifications—for the criminal justice system to adopt and implement procedures and rules that undermine lay perceptions of fairness and justice.

Tensions are endemic to a criminal justice system that responds to discrete (and sometimes competing) justifications for punishment.  For instance, incapacitation may demand longer sentences for less volitional actors who are more likely to recidivate.  By contrast, desert may call for less punishment for these same people because they lack the capacity to control their conduct.  But such gulfs are not always unbridgeable.  That is why legitimacy and moral credibility are such promising enterprises.  Specifically, an expressive justice system exploits seemingly elusive common ground between instrumental and deontic impulses.[252]  By reflecting lay perceptions of fairness and justice, such a system does better to optimize crime control than a system that relies exclusively on conventional instrumental deterrence as a distributive principle, and it does better to approximate deontological desert (to the extent there is any such absolute) than a system that structures its rules and procedures around the intuitions and preferences of moral philosophers.[253]  But the common ground is, of course, not limitless, and hard decisions may follow.

A.     Enforcement Practices

Consider the tradeoffs at work in setting enforcement practices.  Keeping with the earlier example of order-maintenance policing, the practice carries with it a number of institutional advantages that stand apart from normative crime control.  Specifically, order-maintenance policing may improve the quality of life in high-crime areas not only by responding to the immediate disorder but also by facilitating a high volume of searches and arrests that help police discover evidence of more serious past or present crimes and compile a database that police may use to investigate future crimes.[254]  One of us has criticized aggressive use of order-maintenance policing as a low-cost, high-volume (and therefore easily over-used) mechanism to stop, search, and arrest.[255]  As indicated, it is unclear whether the public agrees with the criticism—that is, whether it perceives aggressive order-maintenance policing to be unfair and, if so, under what circumstances.  But, significantly, even if the public agrees, its misapprehensions would and should not end the analysis.  A final determination of whether and how often the approach ought to be used must take into account the independent institutional police advantages.  Ultimately, the institutional advantages of order-maintenance policing may trump even the costs that flow from genuine perceptions of unfairness.[256]

Moreover, a system must measure a normatively problematic practice against the available alternatives.  For example, one of us has made the argument that aggressive use of order-maintenance policing is a less intrusive enforcement strategy than historical exercises of rough justice.[257]  Specifically, police are no longer permitted to crack skulls or to exploit formless loitering statutes, but they can lawfully stop and frisk.[258]  Indeed, a prominent legal historian has argued that the Supreme Court was aware of this tradeoff, holding vagrancy statutes unconstitutional only after formulating Terry as a viable substitute.[259]  On this reading, Terry may be an equally effective but less invasive (and therefore more defensible) enforcement strategy, even if the public fails to perceive it as such, which, as indicated, is an open question.[260]

With respect to any police practice, the core question ought to be whether a court appropriately balances individual liberties and effective law enforcement.  If a court does so, then its decision is proper, even if the public fails to perceive that the balance is adequately struck.  But, as discussed, effective law enforcement is probably undermined (at least to a degree) when the public believes authorities are behaving unfairly.[261]  Thus, perceptions are critical to the balance, but not necessarily determinative.  For example, the public may disagree with the Court’s ruling that police are authorized to arrest individuals for even nonjailable offenses.  But, as Richard Frase has argued, officers could not so readily engage in order-maintenance policing without the power.[262]  Thus, independent institutional advantages may trump lay perceptions of unfairness.  Likewise, the public may feel that the Court has been too deferential in delineating the permissible scope and bases for Terry stops and frisks.  But such deference may be necessary to optimize crime control and, again, to effectuate order-maintenance policing.  As stated before, the Court’s constitutional focus is on the balance between liberty and order,[263] and we think that to be the right focus.  Our bottom line is simply that lay perceptions ought to matter to this balance.  Thus, the Court ought to consider as a factor what, for example, the public thinks of pretextual stops,[264] exigency and consent searches,[265]plain-view seizures,[266] and the use of evidence of flight and presence in high-crime neighborhoods as relevant to determinations of the existence of reasonable suspicion and probable cause.[267]  And, if the public disapproves of any of these practices, standards, and rules, then the Court probably ought to defer to public preferences for equally effective alternatives, provided such alternatives exist.  But, at the same time, the Court ought to endorse unpopular practices, standards, and rules where there are sufficient good-faith reasons to continue them.  For instance, the Court ought not disturb lightly those practices critical to the nation’s war on terrorism—whatever the public may think of the practices in question.  In this way, perceptions may do their best work as a kind of tiebreaker.

B.     Adjudication Procedures

Just as a system may have plausible reasons to adopt police practices that contravene popular perceptions of fairness, so too may may implement adjudicatory practices that advance some overriding justifiable alternative purpose that cannot effectively be served by procedures that accord narrowly with lay preferences.  Concretely, adjudicatory ends that are “legitimate” in the colloquial sense (that is, defensible) may counterintuitively run up against the public’s conceptions of legitimate (that is, procedurally fair) adjudicatory practices.

To understand the conflicting values potentially at play, consider the exclusionary rule and other rules and standards intended to deter official misconduct.  A system may justifiably settle on an exclusionary rule that deters police misconduct, even if people perceive the rule to provide guilty defendants with unfair windfalls that promote unequal treatment and underenforcement.[268]  Conversely, a system may justifiably limit the reach of an exclusionary rule that provides no added deterrent, even if people desire a more robust rule.[269]  Likewise, a system may justifiably adopt a double jeopardy rule that deters prosecutorial harassment or a speedy trial rule that deters prosecutorial foot-dragging, even if the public feels such rules are, alternatively, insufficiently or overly protective.  The takeaway is not that perceptions of legitimacy ought to trump other considerations or that other considerations ought to trump legitimacy—only that there ought to be a balance of the competing objectives and values at play.  And there are empirical questions not just about public perceptions but also about whether alternative instrumental ends are well served by deviating from public perceptions.  Ultimately, then, perceptions matter, but they are not all that matters.  The problem, at present, is that it is not clear whether the exclusionary rule is even perceived to be unfair (and, if so, in what circumstances), much less whether any perceptions of unfairness are outweighed by good-faith justifications for keeping or, alternatively, limiting or scrapping the rule.

An apt analogy may be to the frequently drawn distinction between conduct and decision rules.  Categorical substantive conduct rules are intended to shape lay behavior and reflect moral intuitions, while procedurally oriented decision rules are intended to optimally constrain state power and/or soften rigid application of conduct rules.[270]  Concretely, conduct and decision rules serve separate values.  But, critically, they must coexist in a justice system.  Thus, the system may justifiably endorse and adopt, say, an exclusionary rule even if the public sharply disfavors the consequent Type II errors (that is, wrongful dismissals and acquittals).  In such circumstances, legitimacy costs are the necessary and inevitable byproduct of “acoustic leakage” between desirable conduct rules that track lay intuitions and (otherwise) desirable decision rules that effectively cabin authority and facilitate individualized adjudication.[271]

The exclusionary rule is but one example of an adjudicatory procedure that may be justifiably kept or discarded for reasons independent of lay perceptions of fairness.  The following is a rough-and-ready (and far from exhaustive) list of additional examples of potentially defensible adjudicatory rules, standards, and practices that, nevertheless, may deviate from public perceptions of fairness.  First, a well-functioning justice system almost certainly must abide some amount of Type I error (that is, wrongful conviction), even if people find fair only an evidentiary standard of proof beyond all doubt.[272]  Second, a system may justifiably consider the psychological harm to a child victim of sex abuse, even if people perceive it to be unfair to restrict the ability of a defendant to confront his accuser face-to-face.[273]  Third, a system may permit lawyers to make unfettered nondiscriminatory peremptory challenges to help ensure that impartial juries are empaneled.[274]  Fourth, a system may procedurally bar defendants and convicts from pursuing many types of innocence claims to promote finality, certainty, efficiency, and rule utility.[275]  Fifth, a system may prohibit trial jurors from learning sentencing consequences pre-verdict to advance rule-of-law considerations and to minimize nullification concerns.[276]  Sixth, a system may exclude victims from the adjudicatory process to promote efficiency, professionalism, and uniform decision-making.[277]

Finally, no analysis of procedural rules and standards would be complete without considering plea bargaining—the most prevalent adjudicatory practice in American criminal justice.  Plea bargaining promotes certainty, autonomy, and, even perhaps, proportionality in an age in which determinate sentencing laws are insufficiently tailored to desert.[278]  More than anything else, plea bargaining facilitates the efficient resolution of criminal cases—a benefit that is not just desirable but perceived to be necessary in a criminal justice system that features high caseloads, costly rules of procedure, and inadequate resources to provide trials to even a sizable fraction of defendants.[279]  Indeed, the instrumental arguments in favor of plea bargaining are so powerful that many critics have abandoned efforts to abolish the institution.[280]  As such, the legitimacy project’s better focus may be targeted reforms of discrete plea-bargain practices that the public may find to be particularly unfair.  For example, the public may perceive Alford pleas to be more illegitimate than conventional pleas, and, significantly, the instrumental benefits of the pleas are comparatively less clear-cut.  Specifically, Alford pleas are said to contribute to expeditious case processing and to provide a mechanism for innocent defendants to avail themselves rationally of the advantages of bargaining, but the pleas may concurrently facilitate wrongful convictions and thereby undermine the systemic search for truth.[281]  Another potential area for reform involves cooperation agreements, which are intended to serve crime-control objectives by permitting law enforcement to penetrate the upper echelons of criminal syndicates, but which may lead not to the capture of big fish but only to the capture of bigger schools of small fish.[282]  Finally, many jurisdictions prohibit judicial involvement with plea bargaining,[283] notwithstanding findings showing that people perceive plea bargaining to be more legitimate the more it comes to resemble mediation.[284]  On the one hand, such bars to judicial participation may promote neutrality in the supervision of guilty pleas (or trials in the unlikely event the parties fail to consummate pleas).[285]  On the other hand, judicial participation may check prosecutors who may use superior bargaining power to leverage inequitable pleas.  In short, plea bargaining is no one-dimensional practice, and, accordingly, perceptions of legitimacy may have a lot to say about discrete aspects, even if the practice is—as it were—too big to fail.

C.     Liability and Punishment Rules

Some deviations from community views of justice may reflect simply a failure to understand those views.  Serious empirical research on the issue is relatively recent.[286]  However, in many other instances, an admitted deviation from empirical desert is justified by some specific interest that it advances.  Below we consider two sorts of justifications: first, rules whose drafters acknowledge the value of a desert distribution but who argue that, given the complexities of the real world, that desert goal is sometimes best achieved by adopting a legal rule that on its face may not seem to put desert first; second, rules that openly reject desert in favor of some other interest, including reducing future crime, or promoting an interest unrelated to criminal justice, such as assisting international diplomacy possibly by providing immunity to diplomats.  Consider the deviations from desert reported and documented by Robinson and Cahill.[287]

Some deviations from desert are adopted out of fear that a more desert-based rule would be subject to easy manipulation and abuse, and thus would produce less justice, not more.[288]  Rules of this sort include the criminal law’s near-universal common rejection of a reasonable mistake of law defense, and the rejection of an insanity defense by some states and limitations on its availability in other states.[289]  It also is common for states to ignore the individual characteristics of a defendant in making liability judgments, as in judging provocation or negligence, including ignoring the person’s incapacities that make it difficult, if not impossible, for the person to have avoided the violation.[290]

A deviation rule also may be adopted because a more desert-based rule would encounter evidentiary problems, which would reduce the reliability of the process.  For example, statutes of limitation were adopted to avoid the dangers of stale evidence.[291]  Strict liability is imposed in cases where culpability is likely to exist but may be difficult to prove.[292]  And coerced confessions and uncounseled lineups are excluded to avoid false recriminations.

Another reason for a rule that on its face would seem to promote failures of justice is its tendency to promote justice in many other cases, often cases seen as more important, where the failure of justice would be more outrageous.  Plea bargains and witness immunity are examples.  They may be granted for quite serious offenses if the cooperation thereby gained will allow the successful prosecution of even more serious offenses by others.

These deviation rules do risk undermining the system’s moral credibility, and they ought to be maintained only if there is no other, nondeviation means of achieving the objective.  A careful review of these rules and their effects may suggest that not all are fully justified in their present form.  Nonetheless, some of these deviation doctrines will stand up to that scrutiny because they really do promote justice.[293]  Good intentions count a good deal in setting reputation, so it would be worthwhile for the criminal justice system to make clear its desert-based rationales in adopting doctrines that appear to deviate from desert.  It can be important to the system’s moral credibility that it is in any case trying to do justice as best it can in a complex world.

Other doctrines that deviate from desert do openly sacrifice desert, typically to pursue some other interest thought to be important.  Most obvious are the doctrines distributing criminal liability and punishment to optimize general deterrence or incapacitation of the dangerous, which deviate from desert to advance those traditional coercive crime-control programs.[294]

General deterrence may present crime-control opportunities because of its potential to affect an entire population of potential offenders.  The deviation from desert in a single case or a small group of cases might be enough to send an effective deterrent message to a very large group of potential offenders.  On the other hand, as one of us has shown elsewhere,[295] it is likely that one or more of the prerequisites for a deterrent effect will be missing, thereby subverting the possibility of such striking gains.

A deterrence-based rule can have no effect unless the target audience knows of the rule, directly or indirectly, yet the studies show that such knowledge of legal rules is weak, even among those who have special reasons to learn those rules.  Further, even if the target knows of the rule, a rule can have no effect unless the target is a rational calculator who can and will choose to act in his rational self-interests.  Yet the majority of the people most likely to need the coercive deterrent threat are not such rational calculators.  Finally, even if the target knows the rule and is a rational calculator, he will not be deterred unless his rational calculations lead him to believe that the risk of committing the offense outweighs its benefits.  Yet, again, the data suggests that the low conviction rates that exist for almost all offenses make the risk of punishment in most situations sufficiently low that most targets will ignore it.  Having a criminal justice system will deter, but manipulating liability and punishment rules within that system will work only in the atypical cases in which all three of these prerequisites to effective deterrence will be satisfied.

Add to this the fact that there is already a deterrent threat inherent in just punishment; deterrence-based rules can do better than desert-based rules only in those cases in which the former deviate from desert—do injustice or cause a failure of justice—yet it is in just these deviation cases that the deterrence program is at its weakest.  People assume the law is as they think it should be—which they think is a desert-based rule—hence they will know of a different, deterrence-based rule only if the system has undertaken a special education campaign.  And it is in these deviation-from-desert cases in which people—citizens, jurors, witnesses, police, prosecutors, and judges—are most likely to subvert and resist the system rather than to help it.

Indeed, it does not follow that a deviation from desert is justified even in those instances in which the deterrence prerequisites are satisfied.  A deviation is justified only if the general deterrent effect would be so great as to outweigh even the long-term detriment to the criminal justice system’s moral credibility from such a deliberate choice to do injustice or to fail to do justice.  Even a single well-publicized case that conflicts with community intuitions of justice (and recall that well-publicized cases are often the most useful for general deterrence) can have a serious detrimental effect on the criminal justice system’s reputation because the deliberateness of the deviation reveals the system’s lack of full commitment to doing justice.

Because incapacitation of the dangerous is so effective at preventing future crimes by the individual offenders detained, it may present substantial crime-control opportunities.  But it is not necessarily true that those opportunities will regularly justify deviation from desert.  First, of course, such deviations undermine the criminal law’s moral credibility.  But beyond that, such preventive detention faces other hurdles.  The cost of a deviation from desert can be justified only if its crime control cannot be achieved through nondeviation means.  In this instance, the possibility for civil preventive detention of dangerous persons means that incapacitation cannot justify undermining the moral credibility of the criminal justice system.  And, as one of us has argued elsewhere, such an open civil preventive system is likely to be both fairer to detainees and more protective and less costly for the community.[296]

Beyond these crime-control interests of general deterrence and incapacitation, other criminal justice related interests are also offered as justification for deviations.  As Parts II.A and III.A make clear, fairness in reaching a result, not just the justness of the result, can be important to society.  At stake here is not only the deontological interest in fairness but also the practical interest in the power of legitimacy discussed previously.  As Part V explains, the demands of fairness may suggest procedures or practices that tend to frustrate doing justice.[297]

In preparation for Part V, let us give a few examples to illustrate the point.  The legality principle bars conviction for offense conduct that was not specifically described in a previously existing prohibition, even if most people, including the offender, believed that the conduct was prohibited.  The exclusionary rule may bar the use of clearly reliable evidence in order to discourage police from engaging in unauthorized searches or seizures, even if such exclusion lets a clearly guilty offender go free.  Speedy trial rules, designed to discourage prosecutorial delay, can have a similar effect.  The bar against “double jeopardy” operates to limit prosecutorial abuse through repeated prosecutions, even if it means the clearly guilty will escape the punishment they deserve.  The entrapment defense, which is designed to discourage overzealous police, can give a defense even if the offender is a career criminal looking for an opportunity to commit the offense.  Like the exclusionary rule, the entrapment defense, especially the objective police-misconduct formulation of it as appears in the Code,[298] seeks to control police overreaching.

Still other deviation rules are justified on grounds unrelated to the criminal justice system,[299] as with diplomatic and official immunity, which are said to promote international interchange and governmental independence, respectively.  Similarly, non-criminal-justice interests are being advanced when the unique condemnatory power of criminal conviction is used to boost the prohibition of minor regulatory violations.

Each of these deviation rules may have some justification, but there is also reason to believe that each incurs a cost to the criminal justice system by undermining its moral credibility.  The detrimental effects of such reduction in moral credibility suggests that each deviation rule merits reevaluation to determine whether its benefits outweigh its costs and whether the same benefits might be as effectively produced by a nondeviation means.

V.  The Occasional Conflicts Between Legitimacy and Moral Credibility

The previous discussions have made clear that perceptions of fairness in enforcement and adjudication are distinct from and independent of perceptions of justice in the distribution of liability and punishment.  This is not to say that the two dynamics—legitimacy and moral credibility—are unrelated.  To the contrary, they are often mutually reinforcing.[300]  Significantly, however, they are not always symbiotic.  A procedurally fair system may generate seriously unjust results, and a procedurally unfair system may nonetheless produce just results.  In short, the police practices, criminal adjudication procedures, and criminal liability rules within a jurisdiction may be in very different states.  More importantly for our purposes, not only is it possible for fair practices and procedures and just punishment to be on different tracks, but sometimes they are on a collision course.  Specifically, practices and procedures that advance fairness sometimes can undermine justice.  And enforcement practices and adjudication procedures that would most effectively advance justice may be seen as unfair.

A.     Points of Tension

Consider, for example, such stalwarts of the American criminal justice system as the prohibition against allowing prosecutors to rely on illegally seized evidence, retry acquitted defendants, or delay trials as best suits effective prosecution.  The rights against double jeopardy and to a speedy trial, as well as the exclusionary rule, all have been constitutionally enshrined to some extent.  Yet it may well be that the virtues that drive these procedural rules are not accuracy in truth finding or reliability in doing justice.  On the contrary, each of these rules, and many others, can easily frustrate justice. [301]

The exclusionary rule can exclude reliable evidence that allows the perpetrator of even a serious offense to go free, a result that cannot help but draw the criminal justice system into disrepute, at least with regard to its commitment for doing justice.  In the case of Larry Eyler, for example, police suspected Eyler of a string of gruesome killings of young gay men.  When a state trooper just happened upon Eyler parked on the side of the highway preparing for another kill of a young hitchhiker, he became suspicious, called headquarters and heard of prior suspicions, and took Eyler to the station, probably saving the hitchhiker’s life.  A search of Eyler’s vehicle turned up conclusive proof of his previous crimes, but the court excluded the evidence because the search was unlawful.[302]  Eyler was released to kill again, and indeed did so before subsequently being captured and convicted for the later crime.[303]  Many may wonder whether this frustration of justice, together with its high cost in human life, is worth the benefits that the exclusionary rule offers.

The double jeopardy bar may present a similar situation.  In the case of Melvin Ignatow, for example, Brenda Schaefer was brutally raped, tortured, and killed by Ignatow and his former girlfriend.  At trial, the girlfriend testified for the prosecution but came off as an unreliable witness, and Ignatow simply lied his way to reasonable doubt.  He was acquitted.  Ten months later, as the new owners of Ignatow’s former house were putting down new carpeting, they found film taped inside a floor duct.  When the film was developed, it provided a grisly record of Ignatow’s horrendous offense, yet Ignatow could not be retried for the murder.[304]  Again, this gross failure of justice is likely to undermine in many peoples’ minds the system’s commitment to doing justice.[305]

Or imagine that an Eyler or an Ignatow is released because of a speedy trial violation, a statute of limitations has run, or the text of an offense statute was ambiguous (even though the defendant knew his conduct was wrong).[306]  The fairness interests may be clear—speedy trial rights, statutes of limitations, and the legality principle are common and well established—but the justice costs can be significant.

Nonetheless, there are good reasons to insist on adhering to the conventional standards and rules that are premised on fairness concerns.  First, and obviously, fairness is an important value in itself.  But there are practical crime-control reasons beyond this, as Parts II.A and III.A have shown.  But one can say more.  For example, the system’s adherence to these fairness rules, even in such costly cases, advertises the extent of its commitment to them.  Indeed, it is the costs of undermining justice in discrete cases that may do the most to advertise just how devoted the system is to these fairness interests.  If the system is willing to follow such rules, even when they undermine justice in such egregious cases, the message says, then citizens can have confidence that the rules certainly will be followed in the more common, less egregious cases.  That demonstration of high commitment enhances the system’s legitimacy, with its consequent benefits of greater deference and compliance.

However, one can imagine ways in which a society might strike a different balance between fairness and justice on these, and other, issues.  A system might limit application of the rules, perhaps by applying them less rigorously in cases of serious offenses, as some have suggested.[307]  Or a system might shift to alternative procedures that could effectively advance fairness interests without jeopardizing justice—for example, by replacing the exclusionary rule with a robust civil-compensation or administrative-disciplinary regime that could punish police for unlawful searches of any individual (and not just for unlawful searches of accused offenders).[308]  Or a system might narrow application of rules and standards in circumstances where the threat of injustice is high, but the threat of unfairness is low.  For example, the system might bar application of double jeopardy when a defendant’s deceptive conduct helped generate the original acquittal.[309]

B.     Resolving the Conflict

As the last Subpart demonstrates, although a system should strive to realize both values, this may not always be possible.  Specifically, in the previous Subpart, we explored tensions between legitimacy and moral credibility and identified a number of discrete rules and standards—the exclusionary rule, speedy trial guarantees, and protections against double jeopardy—that may be defensible on fairness grounds even where they promote injustice.  More generally, the question arises: Which objective is superior where a system might achieve only one?  We can look at this question in either of two ways.  We can attempt to resolve the deontological tensions between fairness and justice generally, which is the larger debate that takes up a noticeable part of moral philosophy, criminal procedure, and criminal law theory scholarship.  Or we can attempt to resolve the narrower question of which value ought to be preferred where the goal is gaining deference to and compliance with the criminal justice system.  For most of this Article, our focus has been on the narrow question, but, significantly, our answer would generally be the same under either perspective: although legitimacy may be the superior value in discrete circumstances (as discussed above and below), moral credibility is more often to be preferred in unfortunate circumstances where a system may optimize only one.

Overall, Tyler seems to concede that moral credibility has a much greater effect in shaping compliance than does legitimacy,[310] but no doubt the answer is more complex than to always prefer moral credibility.  It may depend on the setting.  In different contexts, one or the other justification carries potentially greater normative force.  For instance, in the order-maintenance policing context, the state cannot rely on moral credibility because many of the governing laws are borderline regulatory public-order crimes that lack inherent normative punch.[311]  Instead, legitimacy is the sole source of genuine normative power.  In fact, legitimacy may be the sole effective source of any power because traditional carrots and sticks are particularly insufficient for deterring commonplace borderline crime.  Police must necessarily be selective because offenses of this kind are typically so prevalent.[312]  This creates a further complication: selective enforcement may feed perceptions of bias and illegitimacy, which may generate more disobedience, which may lead to even more selective enforcement, which may further feed perceptions of illegitimacy.[313]  The situation is delicate and potentially counterproductive.  Procedural fairness is left alone to do the heavy lifting without the backstops of moral credibility and instrumental deterrence, and the enforcement process, if perceived to be unfair, may succeed only in making the load heavier.[314]  If nothing else, the potential for a negative feedback loop provides yet another powerful reason to reconsider the degree to which we rely on the criminal law to achieve regulatory ends.[315]

Comparatively, when it comes to mala in se crimes, even if the public were to perceive legal authorities to be somewhat illegitimate, and even if an instrumental approach were unable to deter the rational bad actor, ordinary individuals would still tend to comply for the simple reason that ordinary individuals are not, in the main, bad actors.  They obey murder statutes and cooperate with murder investigations and prosecutions (discounting, of course, fears of reprisal) because their moral aversion to homicide is that strong.[316]  With serious mala in se crimes, moral credibility alone may prove somewhat effective, even with low levels of legitimate (or even much of any) enforcement.[317]

In sum, procedural fairness is more important to the enforcement of regulatory crime, while moral credibility is more important to the enforcement of conventional crime.  This may be reason alone to emphasize moral credibility over legitimacy (in the event that a criminal justice system were competent to emphasize only one) because moral credibility operates best within the traditional criminal law domain of mala in se offenses, while legitimacy operates best in only regulatory domains in which state objectives might be achieved equally or nearly as well through civil law or other means.[318]

The question comes down to which concept ultimately provides a better screen.  For a number of reasons, we believe that moral credibility should be expected to more effectively motivate optimal deference.  First, moral credibility entails a concrete assessment of the substantive law or enforcement effort at hand.  Legitimacy, by contrast, entails institutional analyses that operate at higher levels of abstraction.  To produce deference, then, legitimacy is mediated by a cognitive move: the prospective offender must contemplate illegal conduct, then consider what she thinks of the set of procedures used to enforce it, and then decide whether to engage in the forbidden conduct based on her feelings—not toward the law itself—but toward the system that prescribes it.  For moral credibility to produce deference, the prospective offender need only contemplate the illegal conduct and then consider what she thinks of that conduct.  The questions are discrete and coherent: Should I comply with this law?  Is this law morally justified?  Should I cooperate with this prosecution?  Is this prosecution morally justified?  We expect that an individual is likelier to refrain from behavior that she finds immoral than from behavior that she deems neither right nor wrong but that just so happens to be proscribed by legitimate authority.[319]  As Sarah Lawsky has observed: “[A]ssessments of distributive justice might lead to compliance (or noncompliance) directly, without being mediated by an increased belief in legitimacy.”[320]  Indeed, studies have shown that “whereas assessments of procedural justice tend to influence views and beliefs . . . assessments of distributive justice tend to influence behavior.”[321]

Second, moral judgments are innately comprehensible.  We are all social beings with moral compasses that we instinctively consult.[322]  We require no auxiliary understanding to access perceptions of just deserts.  But we must achieve a certain level of socialization for legitimacy to do its work.  We must grasp the objectives, structure, and methods of a justice system and the implications of its procedural practices and strategic choices.  For this reason, perceptions of moral credibility are not just easier to tap, they are likelier to be right.  Fewer external variables cloud our moral valuations.  By contrast, perceptions of legitimacy may fail to reflect reality in fact because these perceptions may be based on incomplete or inaccurate information about supplementary matters of enforcement and adjudication.  Indeed, the fact that perceptions of procedural fairness rely on more than intuition may explain the somewhat greater dissensus that we think we see on questions of procedural as opposed to distributive justice.[323]

Third, legitimacy is an umbrella concept that covers everything from discourteous to discriminatory behavior.  And even if we lack a comprehensive rank ordering of legitimacy criteria, it simply stands to reason that mere rudeness is less likely to undermine deference than perceived immorality.

Fourth, perceptions of procedural fairness are more likely to be socially constructed than perceptions of substantive justice.  Therefore, the corrupt state may more easily manipulate the legitimacy project to serve its bad ends, as we detail below.

Thus, we land in a somewhat different place than Tyler and Darley.  They emphasized legitimacy over moral credibility, arguing that perceptions of procedural fairness are superior because they are more global and thus have the potential to provide legal authorities with broad discretionary power.  Legitimacy provides greater and more reliable authority to legal officials than does morality, because legal officials have discretionary authority to decide what is appropriate.  Within the scope of their prescribed roles, the police and courts make decisions, and citizens believe that they ought to obey those decisions.  Because legitimacy invests authorities with discretionary authority, it is a more flexible form of social value upon which to base the operation of the legal system.  “With morality, the discretion rests with citizens, who decide whether or not the law corresponds to their moral values.”[324]

Moral credibility, by contrast, asks only the narrow question of what the public thinks of a particular law (or at most a particular application of a particular law) and thereby provides less free space for unconstrained decision making.  In short, it provides only a one-off check.

But where Tyler and Darley saw a detriment to the moral-credibility project, we see its chief virtue.  Tyler and Darley may be right that perceptions of legitimacy provide authorities with leeway to make unpopular decisions that are, nevertheless, correct.[325]  But the point presupposes that the decisions are, in fact, correct.  What if their decisions are incorrect or, worse still, corrupt?  As indicated, a false perception of legitimacy may motivate unwarranted deference, and we ought not to want the public to blindly acquiesce to governmental conduct simply because the state has established an ersatz reserve of good will or trust.  Bad results may come to pass when the public no longer makes or acts upon specific judgments as to the appropriateness of discrete governmental action.

To put a finer point on it, we might imagine two systems.  First, in a legitimate system that has no reputation for moral credibility, people will obey the law uncritically because legal authorities ought to be obeyed, leaving unanalyzed the question of whether the law is itself normatively defensible law.  Because police and prosecutors have vested interests in cultivating discretionary power, it is unsurprising that legal authorities should favor such a system.[326]  But should the rest of us?  Not if the best interests of legal authorities fail to align with the public interest.  Second, in a morally credible system that has no reputation for legitimacy, people will be indifferent to legal authorities but will behave morally because it is right to behave morally.  Significantly, in such circumstances, the public will be forever checking and rechecking legal measures, and may choose to defy the state should it break loose from its normative moorings.  It is no flaw that, as Tyler accurately observed, “Morality can lead to compliance with laws, but it can also work against it.”[327]  Rather, the individual may (and typically should) feel compelled to deviate from even the legitimate system that tries to implement and enforce an isolated unjust or immoral liability or punishment rule.  We should want the system to cultivate deference for its morally laden directives.  We may even want the system to cultivate deference for its amoral or morally ambiguous directives.  But we should not want the system to cultivate deference for its immoral directives.

In sum, we think that, descriptively, moral intuitions pack more punch, and, normatively, this is as it should be.[328]

Conclusion

A growing literature on procedural fairness suggests that there is practical value in enhancing a criminal justice system’s “legitimacy” with the community.  A separate literature suggests that there is practical value in enhancing the system’s “moral credibility” with the community it governs by distributing criminal liability and punishment according to principles that track the community’s shared intuitions of justice.  In this Article, we have examined the shared aims and the similarities in the operation and effect of these two criminal justice dynamics as well as their occasional differences in effect and their potential for conflict.

Among other things, we have concluded that the normative influences of the two dynamics are indeed similar, and that they may be mutually reinforcing.  On the other hand, the extent of our knowledge about the two dynamics is different.  While the “legitimacy” dynamic is the better known, and is more frequently used as a justification by scholars, we know less about what practices and procedures will produce legitimacy than we do about what liability and punishment rules will produce moral credibility.  Similarly, at present, there is less empirical support for the claimed beneficial practical effects of legitimacy in producing deference and compliance than there is for moral credibility doing the same.

While the benefits of perceived legitimacy and moral credibility go beyond the deontological to include the practical benefits of advancing effective crime control, it is also true that plausible and good-faith arguments, generally utilitarian in nature, can be made in support of practices, procedures, or rules that are perceived as unfair or unjust.  However, we argue that a system should deviate from the community’s notions of fairness and justice only when: first, that deviation achieves a goal that cannot be achieved through nondeviation means; and, second, the crime-control benefits of the deviation outweigh the crime-control costs inherent in undermining the system’s legitimacy and moral credibility.

Finally, we have shown that sometimes there is even tension between the dynamics of legitimacy and moral credibility, as with such doctrines as double jeopardy, the exclusionary rule, speedy trial, and the legality principle.  While the effect of moral credibility in producing cooperation and deference may be greater than that of legitimacy, the choice between the two is more complex, commonly dependent upon context.  Sometimes, legitimacy is to be prioritized.  More often, we think moral credibility is the superior value.  Happily, it is typically the case that legitimacy and moral credibility work together to support one another in harnessing the powerful forces of social and normative influence in gaining deference and compliance.


        *   Associate Professor of Law, University of Virginia School of Law.

        **    Colin S. Diver Professor of Law, University of Pennsylvania Law School.  The authors thank Tom Tyler for his help and support, and Eli Rubin and Mark McBride for their enthusiastic research assistance.

        [1].   See, e.g., John Thibaut & Laurens Walker, Procedural Justice: A Psychological Analysis (1975); Tom R. Tyler, Why People Obey the Law (2006) [hereinafter Tyler, WPOL]; Tom R. Tyler & Yuen J. Huo, Trust in the Law (2002) [hereinafter Tyler & Huo, Trust in the Law]; Jonathan D. Casper, Tom Tyler & Bonnie Fisher, Procedural Justice in Felony Cases, 22 Law & Soc’y Rev. 483 (1988); Jason Sunshine & Tom R. Tyler, The Role of Procedural Justice and Legitimacy in Shaping Public Support for Policing, 37 Law & Soc’y Rev. 513 (2003); Tom R. Tyler, Procedural Justice, Legitimacy, and the Effective Rule of Law, 30 Crime & Just.: Rev. Res. 283 [hereinafter Tyler, Effective Rule of Law]; Tom R. Tyler, Psychological Perspectives on Legitimacy and Legitimation, 57 Ann. Rev. Psychol. 375 (2006) (reviewing the literature on legitimacy); Tom R. Tyler & John M. Darley, Building a Law-Abiding Society: Taking Public Views About Morality and the Legitimacy of Legal Authorities into Account when Formulating Substantive Law, 28 Hofstra L. Rev. 707 (2000); Tom R. Tyler & Jeffrey Fagan, Legitimacy and Cooperation: Why Do People Help the Police Fight Crime in Their Communities?, 6 Ohio St. J. Crim. L. 231 (2008).

        [2].   See infra Part III.A.

        [3].   See e.g., Paul H. Robinson, Distributive Principles of Criminal Law: Who Should Be Punished How Much? 135–212, 231–60 (2008) [hereinafter Robinson, Distributive Principles]; Laura I. Appleman, Sentencing, Empirical Desert, and Restorative Justice, in Criminal Law Conversations 59 (Paul H. Robinson et al. eds., 2009); Douglas A. Berman, A Truly (and Peculiarly) American “Revolution in Punishment Theory,” 42 Ariz. St. L.J. 1113 (2010); Michael T. Cahill, A Fertile Desert?, in Criminal Law Conversations, supra, at 43; Zachary R. Calo, Empirical Desert and the Moral Economy of Punishment, 42 Ariz. St. L.J. 1123 (2010); Adil Ahmad Haque, Legitimacy as Strategy, in Criminal Law Conversations, supra, at 57; Joseph E. Kennedy, Empirical Desert and the Endpoints of Punishment, inCriminal Law Conversations, supra, at 54; Adam Kolber, Compliance-Promoting Intuitions, in Criminal Law Conversations, supra, at 41; Youngjae Lee, Desert, Deontology, and Vengeance, 42 Ariz. St. L.J. 1141 (2010); Matthew Lister, Desert: Empirical, Not Metaphysical, in Criminal Law Conversations, supra, at 51; Paul H. Robinson, Why Does the Criminal Law Care What the Lay Person Thinks Is Just?  Coercive Versus Normative Crime Control, 86 Va. L. Rev. 1839 (2000) [hereinafter Robinson, Normative Crime Control]; Alice Ristroph, Third Wave Legal Moralism, 42 Ariz. St. L.J. 1151 (2010); Paul H. Robinson, Geoffrey P. Goodwin & Michael D. Reisig, The Disutility of Injustice, 85 N.Y.U. L. Rev. 1940 (2010); Paul H. Robinson & John M. Darley, Intuitions of Justice: Implications for Criminal Law and Justice Policy, 81 S. Cal. L. Rev. 1 (2007) [hereinafter Robinson & Darley, Intuitions of Justice]; Paul H. Robinson & John M. Darley, The Utility of Desert, 91 Nw. U. L. Rev. 453 (1997) [hereinafter Robinson & Darley, Utility of Desert]; Mary Sigler, The Methodology of Desert, 42 Ariz. St. L.J. 1173 (2010); Christopher Slobogin,Some Hypotheses About Empirical Desert, 42 Ariz. St. L.J. 1189 (2010); Andrew E. Taslitz, Empirical Desert: The Yin and Yang of Criminal Justice, in Criminal Law Conversations, supra, at 56.

        [4].   See infra Part III.B.

        [5].   Tyler & Huo, Trust in the Law, supra note 1, at xiv.

        [6].   See Tyler, Effective Rule of Law, supra note 1, at 286 (indicating that “issues of process dominate public evaluations of the police, the courts, and social regulatory activities”).

        [7].   See Tyler, WPOL, supra note 1, at 3 (contrasting the normative perspective on why people follow the law with the instrumental perspective, which relies on incentives and penalties to shape behavior); Robinson, Normative Crime Control, supra note 3, at 1861–69.

        [8].   Tyler, WPOL, supra note 1, at 3–4 (noting that the person who is normatively committed to obeying the law will do so “irrespective of whether they risk punishment for breaking the law”); Tom Tyler, Psychology and Institutional Design, 4 Rev. L. & Econ. 801, 801–08, 813–16 (2008).

        [9].   See Tyler & Huo, Trust in the Law, supra note 1, at xiv (“This belief is distinguished from the view that it is in one’s self-interest to accept those judgments.  Individuals with strong beliefs in the legitimacy of the police and the courts are more inclined to self-regulation; they take personal responsibility for following laws, accept the decisions of legal authorities, and are more likely to defer voluntarily to individual police officers and judges.”).

      [10].   Tyler, WPOL, supra note 1, at 5 (“[J]ustice concerns are seen as acting independently of the influence of an outcome’s favorability.”); Tyler & Fagan, supranote 1, at 240–41 (“Studies . . . find that procedures are judged against ethical criterion of their appropriateness that are distinct from the favorability or fairness of the outcomes of such procedures.”).

       [11]   See generally Michael D. Reisig et al., The Construct Validity and Refinement of Process-Based Policing Measures, 34 Crim. Just. & Behav. 1005 (2007).

      [12].   See Tyler, WPOL, supra note 1, at 4 (“Although both morality and legitimacy are normative, they are not identical.  Leaders are especially interested in having legitimacy in the eyes of their followers, because legitimacy most effectively provides them with discretionary authority that they can use in governing.”); Tyler & Darley, supra note 1, at 723–24.

      [13].   See Tyler, WPOL, supra note 1, at 29; Tom R. Tyler, Legitimacy and Criminal Justice: The Benefits of Self-Regulation, 7 Ohio St. J. Crim. L. 307, 319–24 (2009).

      [14].   See Tyler & Darley, supra note 1, at 709–23.

      [15].   See, e.g., Reisig et al., supra note 11, at 1006; Tom R. Tyler & Cheryl J. Wakslak, Profiling and Police Legitimacy: Procedural Justice, Attributions of Motive, and Acceptance of Police Authority, 42 Criminology 253, 277 (2004).  In numerous articles, Tom Tyler, Allan Lind, and Yuen Huo have found remarkable consistency across cultures and demographic groups in the criteria used to define fair procedures.  See, e.g., E. Allan Lind, Yuen J. Huo & Tom R. Tyler, . . . And Justice for All: Ethnicity, Gender, and Preferences for Dispute Resolution Procedures, 18 Law & Hum. Behav. 269 (1994); E. Allan Lind, Tom R. Tyler & Yuen J. Huo, Procedural Context and Culture: Variation in the Antecedents of Procedural Justice Judgments, 73 J. Personality & Soc. Psychol. 767 (1997); Tom R. Tyler,Governing Amid Diversity: The Effect of Fair Decisionmaking Procedures on the Legitimacy of Government, 28 Law & Soc’y Rev. 809 (1994); Tom R. Tyler,Multiculturalism and the Willingness of Citizens to Defer to Law and to Legal Authorities, 25 Law & Soc. Inquiry 983 (2000); Tom R. Tyler, Public Trust and Confidence in Legal Authorities: What Do Majority and Minority Group Members Want from the Law and Legal Institutions?, 19 Behav. Sci. & L. 215 (2001); Tom R. Tyler, What Is Procedural Justice?: Criteria Used by Citizens to Assess the Fairness of Legal Procedures, 22 Law & Soc’y Rev. 103 (1988) [hereinafter Tyler, What is Procedural Justice?].

      [16].   Tyler, WPOL, supra note 1, at 7, 117; Casper et al., supra note 1, at 486; Robert Folger, Distributive and Procedural Justice: Combined Impact of “Voice” and Improvement on Experienced Inequity, 35 J. Personality & Soc. Psychol. 108, 108 (1977); Tyler, What Is Procedural Justice?, supra note 15, at 129; Tom Tyler & Steven L. Blader, Justice and Negotiation, in The Handbook of Negotiation and Culture 295, 300 (Michele J. Gelfand & Jeanne M. Brett eds., 2004).

      [17].   See, e.g., John D. McCluskey, Police Requests for Compliance 171 (2003) (discussing the importance of police respect and concluding that “[p]olice respect enhances compliance, and police disrespect diminishes compliance”); Casper et al., supra note 1, at 486; Tyler, What is Procedural Justice?, supra note 15, at 129.

      [18].   See supra note 3 and accompanying text.

      [19].   See generally Paul H. Robinson, The Role of Moral Philosophers in the Competition Between Deontological and Empirical Desert, 48 Wm. & Mary L. Rev. 1831 (2007).

      [20].   For a fuller account, see generally Robinson, Distributive Principles, supra note 3, at 175–210; Robinson & Darley, Utility of Desert, supra note 3; Robinson & Darley, Intuitions of Justice, supra note 3; Robinson et al., Disutility of Injustice, supra note 3, at 1995–2025.

      [21].   Paul H. Robinson, Competing Conceptions of Modern Desert: Vengeful, Deontological, and Empirical, 67 Cambridge L.J. 145, 153 (2008).

      [22].   Id. at 153–54.

      [23].   Id. at 154.

      [24].   Id.

      [25].   Id.

      [26].   The relevant “community” is that to be governed by the contemplated liability rule.  In the United States, where the governing criminal laws are contained primarily in state criminal codes, the relevant community for determining a code’s rule will be the residents of the state.  However, one can imagine situations in which the relevant community in shaping the practice, procedure or rule is larger (the federal criminal code) or smaller (local court sentencing practices).

      [27].   See infra Part III.B.

      [28].   See, e.g., Sheldon Alexander & Marian Ruderman, The Role of Procedural and Distributive Justice in Organizational Behavior, 1 Soc. Just. Res. 177 (1987); Mark R. Fondacaro et al., Procedural Justice in Resolving Family Disputes: A Psychosocial Analysis of Individual and Family Functioning in Late Adolescence, 27 J. Youth & Adolescence 101 (1998); Rebecca Hollander-Blumoff & Tom R. Tyler, Procedural Justice and the Rule of Law: Fostering Legitimacy in Alternative Dispute Resolution, 2011 J. Disp. Resol. 1, 6–7 (2011); Shelly Jackson & Mark Fondacaro, Procedural Justice in Resolving Family Conflict: Implications for Youth Violence Prevention, 21 Law & Pol’y 101 (1999); Heather J. Smith et al., The Self-Relevant Implications of the Group-Value Model: Group Membership, Self-Worth, and Treatment Quality, 34 J. Experimental Soc. Psychol. 470 (1998); Tom R. Tyler, Promoting Employee Policy Adherence and Rule Following in Work Settings: The Value of Self-Regulatory Approaches, 70 Brook. L. Rev. 1287 (2005).

      [29].   See, e.g., Casper et al., supra note 1; Michael D. Reisig et al., Suspect Disrespect Toward the Police, 21 Just. Q. 241 (2004); Michael D. Reisig & Gorazd Mesko, Procedural Justice, Legitimacy, and Prisoner Misconduct, 15 Psychol. Crime & L. 41, 41–49 (2009); Tom R. Tyler, “Legitimacy in Corrections”: Policy Implications, 9 Criminology & Pub. Pol’y 127 (2010); Tom R. Tyler, The Role of Perceived Injustice in Defendants’ Evaluations of Their Courtroom Experience, 18 Law & Soc’y Rev. 51 (1984) (analyzing legitimacy of experiences with enforcement and adjudication of traffic offenses).

      [30].   Compare Tyler & Huo, Trust in the Law, supra note 1, at 196 (finding that generally “people’s main consideration when evaluating the police and the courts is the treatment that they feel people receive from those authorities”) (emphasis added), with Casper et al., supra note 1, at 494–96 (observing that procedural fairness is related to defendant satisfaction even in high-stakes felony cases, but also acknowledging that concerns with outcome and distributive justice also play significant roles), and Reisig et al., supra note 11, at 1024 (finding that procedural fairness is an important, but not exclusive, determinant of perceptions of legitimacy).

      [31].   McCluskey, supra note 17, at 28–29 (observing that the data are relatively thin on the precise procedures that generate perceptions of legitimacy or procedural fairness).

      [32].   Thibaut & Walker, supra note 1, at 4.

      [33].   See, e.g., Tom R. Tyler, The Psychology of Procedural Justice: A Test of the Group-Value Model, 57 J. Personality & Soc. Psychol. 830 (1989); Tom R. Tyler & Allen A. Lind, A Relational Model of Authority in Groups, in 25 Advances in Experimental Social Psychology 115 (Mark. P. Zanna ed., 1992).

      [34].   Kees van den Bos et al., How Do I Judge My Outcome When I Do Not Know the Outcome of Others? The Psychology of the Fair Process Effect, 72 J. Personality & Soc. Psychol. 1034, 1042–45 (1997).

      [35].   See generally Paul H. Robinson & Robert Kurzban, Concordance and Conflict in Intuitions of Justice, 91 Minn. L. Rev. 1829 (2007).

      [36].   See, e.g., John H. Langbein & Lloyd L. Weinreb, Continental Criminal Procedure: “Myth” and Reality, 87 Yale L.J. 1549 (1978).  Nevertheless, Tom Tyler and Allan Lind have found that the criteria used to define fair procedures are similar across cultures and demographic groups.  See supra note 15 and accompanying text.

      [37].   See, e.g., Tom R. Tyler, Enhancing Police Legitimacy, Annals Am. Acad. Pol. & Soc. Sci., May 2004, at 84, 94–99 (2004).

      [38].   Hector Tobar & Richard Lee Colvin, Witnesses Depict Relentless Beating, L.A. Times, Mar. 7, 1991, at B1.

      [39].   Ex-Officer Tells Court of Role in Miami Cover-Up, N.Y. Times, Dec. 13, 1980, at A11 (describing fatal beating and cover-up that arose out of alleged traffic infraction and subsequent high-speed chase).

      [40].   Leonard Levitt, The Louima Verdicts, Some Splits, But Blue Wall Stands, Newsday, June 9, 1999, at A4.

      [41].   See Tyler & Huo, Trust in the Law, supra note 1, at 39 (“[A]ttitudes become more negative following unfavorable experiences but remain the same following positive experiences.”).

      [42].   Jesse McKinley, Officer Guilty of Manslaughter in Killing that Inflamed Oakland, N.Y. Times, July 9, 2010, at A11; see also Seth Mydans, Videotaped Beating by Officers Puts Full Glare on Brutality Issue, N.Y. Times, Mar. 18, 1991, at A1.

      [43].   Comm’n to Investigate Allegations of Police Corruption and the Anti-Corruption Procedures of the Police Dep’t, City of New York, Anatomy of Failure: A Path for Success 36 (1994) [hereinafter The Mollen Report], available at http://www.parc.info/client_files/Special%20Reports/4%20-%20Mollen%20Commission%20-%20NYPD.pdf (finding an epidemic of “falsifications” by the New York Police Department in the 1990s); I. Bennett Capers, Crime, Legitimacy and Testilying, 83 Ind. L.J. 835, 868–71 (2008) (discussing the frequency of “testilying”).

      [44].   See, e.g., Robin Shepard Engel, Citizens’ Perceptions of Distributive and Procedural Injustice During Traffic Stops with Police, 42 J. Res. Crime & Delinq. 445, 469 (2005) (reporting that when police use force citizens are many times more likely to perceive procedural injustice, and concluding that “law enforcement officials may need to reconsider their policies guiding the use of consent and other types of discretionary searches”); see McCluskey, supra note 17, at 43–44, 171–72.

      [45].   Dennis P. Rosenbaum et al., Attitudes Towards the Police: The Effects of Direct and Vicarious Experiences, 8 Police Q. 343, 358–59 (2005).  A possible explanation is that individuals who initiate contact with law enforcement do so because they hold police in higher esteem and trust police to provide help.  Such faith may be shaken thereafter by even a single unprofessional encounter.

      [46].   Casper et al., supra note 1, at 498.

      [47].   See, e.g., United States v. White, 401 U.S. 745, 786 (1971); Katz v. United States, 389 U.S. 347, 353 (1967).

      [48].   A.P. Herbert, Uncommon Law 4 (1974).

      [49].   California v. Greenwood, 486 U.S. 35, 40–41 (1988).

      [50].   United States v. Miller, 425 U.S. 435, 442 (1976).

      [51].   Smith v. Maryland, 442 U.S. 735, 744 (1979).

      [52].   Florida v. Riley, 488 U.S. 445, 450–51 (1989); California v. Ciraolo, 476 U.S. 207, 213–14 (1986).

      [53].   Kyllo v. United States, 533 U.S. 27, 34–35 (2001).

      [54].   Shmuel Lock, Crime, Public Opinion, and Civil Liberties: The Tolerant Public 39 (1999) (finding that 91 % of the public approved of the Court’s limitation on a reasonable expectation of privacy); Christopher Slobogin & Joseph E. Schumacher, Reasonable Expectations of Privacy and Autonomy in Fourth Amendment Cases: An Empirical Look at “Understandings Recognized and Permitted by Society,” 42 Duke L.J. 727, 739 (1993) (finding that respondents, given fifty hypothetical police practices, ranked aerial observation and electronic tracking among less intrusive activities).

      [55].   United States v. Place, 462 U.S. 696, 707 (1983).

      [56].   United States v. Karo, 468 U.S. 705, 713 (1984) (permitting remote tracking of vehicles).

      [57].   Riley, 488 U.S. at 450–51 (permitting helicopter surveillance).

      [58].   Katz v. United States, 389 U.S. 347, 361 (1967) (Harlan, J., concurring).

      [59].   Compare United States v. Miller, 425 U.S. 435, 443 (1976) (finding that an individual “takes the risk, in revealing his affairs to another, that the information will be conveyed by that person to the Government”), with Ronald J. Allen et al., Comprehensive Criminal Procedure 378–79 (2d ed. 2005) (“Though the Court has viewed such ‘sharing’ [of information] as proof of the absence of reasonable privacy expectations, it is not clear that citizens view privacy in the same way.”), andMary I. Coombs, Shared Privacy and the Fourth Amendment, or the Rights of Relationships, 75 Calif. L. Rev. 1593, 1593 (1987) (“Much of what is important in human life takes place in a situation of shared privacy.  The important events in our lives are shared with a chosen group of others; they do not occur in isolation, nor are they open to the entire world.”).

      [60].   Slobogin & Schumacher, supra note 54, at 740.  We must acknowledge, however, that there may be something of a dynamic relationship between court decisions and public perceptions.  Specifically, one study found that lawyers (whose attitudes are more likely shaped by Supreme Court jurisprudence) were more tolerant than the public of allowing police to rifle through trash bags left outside the home—a practice that, as indicated, the Court freely permits.  Lock, supra note 54, at 39 (finding that only 49% of the public approved of the practice as compared to 64 % of lawyers); see also California v. Greenwood, 486 U.S. 35, 40–41 (1988).  Comparatively, the study found that the public was far likelier than lawyers to approve of suspicionless vehicle searches during routine traffic stops—a practice that the Court constitutionally constrains.  Lock, supra note 54, at 40–42 (finding that 44% of the public approved of the practice as compared to only 10% of lawyers); seeArizona v. Gant, 129 S. Ct. 1710, 1716 (2009) (limiting vehicle searches incident to arrest to areas within arrestee’s reach); California v. Acevedo, 500 U.S. 565, 573 (1991) (limiting vehicle searches, pursuant to the automobile exception to the warrant requirement, to those areas of the car where police have probable cause to believe evidence could be found); Schneckloth v. Bustamonte, 412 U.S. 218, 225–26 (1973) (requiring that consent for search be voluntary).  We take this as another sign that perceptions of fairness are somewhat more malleable than perceptions of distributive justice, which may signal that judicial deviations from perceptions of fairness are perhaps less problematic than more consistent (and culturally and temporarily resistant) perceptions of distributive justice.

      [61].   Ohio v. Robinette, 519 U.S. 33, 40 (1996); Bustamonte, 412 U.S. at 225–26.

      [62].   Florida v. Bostick, 501 U.S. 429, 434 (1991); United States v. Mendenhall, 446 U.S. 544, 553–54 (1980).

      [63].   Lock, supra note 54, at 48 (finding that 90% of the public disapproves of permitting police to solicit consent based on a false claim of legal authority); seeBumper v. North Carolina, 391 U.S. 543, 548–49 (1968).

      [64].   Lock, supra note 54, at 46 (finding 52% approval of allowing continued interrogation after suspect asks for counsel).  The Supreme Court has found such questioning unconstitutional in certain circumstances.  See Brewer v. Williams, 430 U.S. 387, 398 (1977) (“Whatever else it may mean, the right to counsel granted by the Sixth and Fourteenth Amendments means at least that a person is entitled to the help of a lawyer at or after the time that judicial proceedings have been initiated against him ‘whether by way of formal charge, preliminary hearing, indictment, information, or arraignment.’” (quoting Kirby v. Illinois, 402 U.S. 682, 689 (1972)). But see Maryland v. Shatzer, 130 S. Ct. 1213, 1222–24 (2010) (permitting interrogation after a fourteen day break in custody).

      [65].   Lock, supra note 54, at 46 (finding only 36% approval for confessions produced by police deception).  Contra Illinois v. Perkins, 496 U.S. 292, 297–300 (1990) (permitting questioning by undercover law enforcement personnel).

      [66].   Bostick, 501 U.S. at 438.

      [67].   Janice Nadler, No Need to Shout: Bus Sweeps and the Psychology of Coercion, 2002 Sup. Ct. Rev. 153, 204; see also Ilya Lichtenberg, Miranda in Ohio: The Effects of Robinette on the “Voluntary” Waiver of Fourth Amendment Rights, 44 How. L.J. 349, 367 (2001).  However, another study indicated that suspects did not perceive as coercive police requests to search their residences.  Dorothy Kagehiro, Perceived Voluntariness of Consent to Warrantless Police Searches, 18 J. Applied Soc. Psychol. 38–49 (1988).

      [68].   David K. Kessler, Free to Leave? An Empirical Look at the Fourth Amendment’s Seizure Standard, 99 J. Crim. L. & Criminology 51, 53 (2009); Slobogin & Schumacher, supra note 54, at 742 (finding that respondents ranked police requests to search luggage on bus as highly intrusive).

      [69].   Atwater v. City of Lago Vista, 532 U.S. 318, 323 (2001).

      [70].   United States v. Drayton, 536 U.S. 194, 194 (2002); Whren v. United States, 517 U.S. 806, 819 (1996); Bostick, 501 U.S. at 431.

      [71].   California v. Hodari D., 499 U.S. 621, 629 (1991).

      [72].   Illinois v. Wardlow, 528 U.S. 119, 121 (2000).

      [73].   United States v. Sharpe, 470 U.S. 675, 685 (1985) (“Much as a ‘bright line’ rule would be desirable, in evaluating whether an investigative detention is unreasonable, common sense and ordinary human experience must govern over rigid criteria.”).

      [74].   Illinois v. Gates, 462 U.S. 213, 231 (1983).

      [75].   See, e.g., K. Babe Howell, Broken Lives from Broken Windows: The Hidden Costs of Aggressive Order-Maintenance Policing, 33 N.Y.U. Rev. L. & Soc. Change 271, 279–80 (2009); Jeffrey Rosen, Excessive Force—Why Patrick Dorismond Didn’t Have to Die¸ New Republic, Apr. 10, 2000, at 27; Bob Herbert, Op-Ed.,Jim Crow Policing, N.Y. Times, Feb. 2, 2010, at A27 (characterizing stop and frisk as “a despicable, racially oriented tool of harassment,” and describing the department’s use of the stops as a “shameful . . . abomination . . . mistreatment . . . [and a] nonstop humiliation of young black and Hispanic New Yorkers, including children, by police officers who feel no obligation to treat them fairly or with any respect at all”).

      [76].   Josh Bowers, Grassroots Plea Bargaining, 91 Marq. L. Rev. 85, 92–94 (2007); Rosen, supra note 75, at 27 (quoting Professor Dan Kahan, who indicated that order-maintenance policing is “a drug whose primary effect is that it will reduce crime, and its side effect is that it may exacerbate political tensions”); Jacinta M. Gau & Rod K. Brunson, Procedural Justice and Order Maintenance Policing: A Study of Inner-City Young Men’s Perceptions of Police Legitimacy, 27 Just. Q. 255, 272 (2010); see also New York City Criminal Justice Agency, Trends In Case And Defendant Characteristics, And Criminal Court Processing And Outcomes, In Non-Felony Arrests Prosecuted In New York City’s Criminal Courts 38–39 (2002), http://www.cjareports.org/reports/fnrep02.pdf (“The strained nature of police-community relations has been recognized by the NYPD leadership, which has been developing since 1996 new initiatives to improve these relationships . . . .”);Excerpts From Remarks By the District Attorney, N.Y. Times, Apr. 1, 1999, at B5 (quoting Bronx District Attorney, Robert T. Johnson, discussing order-maintenance policing: “Feelings of fear and frustration abound.  Troubling questions have been raised, particularly in communities of color . . . regarding police-community relations, civil liberties and the issue of respect. . . .  These questions must be addressed.”); see also infra note 85 and accompanying text.  See generally George Akerlof & Janet L. Yellen, Gang Behavior, Law Enforcement, and Community Values, in Values and Public Policy 191 (Henry J. Aaron et al. eds., 1994) (noting that using “bricks and sticks” to enforce crime in ways that communities find unfair “may be self-defeating”); Stephen J. Schulhofer, Tom R. Tyler & Aziz Z. Huq,American Policing at a Crossroads: Unsustainable Policies and the Procedural Justice Alternative, 101 J. Crim. L. & Criminology 335, 336, 338 (2011) (discussing implications of police treatment of civilians on perceptions of procedural justice).

      [77].   Ray Rivera et al., A Few Blocks, 4 Years, 52,000 Police Stops, N.Y. Times, July 12, 2010, at A1 (quoting Professor Richard Rosenfeld); see also Gau & Brunson, supra note 76, at 272; supra notes 64–65 and accompanying text.

      [78].   Bowers, supra note 76, at 87–88; Gau & Brunson, supra note 76, at 267; Rivera et al., supra note 77, at A17.

      [79].   Bernard E. Harcourt & Jens Ludwig, Broken Windows: New Evidence from New York City and a Five-City Social Experiment, 73 U. Chi. L. Rev. 271, 280–81 (2006).

      [80].   N.Y.C. Criminal Justice Agency, supra note 76, at 39 (finding a more than two-fold rise in the number of nonfelony arrests in New York City between 1989 and 1998, from 86,822 in 1989 to 176,432 in 1998 and finding a more than seven-fold rise in the number of drug arrests between 1975 and 1998, from 17,207 in 1975 to 121,661 in 1998); John Jay College Center on Race, Crime and Justice, Stop, Question & Frisk Policing Practices in New York City: A Primer 4–5 (2010), [hereinafter Stop & Frisk] available at http://www.jjay.cuny.edu/web_images/PRIMER_electronic_version.pdf (describing order-maintenance policing efforts in New York City, Los Angeles, and Philadelphia); Philip B. Heymann, The New Policing, 28 Fordham Urb. L.J. 407, 422–40 (2000) (describing order-maintenance policing efforts in New York City, Boston, and Chicago).

      [81].   Terry v. Ohio, 392 U.S. 1, 37 (1968).

      [82].   Id. at 21.

      [83].   Rivera et al., supra note 76, at A17 (“The stops conducted by us are to address . . . the quality-of-life issues.” (quoting NYPD department head)).

      [84].   Stop & Frisk, supra note 80, at 4; Rivera et al., supra note 76, at A17; cf. Colleen Long, Police Stop More than 1 Million People on the Street, Huffington Post, Oct. 8, 2009, available at http://www.huffingtonpost.com
/2009/10/08/stop-and-frisk-police-sto_n_314509.html (detailing doubling of stops in Philadelphia and Los Angeles).

      [85].   Allen et al., supra note 59, at 569 (“There is substantial evidence that aggressive use, and misuse of the stop-and-frisk power continues to be a major source of tension between police and people of color.”); see supra note 65 and accompanying text.  Notably, the National Advisory Commission on Civil Disorders (also known as the “Kerner Commission”) attributed indiscriminate stop-and-frisk practices with contributing to the “deep hostility between police and ghetto communities” that ultimately led to the deadly urban race riots of the 1960s.  Debra Livingston, Gang Loitering, The Court, and Some Realism About Police Patrol, 1999 Sup. Ct. Rev. 141, 177–78 (1999).  More generally, studies have shown that as many as two-thirds of African Americans perceive the criminal justice system to be racist, as opposed to less than one-third of whites.  Paul Butler, Racially Based Jury Nullification: Black Power in the Criminal Justice System, 105 Yale L.J. 677, 699 (1995);see also Lawrence D. Bobo & Devon Johnson, A Taste for Punishment: Black and White Americans’ Views on the Death Penalty and the War on Drugs, 1 Du Bois Rev. 151, 156 (2004); Richard J. Lundman & Robert L. Kaufman, Driving While Black: Effects of Race, Ethnicity, and Gender on Citizens Self-Reports of Traffic Stops and Police Actions, 41 Criminology 195, 210 (2003) (“[B]eliefs in the legitimacy and propriety of police actions are framed by a polarity between blacks and whites.”); U.S. Dep’t of Justice, Bureau of Justice Statistics, Sourcebook of Criminal Justice Statistics Online tbls. 2.12.2005, 2.21.2005, 2.0002.2005 (2005), available athttp://www.albany.edu/sourcebook/tost_2.html (indicating that compared to white Americans, African Americans are several times more likely to have a low or very low opinion of the honesty and ethical standards of police; are almost three times more likely to have very little confidence in the police; and are more likely to think there is police brutality in their communities).

      [86].   Lock, supra note 54, at 41; see also David Thacher, Order Maintenance Reconsidered: Moving Beyond Strong Causal Reasoning, 94 J. Crim. L. & Criminology 381, 386 (2004) (discussing political popularity of order-maintenance policing and observing that “challenges to the broken windows theory have not yet discredited order maintenance policing with policymakers or the public” notwithstanding the fact “among criminologists, order maintenance is clearly under siege”).

      [87].   For example, suspects, arrestees, and defendants seem to more squarely disapprove of the aggressive approaches.  Gau & Brunson, supra note 76, at 266–67 (reporting that “[s]tudy participants believed that the poor treatment they received from the police . . . was intimately tied to their status as poor, urban males,” and that participants had concluded that police stop-and-frisk practices were “overly aggressive . . . demeaning . . . [and] inordinate[ly] frequen[t]”); Tyler & Wakslak, supranote 15, at 262.

      [88].   Bowers, supra note 76, at 91; Tracey L. Meares, Charting Race and Class Differences in Attitudes Toward Drug Legalization and Law Enforcement: Lessons for Federal Criminal Law, 1 Buff. Crim. L. Rev. 137, 140 (1997) (discussing “dual frustration” in minority communities that “uniquely experience problems” associated with both crime and criminal enforcement); Rivera et al., supra note 77 (quoting a community leader who observed that neighborhood residents “welcome the police” but they “also fear the police because you can get stopped at any time”); id. (indicating that residents report that they “philosophically embrace the police presence,” but that they “often come away from encounters with officers feeling violated, degraded and resentful” because “day-to-day interactions with officers can seem so arbitrary”).

      [89].   Cf. Deborah J. Schildkraut, The Dynamics of Public Opinion on Ethnic Profiling After 9/11: Results from a Survey Experiment, 53 Am. Behav. Scientist 61, 67 (2009) (defining racial profiling as decision making based on the belief that certain racial groups “are more likely than others to commit certain types of crime”);Racial Profiling and the War on Terror, PublicAgenda.org, http://www.publicagenda.org/red-flags/racial-profiling-and-war-terror (last visited Jan. 20, 2012).

      [90].   See, e.g., United States v. Sokolow, 490 U.S. 1, 10 (1989) (approving the use of drug-courier profiles).

      [91].   Lock, supra note 54, at 42, 54.

      [92].   Tyler & Wakslak, supra note 15, at 254 (citing a December 1999 Gallup poll indicating that more than 80% of Americans “disapprove” of profiling); Darren K. Carlson, Racial Profiling Seen as Pervasive, Unjust, Gallup (July 20, 2004), http://www.gallup.com/poll/12406/racial-profiling-seen-pervasive-unjust
.aspx; see also Aziz Z. Huq, Tom R. Tyler & Stephen J. Schulhofer, Why Does the Public Cooperate with Law Enforcement? The Influence of the Purposes and Targets of Policing, 17 Psychol. Pub. Pol’y & L. 419, 429 (2011) (“White respondents view the police as less fair and less legitimate if they target minorities.”); Tyler & Wakslak, supra note 15, at 255 (“[W]hen people believe that profiling is widespread and/or that they have been profiled, their support for the police fades.”); Schildkraut, supra note 89, at 70 (finding public disapproval of racial profiling); Ronald Weitzer & Steven A. Tuch, Racially Biased Policing: Determinants of Citizen Perceptions, 83 Soc. Forces 1009, 1025 (2005) (finding public disapproval of racial profiling).

      [93].   Huq et al., supra note 92 (“[M]inority group members are more likely to believe that the police ‘racially profile’ minorities.  However, . . . [w]hite respondents [also] view profiling of minorities as unfair and, when they believe it occurs, view the police as less legitimate.”); Tyler & Wakslak, supra note 15, at 275.

      [94].   Tyler & Wakslak, supra note 15.

      [95].   Id. at 267 (“The results indicate that profiling was directly linked to legitimacy and performance among minority respondents . . . but not among white respondents.  Hence, profiling had a negative impact on policing, but only among minority respondents.”).

      [96].   Id. at 262 (indicating that “young people and those personally involved in an experience with the police [] have more negative views about them”).

      [97].   Samuel R. Gross & Debra Livingston, Racial Profiling Under Attack, 102 Colum. L. Rev. 1413, 1413 (2002) (“We had just reached a consensus on racial profiling.  By September 10, 2001, virtually everyone . . . agreed that racial profiling was very bad.  We also knew what racial profiling was . . . .  All this [] changed in the wake of the September 11 attacks . . . .  And now lots of people are for it.”).

      [98].   Huq et al., supra note 92, at 423 (“[P]eople may respond differently to counterterrorism policing than to crime-control because they view terrorism as imposing a graver risk of harm to individuals than the more diffuse consequences of ordinary crime. . . . [P]eople may have different normative assessments of crimes and terrorism.”); Schildkraut, supra note 89, at 67–78 (finding that support for racial profiling increased when the subject group is Arab Americans).  Nevertheless, the war on terrorism raises its own set of legitimacy concerns.  Several scholars have made the claim that certain antiterrorism efforts may prove counterproductive, because they are perceived as illegitimate within the wider Muslim world.  See, e.g., Tom R. Tyler, Stephen J. Schulhofer & Aziz Z. Huq, Legitimacy and Deterrence Effects in Counterterrorism Policing: A Study of Muslim Americans, 44 Law & Soc’y Rev. 365, 374 (2010).  Specifically, critics highlight backlash against erroneous detainment and the relative absence of judicial process.  Id. at 371–72.  Indeed, several studies have shown that perceived injustice of American military action is correlated with support for Iraqi resistance.  Id. at 372.

      [99].   See, e.g., S. 1070, 49th Leg., 2d Reg. Sess. (Ariz. 2010).  A majority of Americans appear to support the Arizona law.  Rasmussen Reports, Nationally, 60% Favor Letting Local Police Stop and Verify Immigration Status (Apr. 26, 2010), http://www.rasmussenreports.com/public_content/politics/current_events
/immigration/nationally_60_favor_letting_local_police_stop_and_verify_immigration_status.

    [100].   William J. Stuntz, Unequal Justice, 121 Harv. L. Rev. 1969, 2040 (2008).

    [101].   Robert Weisberg, Restorative Justice and the Dangers of “Community,” 2003 Utah L. Rev. 343, 343 (2003).

    [102].   Cf. Allen et al., supra note 59, at 365 (“[D]o we want a body of Fourth Amendment law in which the very meaning of the search may vary from place to place?”).  Indeed, in Virginia v. Moore, the Court rejected arguments for a constitutional arrest standard that took into consideration a state specific arrest rule for misdemeanor cases.  Virginia v. Moore, 553 U.S. 164, 176 (2008) (“[L]inking Fourth Amendment protections to state law would cause them to ‘vary from place to place and from time to time’ . . . .  It would be strange to . . . [constitutionally] restrict state officers . . . solely because the States have passed search-and-seizure laws that are the prerogative of independent sovereigns.”).

    [103].   For the leading arguments in favor of localism and popular constitutionalism, see Larry D. Kramer, The People Themselves: Popular Constitutionalism and Judicial Review (2004); Richard C. Schragger, The Limits of Localism, 100 Mich. L. Rev. 371 (2001).  For leading articles extending some of these ideas to criminal procedure and justice, see generally Stuntz, supra note 100; Heather K. Gerken, Dissenting by Deciding, 57 Stan. L. Rev. 1745 (2005).

    [104].   Kenworthey Bilz, Dirty Hands or Deterrence? An Experimental Examination of the Exclusionary Rule 4–5 (unpublished manuscript) (on file with Northwestern University School of Law), available at http://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=1629375.

    [105].   Lock, supra note 54, at 45 (finding that only 27% of the public approved of using tainted evidence for impeachment purposes).  See also United States v. Havens, 446 U.S. 620, 627–28 (1980); Harris v. New York, 401 U.S. 222, 225–26 (1971).

    [106].   Bilz, supra note 104.

    [107].   See, e.g., United States v. Janis, 428 U.S. 433, 454 (1976) (“If . . . the exclusionary rule does not result in appreciable deterrence, then, clearly, its use in the instant situation is unwarranted.”).

    [108].   Cf. Sergio Herzog, The Relationship Between Public Perceptions of Crime Seriousness and Support for Plea-Bargaining Practices in Israel: A Factorial-Survey Approach, 94 J. Crim. L. & Criminology 103, 122–28 (2008) (finding that opposition to plea bargaining varied according to severity of charge and harm).  Scholars have questioned whether courts ought to consider crime severity when applying the exclusionary rule.  Allen et al., supra note 59, at 344 (“Does the exclusionary rule seem more palatable in cases in which the crime is substantively questionable?  If the nature of the crime . . . strengthens the argument for an exclusionary rule, might a more serious crime offer a reason for limiting the rule?  Why not hold that illegally seized evidence is inadmissible—unless the evidence was seized in a homicide investigation, or an investigation of terrorist networks?”); see also William J. Stuntz, The Substantive Origins of Criminal Procedure, 105 Yale L.J. 393, 434–35 (1995).  The same argument could also be made about other constitutional procedural standards, like determinations of probable cause.  Allen et al.,supra note 59, at 434 (“For every search or arrest where the probable cause standard applies . . . the standard does not vary according to the seriousness of the crime . . . .  Why should that be so?  Doesn’t the state have a much stronger interest in investigating some crimes than others? . . . Shouldn’t [it] matter to the governing Fourth Amendment standard . . . [that a case involves] marijuana, and not a set of plans to blow up a large public building?”); Akhil Amar, Fourth Amendment First Principles, 107 Harv. L. Rev. 757, 784–85 (1994) (“[P]robable cause cannot be a fixed standard.  It would make little sense to insist on the same amount of probability regardless of the imminence of the harm . . . .  [R]easonableness obviously does require different levels of cause in different contexts, and not always a high probability of success, if, say, we are searching for bombs on planes.”).  Analogously, Holmes maintained that the test for cognizable criminal attempts ought to take account of the severity of the object crime.  Hyde v. United States, 225 U.S. 347, 387–88 (1912) (Holmes, J., dissenting); cf. United States v. Coplon, 185 F.2d 629, 633 (2d Cir. 1950).

    [109].   Alfredo Garcia, Speedy Trial Swift Justice: Full-Fledged Right or “Second-Class Citizens?,” 31 Sw. L. Rev. 31, 50 (1992) (discussing the windfall benefit of criminal immunity received by the small number of accused who take advantage of the failure of courts to provide speedy trials).

    [110].   Peter J. Henning, Prosecutorial Misconduct and Constitutional Remedies, 77 Wash. U. L. Rev. 713, 801 (1999) (explaining that double jeopardy can provide the defendant with a windfall from the judge’s precipitous acts when the judge acts irrationally or irresponsibly).

    [111].   Blockburger v. United States, 284 U.S. 299, 304 (1932); cf. Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., The Common Law 2 (Am. Bar Ass’n 2009) (1881) (“[E]ven a dog distinguishes between being stumbled over and being kicked.”).

    [112].   Indeed, the Supreme Court already considers the reason for delay to be an important (if not paramount) factor in the determination of a constitutional speedy-trial violation.  Doggett v. United States, 505 U.S. 647, 656–57 (1992); Barker v. Wingo, 407 U.S. 514, 530 (1972).

    [113].   See, e.g., Casper et al., supra note 1, at 493 (“[P]rocedural justice does appear to be related to the defendants’ sense that their treatment by courts has been satisfactory.”).

    [114].   Ronald W. Fagan, Public Support for the Courts: An Examination of Alternative Explanations, 9 J. Crim. Just. 403, 407 (1981) (finding that 82% of respondents disapproved of plea bargaining); Laura B. Myers, Bringing the Offender to Heel: Views of the Criminal Courts, in Americans View Crime and Justice 46, 55 (Timothy J. Flanagan & Dennis R. Longmire eds., 1996) (finding that 67% of respondents disapproved of plea bargaining); Stat. Analysis Ctr., Dep’t of Econ. & Cmty. Dev., Ohio Citizen Attitudes: A Survey of Public Opinion on Crime 7 (Jeffrey Knowles ed., 1979) (finding that 67% of respondents disagreed with the statement that prosecutors should be able to reduce felony charges to misdemeanor charges in exchange for guilty pleas), available athttps://www.ncjrs.gov/pdffiles1/Digitization/77338NCJRS.pdf; Wis. Policy Research Inst., Report: Wisconsin Citizen Survey 68 (1988) (finding that 72% of respondents disapproved of plea bargaining), available at http://www.wpri.org/Reports/Volume%201/Vol1no1.pdf; see also Michael M. O’Hear, Plea Bargaining and Procedural Justice, 42 Ga. L. Rev. 407, 445 (2008) (“Public opinion surveys consistently find low approval rates of plea bargaining.”).

    [115].   See Robert F. Rich & Robert J. Sampson, Public Perceptions of Criminal Justice Policy: Does Victimization Make a Difference?, 5 Violence & Victims 109, 113–14 (1990) (indicating that across socio-demographic groups, individuals disapprove of plea bargaining because the practice results in lenient sentences); see alsoStanley A. Cohen & Anthony N. Doob, Public Attitudes to Plea Bargaining, 32 Crim. L.Q. 85, 102 (1989) (discussing a Canadian study tracing opposition to plea bargaining to perceived leniency).

    [116].   Malcolm M. Feeley, The Process is the Punishment: Handling Cases in a Lower Criminal Court 185–86 (1979); Milton Heumann, Plea Bargaining: The Experiences of Prosecutors, Judges, and Defense Attorneys 157–62 (1978).

    [117].   Jonathan D. Casper, Criminal Courts: The Defendants Perspective 51 (1978) (“One of the peculiar differences between trial and plea defendants is the greater propensity of those who have had trials to complain that they have not had the chance to present their side of the case.”); Casper et al., supra note 1, at 496–98 (“Finally, whether the defendant was convicted by a plea or a trial is unrelated to a sense of procedural justice . . . .  Those who plead guilty do not report having received less procedural fairness than those whose conviction was produced by trial.”).

    [118].   Casper, supra note 117, at 51; see E. Allan Lind & Tom R. Tyler, The Social Psychology of Procedural Justice 106 (1988) (“The perception that one has had an opportunity to express oneself and to have one’s views considered by someone in power plays a critical role in fairness judgments.”); Tyler, WPOL, supra note 1, at 163 (observing that “an opportunity to take part in the decision-making process” contributes significantly to perceptions that procedures are fair); E. Allan Lind et al.,Voice, Control and Procedural Justice: Instrumental and Noninstrumental Value Concerns in Fairness Judgments, 59 J. Personality & Soc. Psychol. 952, 957 (1990) (“Research has suggested that the opportunity for participation may be important to individuals even when their participation is unlikely to affect the decision.  This suggests that on some occasions, even non-meaningful voice may lead individuals to assess a process as more fair.”); Tom R. Tyler et al., Influence of Voice on Satisfaction with Leaders: Exploring the Meaning of Process Control, 48 J. Personality & Soc. Psychol. 72, 80 (1985); see also supra notes 110 and infra notes 140–43, 208 and accompanying text.

    [119].   Cf. Stephanos Bibas, Transparency and Participation in Criminal Procedure, 81 N.Y.U. L. Rev. 911, 920–22 (2006) (discussing complexity and lack of transparency of modern trials); John H. Langbein, Understanding the Short History of Plea Bargaining, 13 Law & Soc’y Rev. 261, 262–65 (1979) (describing simplicity of pre-modern jury trials).

    [120].   Feeley, supra note 116, at 185–86; Heumann, supra note 116, at 70 (indicating that many defendants just want to “get it over with”); Josh Bowers, Punishing the Innocent, 156 U. Pa. L. Rev. 1117, 1132–39 (2008).

    [121].   See Bordenkircher v. Hayes, 434 U.S. 357, 363 (1978) (presuming that a defendant advised by competent counsel is capable of making an intelligent decision of whether to accept or reject a plea agreement); Brady v. United States, 397 U.S. 742, 749 (1970) (stating whether or not a plea is voluntary depends on all of surrounding circumstances).

    [122].   Cf. Stephanos Bibas, Harmonizing Substantive-Criminal-Law Values and Criminal Procedure: The Case of Alford and Nolo Contendere Pleas, 88 Cornell L. Rev. 1361, 1388 (2003) (discussing an informal poll of law students to gauge perceptions of Alford pleas).

    [123].   See, e.g., Stat. Analysis Ctr., supra note 114, at 7 (finding that 53.4% of respondents disagreed with the statement that prosecutors should be permitted to trade charge reduction for testimony).

    [124].   Daniel C. Richman, Cooperating Defendants: The Costs and Benefits of Purchasing Information from Scoundrels, 8 Fed. Sent’g Rep. 292, 292 (1996).  Contra Frank O. Bowman, Defending Substantial Assistance: An Old Prosecutor’s Meditation on Singleton, Sealed Case, and the Maxfield-Kramer Report, 12 Fed. Sent’g Rep.  45, 45 (1999).

    [125].   Ronald S. Safer & Matthew C. Crowl, Substantial Assistance Departures: Valuable Tool or Dangerous Weapon?, 12 Fed. Sent’g Rep. 41, 41 (1999) (crediting cooperation agreements with breaking up drug gangs in Chicago).

    [126].   Snitch (PBS television documentary broadcast Jan. 12, 1999).  Social scientists could also ask legitimacy questions about discrete facets of the plea process.  For instance, it is unclear what laypersons think of the somewhat open constitutional question of whether prosecutors must disclose exculpatory evidence to defendants prior to plea.  A number of lower courts have held that prosecutors must.  See, e.g., United States v. Avellino, 136 F.3d 249, 255 (2d Cir. 1998).  However, the Supreme Court’s holding that prosecutors need not disclose impeachment evidence prior to plea indicates that in the future it may hold likewise as to exculpatory evidence.  United States v. Ruiz, 536 U.S. 622, 629 (2002).

    [127].   There is some indication—again, consistent with the nexus identified between “process control” and perceptions of fair procedure—that victims perceive as legitimate procedures in which they play roles, even if they do not ultimately affect outcomes.  See supra note 118 and accompanying text; infra note 229 and accompanying text.  Indeed, Stephanos Bibas reported that three-quarters of victims considered it “very important” to be able to weigh in on decisions about charge dismissals, plea negotiations, sentencing, and parole proceedings.  Bibas, supra note 119, at 929 (“Participating makes victims feel empowered and helps them to heal emotionally.  More generally, citizens report that participating in the legal system increases their respect for the system and empowers them.”); see also Heather Strang & Lawrence W. Sherman, Repairing the Harm: Victims and Restorative Justice, 2003 Utah L. Rev. 15, 21 (2003) (noting that participation empowers victims and promotes healing and closure).

    [128].   See, e.g., Kevin M. Carlsmith & John M. Darley, Psychological Aspects of Retributive Justice, 40 Advances in Experimental Soc. Psych. 193, 233–35 (2008); Kevin M. Carlsmith et al., Why Do We Punish? Deterrence and Just Deserts as Motives for Punishment, 83 J. Personality & Soc. Psychol. 284, 295 (2002); John M. Darley et al., Incapacitation and Just Deserts as Motives for Punishment, 24 Law & Hum. Behav. 659, 676 (2000).

    [129].   See Robinson et al., supra note 3, at 1949–79.

    [130].   See id. at 1994–2025.

    [131].   See text accompanying notes 179–95, infra.

    [132].   See generally Paul H. Robinson & John M. Darley, Justice, Liability, and Blame: Community Views and the Criminal Law Studies (1995) [hereinafter JLB] (reporting study results).

    [133].   See Paul H. Robinson & John M. Darley, Objectivist Versus Subjectivist Views of Criminality: A Study in the Role of Social Science in Criminal Law Theory, 18 Oxford J. Legal Stud. 409 (1998).

    [134].   See Paul H. Robinson et al., Competing Theories of Blackmail: An Empirical Research Critique of Criminal Law Theory, 89 Tex. L. Rev. 291 (2010).

    [135].   See Paul H. Robinson et al., The Modern Irrationalities of American Criminal Codes: An Empirical Study of Offense Grading, 100 J. Crim. L. & Criminology 709 (2010).

    [136].   See Paul H. Robinson & John M. Darley, Testing Competing Theories of Justification, 76 N.C. L. Rev. 1095 (1998).

    [137].   JLB, supra note 132.

    [138].   For a fuller discussion, see id. at ch. 2.

    [139].   Id. at 50.

    [140].   Id.

    [141].   Id.

    [142].   Id.

    [143].   Id.

    [144].   Id.

    [145].   Id.

    [146].   Id.

    [147].   Id. at 50–51.

    [148].   Robinson & Darley, supra note 133, at 413.

    [149].   For a fuller discussion, see JLB, supra note 132, at ch. 3.

    [150].   Id. at 79–80.

    [151].   Id. at 80.

    [152].   Id.

    [153].   For a fuller discussion, see id. at ch. 4.

    [154].   Id. at 123.

    [155].   Id. at 123–24.

    [156].   Id. at 124.

    [157].   Id.

    [158].   Id. at 124; see, e.g., Model Penal Code § 2.08(5)(b) (Proposed Official Draft 1962) (fixing negligence as the minimum culpability requirement for intoxication).

    [159].   JLB, supra note 132, at 124.

    [160].   Id.

    [161].   Id.

    [162].   Id. at 124–25.

    [163].   Id. at 125.

    [164].   For a fuller discussion, see id. at ch. 5.

    [165].   Id. at 155.

    [166].   See Paul H. Robinson & Michael T. Cahill, Criminal Law 369 (2d ed. 2011).

    [167].   JLB, supra note 132, at 155.

    [168].   Id.

    [169].   Id.

    [170].   For further discussion, see id. at ch. 6.

    [171].   Id. at 197.

    [172].   Id.

    [173].   Id. at 198.

    [174].   Id. at 199.

    [175].    See generally Rebecca V. Colman, Reason and Unreason in Early Medieval Law, 4 J. Interdisc. Hist. 571 (1974) (discussing the importance of trial by ordeal as divine judgment); Ian C. Pilarczyk, Between a Rock and a Hot Place: The Role of Subjectivity and Rationality in the Medieval Ordeal by Hot Iron, 25 Anglo-Am. L. Rev. 87, 87–92, 106–112 (1996) (describing the procedure of the ordeal and finding it well suited to the Middle Ages).

    [176].   As Tyler and Wakslak recognized in their study of the legitimacy of police profiling:

The quality of interpersonal treatment is not necessarily an indicator of the manner in which police make decisions.  We can imagine an officer who is not a neutral decision maker, but still treats people with dignity and respect.  At the same time we can imagine an officer who is a neutral decision maker, but treats people without dignity and respect.  Yet people do not treat these two issues as distinct.

Tyler & Wakslak, supra note 15, at 277.

    [177].   Robinson, supra note 19, at 1838.

    [178].   It is not, however, a concern exclusive to perceptions of procedural justice, as indicated by previous generations’ misguided moral convictions concerning the perceived inferiority of racial minorities.

    [179].   Elizabeth Mullen & Janice Nadler, Moral Spillovers: The Effect of Moral Violations on Deviant Behavior, 44 J. Experimental Soc. Psychol. 1239 (2008).

    [180].   Cf. Tyler, WPOL, supra note 1, at 4.

    [181].   Tyler & Wakslak, supra note 15, at 253 (“[T]he fairness with which the police exercise their authority influences whether members of the public view the police as profiling.”).

    [182].   Id. at 259.

    [183].   Heather Mac Donald, Face Facts on Frisks, N.Y. Post (May 19, 2009, 3:16 AM), http://www.nypost.com/p/news/opinion/opedcolumnists/item
_EB3eFdXwY0uojyH5PeJHhI.

    [184].   Tyler & Wakslak, supra note 15, at 267–68.

    [185].   Adarand Constructors, Inc. v. Pena, 515 U.S. 200, 229 (1995).

    [186].   See supra note 85 and accompanying text.

    [187].   Huq et al., supra note 93, at 419 (“People have normative and political judgments about terror that diverge from their judgments about crime.”); see also supra note 89 and accompanying text.

    [188].   Casper et al., supra note 1, at 498 (finding significant correlation between defendant perceptions of legitimacy and time spent discussing case with lawyer).  The problem with this is akin to the sick patient who gives high marks to the substandard doctor with exemplary bedside manner but pursues a malpractice suit against the brusque doctor with superior medical skill.

    [189].   See, e.g., Douglas E. Beloof, The Third Wave of Crime Victims’ Rights: Standing, Remedy, and Review, 2005 BYU L. Rev. 255, 350–53 (advocating the passage of the federal Crime Victims’ Rights Amendment to provide additional trial rights and protections to the victims of crimes).

    [190].   A concern that implicates legitimacy in its own right.

    [191].   See generally infra Part IV (exploring good-faith reasons to deviate from perceptions of fair procedures and practices).

    [192].   Thibaut & Walker, supra note 1, at 77, 119–22.

    [193].   Folger, supra note 16; see also supra note 98 and accompanying text.

    [194].   For instance, studies have shown that even though individuals lack control over random dice rolls, they are willing to pay a premium to bet on their own future dice rolls over guesses at the past rolls of others.  Chip Heath & Amos Tversky, Preference and Belief: Ambiguity and Competence in Choice Under Uncertainty, 4 J. Risk & Uncertainty 5, 8 (1991).

    [195].   To paraphrase Gertrude Stein, there may be no there, there.  Gertrude Stein, Everybody’s Autobiography (1937).  Indeed, one study found that even strong victims’ rights laws had no discernible impact on plea negotiations and guilty pleas beyond keeping victims aware of the substance and timing of court proceedings.  Marc L. Miller & Ronald F. Wright, Criminal Procedures 1161 (3d ed. 2007).  This finding is consistent with Susan Bandes’ observation that prosecutors resist reforms that interfere with their agenda.  Susan Bandes, Victim Standing, 1999 Utah L. Rev. 331, 333 (1999).

    [196].   In re Gault, 387 U.S. 1 (1967).

    [197].   Id. at 26 (observing that due process must honor not just “the appearance” but also “the actuality of fairness, impartiality, and orderliness”).

    [198].   Nicholas A. Curott & Alexander Fink, Bandit Heroes: Social, Mythical, or Rational?, Am. J. Econ. & Soc. (forthcoming) (“[B]anditry provides a system of checks and balances on state power.”).

    [199].   Cf. Bibas, supra note 119 (exploring lack of transparency in adjudicative procedures).

    [200].   See supra note 76 and accompanying text.

    [201].   McCluskey, supra note 17, at 171 (“As police seek more information from citizens they become more likely to comply.  Police respect enhances compliance, and police disrespect diminishes compliance.”).

    [202].   Id. at 43 (“[T]he method of entry is an important factor in determining the outcome of police-citizen encounters. . . . [F]orceful entry tactics were significant predictors of noncompliance.” (citation omitted)); Stephen D. Mastrofski et al., Compliance on Demand: The Public’s Response to Specific Police Requests, 33 J. Res. Crime & Delinq. 269, 290 (1996) (noting that a friendly approach “was significantly more likely to produce a compliant response than a forceful entry, but otherwise there appears to be no particular stylistic tendency that accounts for the greater success of experienced and pro-community policing officers”); id. at 295 (“That the number of officers present decreases the probability of compliance is striking given that shows of force by ‘blue swarming’ are specifically intended to secure compliance with minimum resistance.”); see also supra note 44 and accompanying text.

    [203].   Tyler, WPOL, supra note 1; Raymond Paternoster et al., Do Fair Procedures Matter? The Effect of Procedural Justice on Spouse Assault, 31 Law & Soc’y Rev. 163, 170 (1997); Reisig et al., supra note 11, at 1024; Michael D. Reisig, John D. McCluskey, Stephen D. Mastrofski & William Terrill, Suspect Disrespect Toward the Police, 21 Just. Q. 241 (2004); Michael D. Reisig & Gorazd Mesko, Procedural Justice, Legitimacy, and Prisoner Misconduct, 15 Psychol. Crime & L. 41, 41–49 (2009); Sunshine & Tyler, supra note 1; Tyler & Fagan, supra note 1.

    [204].   Tyler, WPOL, supra note 1; see also Reisig et al., supra note 12, at 1024 (finding that study “participants with higher legitimacy scores reported higher levels of compliance with the law”).

    [205].   Tyler, WPOL, supra note 1.

    [206].   Id.; Tyler & Fagan, supra note 1 (using similar methodology to find link between legitimacy and cooperation).  In a later study, Tyler further mitigated the problems of self-reporting by using police reports as the dependent variable.  Tom R. Tyler et al., Reintegrative Shaming, Procedural Justice, and Recidivism: The Engagement of Offenders’ Psychological Mechanisms in the Canberra RISE Drinking-and-Driving Experiment, 41 Law & Soc’y Rev. 553 (2007).

    [207].   See generally Paternoster et al., supra note 197.

    [208].   Paternoster controlled for internal attributes in some ways but not others.  For instance, he asked whether respondents were members of community or religious organizations.  Id. at 178.

    [209].   Amy Waldman, Diallo Case Tests Bronx Prosecutor, N.Y. Times, Mar. 17, 1999, at B1 (explaining that Bronx jurors “do not trust the police” and consequently convict five to fifteen percent less frequently than jurors in other parts of the city); Butler, supra note 85, at 678–79, 695 & nn.73–74.  See generallyWilliam J. Stuntz, Race, Class, and Drugs, 98 Colum. L. Rev. 1795, 1827 & n.77 (1998) (noting phenomenon of juror holdouts to avoid convicting African American men, and noting anecdotally that holdouts tend to be African American women); Randall Kennedy, The State, Criminal Law, and Racial Discrimination: A Comment, 107 Harv. L. Rev. 1255, 1260 n.21 (1994) (noting a juror letter indicating that the jury “didn’t want to send anymore Young Black Men to Jail”); Chris Herring, Bronx Acquittals Set Record, Wall St. J., May 4, 2010, at A24.

    [210].   Dan Kahan, David Hoffman & Donald Braman, Whose Eyes Are You Going to Believe?  Scott v. Harris and the Perils of Cognitive Illiberalism, 122 Harv. L. Rev. 837 (2009) (observing that perceptions of reasonableness are culturally constructed); Nancy Marder, The Myth of the Nullifying Jury, 93 Nw. U. L. Rev. 877, 900–01 (1999).

    [211].   Cf. Butler, supra note 85, at 719 (encouraging African American jurors to nullify based on the immorality of both drug laws and drug enforcement).

    [212].   See supra notes 67–68 and accompanying text.

    [213].   More generally, public opinion polls consistently have shown little confidence in the fairness or effectiveness of our criminal justice system.  See Jeffrey Fagan, Legitimacy and Criminal Justice, 6 Ohio St. J. Crim. L. 123, 123 (2008).  Nevertheless, crime rates remain at historic lows, which may indicate that perceptions of legitimacy have minimal, or at least, secondary normative effect on levels of deference, and that other factors—for instance, moral credibility, incapacitation, conventional deterrence, economic prosperity, or mere cyclical trends—may play equal or greater roles in predicting compliance and cooperation.

    [214].   Compare William J. Bratton, Turnaround: How America’s Top Cop Reversed The Crime Epidemic (1998), with Bernard E. Harcourt, Illusion Of Order: The False Promise Of Broken Windows Policing 3–5 (2001) (questioning link between order-maintenance policing and crime decline).

    [215].   Tyler et al., supra note 28, at 54; Tom R. Tyler, Jonathan D. Casper & Bonnie Fisher, Maintaining Allegiance Toward Political Authorities: The Role of Prior Attitudes and the Use of Fair Procedures, 33 Am. J. Pol. Sci. 629, 639 (1989).

    [216].   Janice Nadler, Flouting the Law, 83 Tex. L. Rev. 1399, 1415 (2005) (finding that people exposed to injustice expressed willingness to commit low-level offenses).

    [217].   Cf. Reisig et al., supra note 11 (observing that results were unclear whether legitimacy promoted deference more than distributive fairness).

    [218].   Tyler, WPOL, supra note 1, at 3; see also Nadler, supra note 210, at 1405 (“When a particular criminal rule conflicts with the moral intuitions of the governed community, the power of the criminal law as a whole to induce compliance is in jeopardy because it is no longer viewed as a trustworthy source of information regarding which actions are moral and which are not.”).  Countless anecdotal examples underscore the insight.  For example, one of us recently interviewed a man named Greg Fairchild, a young African American professor at the University of Virginia’s Darden School of Business.  Several years ago, Fairchild was followed home by a police officer.  Shaken by the possibility that he had been profiled, Fairchild contacted the department, and a meeting was soon arranged between Fairchild and the Chief of Police.  Fairchild was cynical about the prospects for a productive dialogue.  However, the Police Chief did not stonewall; instead, he expressed empathy and frankly admitted that the officer may have acted in a normatively problematic manner.  The Chief identified the officer who had tailed Fairchild, and he relayed the officer’s stated reason for doing so.  Fairchild was not entirely satisfied with the reason, but his anger had abated.  Ultimately, Fairchild would come to assist the department by joining its foundation’s board.  Remarkably, local lawyers had previously approached Fairchild about sitting on the very same board, but, at that time, Fairchild had declined.  Fairchild reported: “The only reason I reconsidered joining the board is because of the way the Chief handled the circumstances.  It absolutely did influence my comfort level.”  Thus, by accommodating Fairchild, the Chief had succeeded not only in defusing a contentious situation, but also in making an ally of an influential community member.  Of course, the Chief might never have met with Fairchild were it not for the professor’s standing in the community.  But, by doing so, the Chief had reshaped Fairchild’s perceptions of legitimacy and had facilitated future cooperation and collaboration.  Interview with Greg Fairchild, Professor, Univ. of Va. Darden Sch. of Bus., in Charlottesville, Va. (July 10, 2010).

    [219].   The insight is not a new one.  As Holmes observed: “[A] law which punished conduct which would not be blameworthy in the average member of the community would be too severe for that community to bear.”  Holmes, supra note 111, at 50; see also Lambert v. California, 355 U.S. 225, 231 (1957) (quoting Holmes).

    [220].   See, e.g., Robert A. Kushen, The Death Penalty and the Crisis of Criminal Justice in Russia, 19 Brook. J. Int’l L. 523 (1993); Peter H. Solomon, Soviet Criminal Justice Under Stalin (1996).

    [221].   Solomon, supra note 214, at 463.  Solomon continues:

During the collectivization campaign Soviet legal officials reduced the use of legal procedures to the point where their actions resembled those of other agents of police and local power.  As a result the authority and status of law was called into question, and much effort expended later on to restore the law to its normal footing.  Less obviously, this account of the history of criminal justice under Stalin reveals that in an authoritarian regime the criminal sanction was also limited by capacity for enforcement.  When Stalin tried to use the criminal law for purposes and in ways not accepted by its enforcers (legal officials, police, and others) or call for penalties that struck them as too severe, the result was evasion, resistance, and inconsistent enforcement.  These consequences followed Stalin’s extensions of the criminal law (e.g., to the policing of defective goods production and the regulation of the labor force); his recriminalization of old offenses (abortion and juvenile delinquency); and his mandating of the sharp increases in punishment for theft (in 1932 and in 1947).  The point is that even a dictator whose authority is not limited by institutional checks faces limitations on his power stemming from the capacity of his government to enforce his decisions.

Id.

    [222].   See, e.g., Andrew Stickley & Ilkka Henrik Makinen, Homicide in the Russian Empire and Soviet Union: Continuity or Change?, 45 Brit. J. Criminology 647, 658 (2005).

    [223].   See, e.g., Jonathan Weiler, Human Rights in Russia: A Darker Side of Reform 2 (2004); Christopher T. Ruder, Individual Rights Under the New Russian Constitution: A Practical Framework for Competitive Capitalism or Mere Theoretical Exercise?, 39 St. Louis U. L.J. 1429, 1456 n.156 (1995) (discussing sharp increase in crime); Jane Weaver, Are Institutions Doing Their Job? Kleptocracy and Democracy, 90 Am. Soc’y Int’l L. Proc. 83 (1996) (discussing rampant crime in Russia).

    [224].   One might point to American Prohibition as a related example.  Once the criminal justice system lost its moral credibility with a public that routinely drank alcohol, it lost it normative force with them in areas other than alcohol consumption.  Crime rates rose generally.  See Charles Hanson Towne, The Rise and Fall of Prohibition:  The Human Side of What the Eighteenth Amendment and the Volstead Act Have Done to the United States 161, 156–62 (1923) (reciting the statistics on significant crime rate increases for homicide, burglary, and public disorderly and drunkenness offenses); Mark Thornton, Cato Inst., Policy Analysis No. 157, Alcohol Prohibition Was a Failure 1, 5–8 (July 17, 1991) (reciting crime rate increase statistics, noting that “crime increased and became ‘organized’; the court and prison systems were stretched to the breaking point; and corruption of public officials was rampant”).

    [225].   Robinson et al., supra note 3.

    [226].   See id. (exploring individuals’ attitudes surrounding the criminal justice system and their willingness to comply with rules of criminal law).

    [227].   Id. at 1999.

    [228].   Id. at 2004.

    [229].   Id. at 1995–2015.

    [230].   Id. at 2016–25.

    [231].   Id. at 2017–18.

    [232].   Id. at 2017.

    [233].   Id. at 2023.

    [234].   Id.

    [235].   See Herbert Jacob, Deterrent Effects of Formal and Informal Sanctions, 2 Law & Pol’y Q. 61, 67 (1980).  Jacob randomly interviewed 176 people over the age of eighteen from Evanston, Illinois by allowing a computer to pick random phone numbers.  Id. at 64.  The respondents were interviewed regarding whether they sped on highways, had smoked marijuana, and whether they would shoplift a fifty dollar item if no one was looking.  Id. at 65.  Marijuana smokers were the most numerous, followed by speeders, followed by potential shoplifters.  Id. at 65–66.  Two-thirds of respondents thought the fifty-five mile-an-hour speed limit was right, three-quarters agreed that the laws against shoplifting were correct, but only one-quarter thought the law against marijuana was correct.  Id. at 70.  The results showed that for those who think the speeding laws are right, 62.3% comply, while only 9.8% who think it is wrong comply.  Id.  Of those who think the marijuana law is just, 85% do not smoke marijuana.  Id.  Contrastingly, only 36% of those respondents who think that the law is wrong complied with its ban on smoking.  Id.  There was no statistical difference in shoplifting, which is evidence of high agreement the shoplifting is wrong.  Id.

    [236].   Id. at 70; see also Robert F. Meier & Weldon T. Johnson, Deterrence as Social Control: The Legal and Extralegal Production of Conformity, 42 Am. Soc. Rev. 292, 301 (1977) ( “The belief that marijuana use is immoral . . . functions to inhibit marijuana use,” while “legal threat . . . shows a measurable, but essentially trivial influence on marijuana use/nonuse.”).

    [237].   Harold G. Grasmick & Donald E. Green, Legal Punishment, Social Disapproval, and Internalization as Inhibitors of Illegal Behavior, 71 J. Crim. L. & Criminology 325, 334 (1980).  A random sample of 400 adults was selected from the Polk City Directory and subsequently interviewed.  Id. at 329.  Information was gathered about the subjects’ involvement in eight illegal activities—theft of property worth less than twenty dollars, theft of property worth more than twenty dollars, gambling illegally, cheating on tax returns, intentionally inflicting personal injury, littering, illegal use of fireworks, and driving under the influence.  Id. at 330.  The respondents were then asked to estimate the perceived certainty of arrest, the perceived severity of punishment, and their moral commitment to adhering to the given legal rule.  Id.

    [238].   Matthew Silberman, Toward a Theory of Deterrence, 41 Am. Soc. Rev. 442, 457 (1976).  The students responded to whether they had ever committed certain moral or legal violations, such as assault, use of hard drugs, petty theft, vandalism, shoplifting, drunk and disorderly conduct, premarital sex, marijuana use, and drinking under age.  Id. at 446.  The students then responded to questions regarding the morality of the act, the certainty of punishment, the severity of punishment, and peer involvement.  Id.  One proposed hypothesis that was being tested was that “[t]he higher the degree of moral support for the legal regulation of an offense or offenses, the lower the probability that the offense or offenses will be committed.”  Id. at 457.

    [239].   See Nadler, supra note 210.  In one of her experiments, subjects read mock newspaper stories describing legislation that was perceived as either highly just, or highly unjust.  Id. at 1411.  Subjects in the unjust condition later reported greater intentions to engage in minor acts of law-breaking which were unrelated to the content of the unjust legislation, such as parking illegally, or making illegal copies of software.  Id. at 1414–15.  In a second study, conducted over the Internet, subjects acted as mock jurors, and had to render a verdict in a fictional case in which the evidence pointed to a guilty verdict.  Id. at 1418, 1423.  Prior to this, they were exposed to a mock news story of a (real) crime in which the protagonist watched his friend abduct and rape a seven-year old girl in a casino.  Id. at 1417, 1424.  The story had two versions—one in which the protagonist was described as being appropriately punished (just version), and another in which he was not punished at all (unjust version).  Id. at 1424.  In the ensuing mock trial scenario, with unrelated content, subjects who had seen the unjust news story were more likely to engage in juror nullification by rendering a not guilty decision.  Id.

    [240].   See id. at 1424–25.

    [241].   Erich J. Greene, Effects of Disagreements Between Legal Codes and Lay Intuitions on Respect for the Law (June 2003) (unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Princeton University) (on file with Mudd Library, Princeton University).

    [242].   Id. at iv.

    [243].   Id. at v.

    [244].   See Mullen & Nadler, supra note 174.  During the experimental session, 137 undergraduates read a newspaper article that summarized the legal trial of a doctor who allegedly provided an unlawful late-term abortion.  Id. at 1240.  Subjects were randomly assigned to read that the defendant was found guilty or not guilty. Id. at 1241.  One week prior to this session, subjects had completed a questionnaire that assessed their attitudes about abortion, and these attitudes were used to predict the critical dependent variable, which was whether subjects failed to return (i.e., stole) the pen that was provided to fill out their questionnaire.  Id. at 1241–42.  After subjects completed all the studies, they were instructed to return their pen and an envelope containing their materials to designated boxes.  Id. at 1241.  The researchers numbered the identical pens with ink that was only visible under ultraviolet light.  Id.  Therefore, subjects did not know that their pen was numbered but the experimenter was able to identify the pens that were not returned at the end of each experimental session.  Id.  The percentage of subjects who did not return the pen was substantially higher for those subjects who had strong pro-choice attitudes, and who were exposed to the guilty verdict—that is, those for whom the outcome clashed with their moral principles.  Id. at 1242.

    [245].   Id. at 1244.

    [246].   Eric A. Posner, Law and Social Norms: The Case of Tax Compliance, 86 Va. L. Rev. 1781, 1782 (2000).

    [247].   Id.

    [248].   See Karyl A. Kinsey, Deterrence and Alienation Effects of IRS Enforcement: An Analysis of Survey Data, in Why People Pay Taxes: Tax Compliance and Enforcement 259 (Joel Slemrod ed., 1992) (exploring the various reasons behind individuals’ compliance and noncompliance with tax laws).

    [249].   Nadler, supra note 210, at 1409–10.

    [250].   Josh Bowers, Legal Guilt, Normative Innocence, and the Equitable Decision Not to Prosecute, 110 Colum. L. Rev. 1655 (2010); see Heumann, supra note 116, at 1–4.

    [251].   See People v. Warren, 81 N.W. 360, 362 (1899); State v. Williams, 47 N.C. 257, 269 (1855) (contrasting “the good sense of a jury” with the legal professional who “generalises, and reduces every thing to an artificial system, formed by study”); Bibas, supra note 119, at 931 (observing that professional “insiders may take too narrow a view when evaluating what factors matter to [lay] outsiders”); Hadar Aviram, Trapped in the Law: Legal Actors’ Attitudes Toward Legal Practice as a Solution for Social Problems (unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, UC–Berkeley) (explaining that “formal law and legal indoctrination” inhibit lawyers from considering “external perceptions” that fall outside “the legal framework within which they operate”), available at http://works.bepress.com/hadar_aviram/1/.

    [252].   See Robinson & Darley, Utility of Desert, supra note 3, at 477 (arguing that a justice system cannot be effective in its goal unless it shares the public’s “overriding concern” for “doing justice”).

    [253].   Robinson & Darley, Intuitions of Justice, supra note 3, at 42–43.

    [254].   Joshua Dressler & Alan C. Michaels, Understanding Criminal Procedure: Investigation § 1.01, at 1–2 (5th ed. 2010) (describing “spillover” phenomenon whereby police enforce minor crimes as a mechanism “to expand police authority to investigate more serious crimes”); Bowers, supra note 244, at 1693–99; Bowers,supra note 76, at 95–96; Rosen, supra note 75, at 26 (“Instead of prosecuting lower-level offenses to encourage an atmosphere of social order that would prevent more serious crime, [authorities] began prosecuting lower-level offenses in order to catch more serious criminals.” (emphasis added)); see, e.g., Harcourt, supra note 208, at 44 (quoting NYPD Commissioner, William Bratton: “Every arrest was like opening a box of Cracker Jack. What kind of toy am I going to get? Got a gun? Got a knife? Got a warrant? . . . It was exhilarating for the cops.”).

    [255].   Bowers, supra note 244, at 1698–99; Bowers, supra note 76, at 120.

    [256].   Certainly, policy makers believe the advantages outweigh any normative legitimacy costs.  Harcourt, supra note 208, at 3–5 (citing department heads who believe that order-maintenance policing works); Long, supra note 208 (quoting NYPD Commissioner, Ray Kelly: “This is a proven law enforcement tactic to fight and deter crime, one that is authorized by criminal procedure law.”); Rivera et al., supra note 77 (quoting department head that concentrated and significant use of stop-and-frisk “had a significant impact” on crime reduction).

    [257].   Bowers, supra note 244, at 1695–97 (discussing unavailability of rough justice as mode of social control); Josh Bowers, The Limits of Legal Limits(forthcoming).

    [258].   Compare Papachristou v. Jacksonville, 405 U.S. 156 (1972), and Kolender v. Lawson, 461 U.S. 352 (1983), with Terry v. Ohio, 392 U.S. 1 (1968).

    [259].   Risa Goluboff, People Out of Place: The Sixties, The Supreme Court and Vagrancy Law (forthcoming).

    [260].   One study found that individuals perceive formal arrests to be more legitimate than brief stops.  Engel, supra note 44, at 469 (observing that citizens were more likely to perceive procedural injustice in traffic stops that resulted in citations than traffic stops that resulted in arrest); Bowers, supra note 244, at 1696 (noting public anxiety over stops and frisks that do not result in arrests).  Somewhat counter-intuitively, then, individuals may favor a vagrancy of arrests (and consequent criminal charges) to less intrusive and more cursory Terry stops.

    [261].   See Nick Pearce, Rethinking Fairness, 14 Pub. Pol’y Res. 11, 15 (2007) (detailing research which “found that a crucial factor in people’s willingness to cooperate with law enforcement activities was the legitimacy in which the police were held, which in turn derived from the perception of the justice of the force’s procedures and whether or not it treated individuals fairly”).

    [262].   Richard Frase, What Were They Thinking? Fourth Amendment Unreasonableness in Atwater v. City of Lago Vista, 71 Fordham L. Rev. 329, 350 n.97 (2002) (“[A] strategy of ‘zero tolerance policing’ requires and justifies arrests for minor crimes.”).

    [263].   See, e.g., Terry, 392 U.S. at 32; United States v. Arvizu, 534 U.S. 266, 273–78 (2002); United States v. Sokolow, 490 U.S. 1, 7–11 (1989); United States v. Sharpe, 470 U.S. 675 (1985); United States v. Place, 462 U.S. 696 (1983); Pennsylvania v. Mimms, 434 U.S. 106 (1977).

    [264].   See Whren v. United States, 517 U.S. 806 (1996).

    [265].   See Illinois v. McArthur, 531 U.S. 326 (2001).

    [266].   See New York v. Class, 475 U.S. 106 (1986).

    [267].   See Illinois v. Wardlow, 528 U.S. 119 (2000).

    [268].   See supra notes 92–95 and accompanying text.

    [269].   See Bilz, supra note 104; see, e.g., Herring v. United States, 555 U.S. 135, 141 (2009) (refusing to apply exclusionary rule in circumstances in which its use does not result in “appreciable deterrence”).

    [270].   Meir Dan-Cohen, Decision Rules and Conduct Rules: On Acoustic Separation in Criminal Law, in Criminal Law Conversations, supra note 3, at 3, 7 (“By framing its imperatives in familiar language, the law echoes and reinforces the layperson’s ordinary moral beliefs, whereas the technical legal definitions can effectively guide professional decision-makers.”) [hereinafter Dan-Cohen, Decision Rules and Conduct Rules II]; see also Meir Dan-Cohen, Decision Rules and Conduct Rules: On Acoustic Separation in Criminal Law, 97 Harv. L. Rev. 625, 630 (1984) [hereinafter Dan-Cohen, Decision Rules and Conduct Rules I].

    [271].   Dan-Cohen, Decision Rules and Conduct Rules I, supra note 264, at 652; see also Dan-Cohen, Decision Rules and Conduct Rules II, supra note 264, at 3–11 (describing the “gap” created “between legal and moral obligation” as “the inevitable price” to be paid by a system that wishes to maximize crime control but minimize the reach of state power).  Such legitimacy costs can, however, be minimized.  The system ought to avoid adopting or implementing standards that disingenuously purport to express public perceptions when in fact they serve alternative ends.  A case in point is the Court’s strained application of the ostensible reasonable expectation of privacy.  See, e.g., Florida v. Riley, 488 U.S. 445 (1989) (permitting helicopter surveillance); United States v. Karo, 468 U.S. 705 (1984) (permitting remote tracking of vehicles); United States v. Place, 462 U.S. 696 (1983) (permitting dog sniffs); see also William J. Stuntz, The Substantive Origins of Criminal Procedure, 105 Yale L.J. 393, 444 (1995) (describing the Court’s application of the reasonable expectation of privacy as “implausibl[e],” “ridiculous,” and “irrational”).  If the system is to contravene lay intuitions (as it sometimes must), then it ought to do so honestly.

    [272].   See Adele Bernhard, When Justice Fails: Indemnification for Unjust Conviction, 6 U. Chi. L. Sch. Roundtable 73, 92 (1999) (discussing the evidence that wrongful conviction is an “unfortunate but inevitable consequence of the routine operation of the criminal justice system” and proposing various remedies for those proven wrongfully convicted).

    [273].   By way of further example, studies have shown that restorative justice practices—like circle sentencing—promote perceptions of systemic legitimacy and provide stakeholders a measure of “process control.”  Nevertheless, a court may reject the practices as inefficient and as insufficiently attentive to core questions of guilt and innocence.  Erik Luna, Criminal Law Conversations, supra note 3, at 594 (conceding that restorative justice cannot address “whodunit” questions).

    [274].   Cf. Miller-El v. Dretke, 545 U.S. 231, 237–38 (2005); Batson v. Kentucky, 476 U.S. 79, 87 (1986).

    [275].   Cf. In re Davis, 130 S. Ct. 1, 4 (2009) (Scalia, J., dissenting).

    [276].   Cf. United States v. Davidson, 367 F.2d 60 (6th Cir. 1966); Pope v. United States, 298 F.2d 507 (5th Cir. 1961).

    [277].   See supra notes 190–94 and accompanying text.

    [278].   Santobello v. New York, 404 U.S. 257, 261 (1971); Brady v. United States, 397 U.S. 742, 751 (1970); Feeley, supra note 116, at 27–28 (discussing plea bargaining as a means to achieve substantively just results); Heumann, supra note 116; Frank E. Easterbrook, Plea Bargaining as Compromise, 101 Yale. L.J. 1969, 1976 (“Why is liberty too important to be left to the defendant whose life is at stake?  Should we not say instead that liberty is too important to deny effect to the defendant’s choice?”).

    [279].   See, e.g., Davidson, 367 F.2d 60; Pope, 298 F.2d 507; George Fisher, Plea-Bargaining’s Triumph, 109 Yale L.J. 857, 864–68 (2000) (tracing history of plea bargaining as a response to docket pressure).

    [280].   See, e.g., Bibas, supra note 122, at 1369–70; O’Hear, supra note 114, at 409.

    [281].   See generally Bibas, supra note 122 (condemning Alford pleas).

    [282].   Safer & Crowl, supra note 125, at 44.

    [283].   Marc L. Miller & Ronald F. Wright, Criminal Procedures 390 (2d ed. 2005) (noting that more than half of the states and the federal system instruct the judge not to “participate” in the plea discussions); see also Fed. R. Crim. P. 11(c)(1).

    [284].   Sergio Herzog, Plea-Bargaining Practices: Less Covert, More Public Support?, 50 Crime & Delinq. 590, 606 (2004).

    [285].   See, e.g., State v. Bouie, 817 So. 2d 48, 55 (La. 2002) (holding that a judge could warn a defendant about consequences of conviction, but his express opinion on date of trial that conviction was “all but a foregone conclusion” constituted sufficient coercion to render the plea involuntary).

    [286].   Note the publication dates on the many studies cited supra Part II.B.

    [287].   Paul H. Robinson & Michael T. Cahill, Law Without Justice: Why the Law Doesn’t Give People What They Deserve chs. 2–8 (2006) [hereinafter LWJ].

    [288].   For a general discussion, see id. at 22–88.

    [289].   See, e.g., Model Penal Code § 2.04(3) (1985) (disallowing mistake of law as a defense to prosecution outside of two very narrow exceptions); Idaho Code Ann. § 18-207 (2004) (“Mental condition shall not be a defense to any charge of criminal conduct.”); Clark v. Arizona, 548 U.S. 735, 770–71 (2006) (upholding Arizona’s insanity defense statute allowing evidence of mental illness, which prevents the ability to appreciate the wrongfulness of one’s action, but disallowing evidence that mental illness prevented one from forming the mens rea required for the crime).

    [290].   See, e.g., Model Penal Code § 2.02(2)(d) (1985) (defining negligence as a “gross deviation from the standard of care that a reasonable person would observe in the actor’s situation”).

    [291].   See Lindsey Powell, Unraveling Criminal Statutes of Limitations, 45 Am. Crim. L. Rev. 115, 115–16 (2008) (describing the purposes of statutes of limitations as “protect[ing] individuals from having to defend themselves against charges when the basic facts may have become obscured by the passage of time . . . encouraging government agents promptly to investigate suspected criminal activity”).

    [292].   See Kenneth S. Abraham, Strict Liability in Negligence, DePaul L. Rev. (forthcoming 2012) (describing one advantage of strict liability as avoiding the often costly and time-consuming task of proving negligence).

    [293].   For a more detailed account of deviations from empirical desert that might be tolerated, see Robinson, Distributive Principles, supra note 3, at ch. 12.

    [294].   For a general discussion, see LWJ, supra note 281, at 117–36.

    [295].   See, e.g., Robinson, Distributive Principles, supra note 3, at chs. 3–4; Paul H. Robinson & John M. Darley, Does Criminal Law Deter? A Behavioural Science Investigation, 24 Oxford J. Legal Stud. 173 (2004); Paul H. Robinson & John M. Darley, The Role of Deterrence in the Formulation of Criminal Law Rules: At Its Worst When Doing Its Best, 91 Geo. L.J. 949 (2003).

    [296].   See Robinson, Distributive Principles, supra note 3, at ch. 6; Paul H. Robinson, Punishing Dangerousness: Cloaking Preventive Detention as Criminal Justice, 114 Harv. L. Rev. 1429 (2001).

    [297].   For a general discussion, see LWJ, supra note 281, at 89–116, 137–85.

    [298].   Model Penal Code § 2.13 (1985).

    [299].   For a general discussion, see LWJ, supra note 281, at 186–204.

    [300].   See, e.g., Tom R. Tyler et al., Armed and Dangerous (?): Motivating Rule Adherence Among Agents of Social Control, 41 Law & Soc’y Rev. 457 (2007) (observing that the implementation of fair procedures reinforces the perception that the system shares and honors the public’s moral values).

    [301].   See, for example, Doyle v. Ohio, 426 U.S. 610, 617 (1976), where the constitutional rules prohibited the government from using silence as evidence of guilt. See also Mitchell v. United States, 526 U.S. 314, 332 (1999) (Scalia, J., dissenting) (“The illogic of the [rule] is plain, for it runs exactly counter to normal evidentiary inferences: If I ask my son whether he saw a movie I had forbidden him to watch, and he remains silent, the import of his silence is clear.”).  See generally LWJ, supranote 281 (cataloguing the variety of justifications for and the doctrines used in deviating from desert).

    [302].   John Conroy, The Return of Larry Eyler, Chi. Reader (July 30, 1992), available at http://www.chicagoreader.com/chicago/the-return-of-larry-eyler
/Content?oid=880169.

    [303].   LWJ, supra note 281, at 139–49, 157–59.

    [304].   Id. at 159-66.

    [305].   For example, when law students are asked to judge what, if any, liability and punishment Ignatow deserves, 100% impose liability, with a mean and a mode of life imprisonment:

 Liability and Punishment Student Response
No liability
1 day
2 weeks
2 months
6 months
1 year
3 years 1%
7 years 1%
15 years 1%
30 years 2%
Life 17%
Death 67%
Liability but no punishment 10%

Paul H. Robinson, Criminal Law Case Studies & Controversies, Teacher’s Manual (2d ed. 2008).

    [306].   See, e.g., Keeler v. Super. Ct. of Amador Cnty., 470 P.2d 617 (Cal. 1970) (reversing murder conviction where statute did not unambiguously cover killing of fetus); Billingslea v. State, 780 S.W.2d 271 (Tex. Crim. App. 1989) (reversing abuse conviction where code did not provide adult son with duty to care for elderly disabled mother who was living in his home).

    [307].   See, e.g., United States v. Janis, 428 U.S. 433, 454 (1976) (“If . . . the exclusionary rule does not result in appreciable deterrence, then, clearly, its use in the instant situation is unwarranted.”).

    [308].   See, e.g., LWJ, supra note 281, at 149–55.

    [309].   See, e.g., id. at 16–68.

    [310].   Tyler reports the relative weight of the factors shaping compliance with the law as:  morality 0.33, legitimacy 0.11, deterrence 0.02.  Tyler, WPOL, supranote 1, at 59.

    [311].   William J. Stuntz, Self-Defeating Crimes, 86 Va. L. Rev. 1871, 1894 (2000) (“The more ‘crime’ includes things only a slight majority of the population thinks is bad, the harder it is to sell the idea that ‘criminal’ is a label that only attaches to very bad people.”); Robinson, Why Does the Criminal Law Care?, supra note 3, at 1865 n.84.

    [312].   Tyler, supra note 13, at 312 (noting that in circumstances where there is “insufficient risk to motivate compliance . . . the legal system benefits when people voluntarily defer to regulations . . . even when they do not anticipate being caught”).

    [313].   Bowers, supra note 76, at 91 (noting that the law’s “‘normative punch’ is weakened when communities identify with criminals over the police and view enforcement as ‘oppressive and discriminatory,’ rather than ‘stigmatizing’”).

    [314].   Stuntz, supra note 305, at 1879–80 (focusing on how criminalizing and criminally enforcing vice crimes may prove counter-productive).

    [315].   LWJ, supra note 281, at 186–95.

    [316].   Robinson, Why Does the Criminal Law Care?, supra note 3, at 1865 n.84 (“As a matter of common sense, the law’s moral credibility is not needed to tell a person that murder, rape, and robbery is wrong.”); 2 James Fitzjames Stephen, A History of the Criminal Law of England 81 (1883) (“No one in this country regards, murder, rape, arson, robbery, theft, or the like, with any feeling but detestation.  I do not think it admits of any doubt that law and morals powerfully support and greatly intensify each other in this matter.”).

    [317].   Stuntz, supra note 305, at 1871 (“The mass of the population avoids seriously bad behavior not because they know it can be found in the codes, but because they know the behavior is thought to be seriously bad.”).

    [318].   Indeed, the amorality of many regulatory offenses invites the first-order question of whether the underlying malum prohibitum conduct should be criminalized in the first instance.  LWJ, supra note 281, at 186–95.

    [319].   See Linda Skitka, Christopher Bauman & Brad Lytle, The Limits of Legitimacy: Morality as a Constraint on Deference to Authority, Presentation to 22nd Ann. IACM Conf. (June 15, 2009) (transcript), available at http://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=1493520.  But cf. Jaime Napier & Tom. R. Tyler, Does Moral Conviction Really Override Concerns About Procedural Justice? A Reexamination of the Value Protection Model, 21 Soc. Just. Res. 509, 513 (2008) (raising conceptual and empirical concerns with Skitka’s research).

    [320].   Sarah B. Lawsky, Fairly Random: On Compensating Audited Taxpayers, 41 Conn. L. Rev. 161, 184 (2008).

    [321].   Id.

    [322].   Nadler, supra note 210; Robinson & Darley, Intuitions of Justice, supra note 3, at 4.

    [323].   Robinson & Kurzban, supra note 35, at 1892; see also supra notes 29, 54, 75–92 and accompanying text (exploring dissensus over the legitimacy of certain procedures).  But, of course, this is an empirical claim that demands further study.

    [324].   Tyler & Darley, supra note 1, at 723; see also Tyler, WPOL, supra note 1, at 4 (“Although both morality and legitimacy are normative, they are not identical.  Leaders are especially interested in having legitimacy in the eyes of their followers, because legitimacy most effectively provides them with discretionary authority that they can use in governing.”); supra notes 10–14 and accompanying text.

    [325].   Tyler & Darley, supra note 1, at 723 (“The legitimacy of authorities is an especially promising basis for the rule of law, because research suggests that it is not linked to agreement with the decisions made by legal authorities. . . . [L]egal authorities . . . are required to make unpopular decisions, which may deliver unfavorable outcomes.”).

    [326].   Tyler, WPOL, supra note 1, at 4.

    [327].   Id. (discussing resistance and acquiescence to the Vietnam conflict); see supra note 125 and accompanying text.

    [328].   See Skitka et al., supra note 313.

BowersRobinson_LawReview_9.12

By: Bruce A. Green* & Alafair S. Burke**

This Article examines community prosecuting from an ethics perspective.  Our focus is not on prosecutors’ compliance with the disciplinary rules, however.  The strategies that have been said to exemplify community prosecuting are almost invariably compliant with disciplinary rules and other aspects of the law governing prosecutors.  Rather, we take a broader perspective.  Our focus is on how prosecutors exercise discretion in the context of adopting community prosecution strategies.  We examine this question from both normative and procedural perspectives.  We propose that the addition of community-based defense lawyers could help mitigate concerns about prosecutorial discretion in community justice programs by broadening community participation and helping inform the community about an array of potential solutions and their implications.

I.  Background

A quick Google search for the term “community prosecution” yields nearly twenty-five million hits, including descriptions of community prosecution units in county after county across the nation.  What began as a small effort in Manhattan in 1985 was implemented more actively in Portland and Seattle in 1990 and 1991, respectively, and community prosecution soon became a national trend as more jurisdictions found ways to implement its principles.[1]  By 2003, the American Prosecutors Research Institute (“APRI”) estimated that nearly half of all prosecutors’ offices engaged in activities that constituted community prosecution.[2]  Generous federal grant funding supported the efforts.[3]

Despite the prevalence and popularity of community prosecution, its definition still remains hazy.[4]  Perhaps the one point of agreement is that community prosecutors have implemented the lessons of community policing into a prosecution model.[5]  Accordingly, the starting point for understanding the current state of community prosecution, and contrasting it with traditional prosecution models, is an understanding of community policing and the distinction between it and traditional policing.

A.     Outgrowth of Community Policing

Traditional policing in the last half of the twentieth century[6] was marked by a reactive, rapid-response model of policing.[7]  In reactive policing, it is a crime’s occurrence that triggers police involvement.  Police then investigate, seeking to identify the perpetrator and to gather evidence with an eye toward prosecuting and punishing the offender.  When law enforcement focuses on reactive case creation, each law enforcement actor plays a separate role—police investigate after a crime has occurred, prosecutors join in after an arrest to represent the government in adjudication, and corrections officers step in post-conviction.[8]  Police interaction with the community is minimal as law enforcement looks to citizens only for their assistance as victims and witnesses to help identify and prosecute offenders.[9]

Community policing emerged in the late 1970s and started to gain momentum in the 1980s.[10]  It was one of law enforcement’s institutional responses to “[s]kyrocketing crime rates, riots, accusations of racism and brutality, corruption, inefficiency,” and the public’s general lack of faith in the police and the government as a whole in the 1960s and 1970s.[11]  It rose in popularity in the 1990s with governments’ renewed emphasis on revitalization of cities and reduction of crime.[12]  The “bandwagon”[13] grew so quickly[14] that it became “ubiquitous.”[15]

In contrast to traditional policing, community policing looks to the community, not just as witnesses and victims, but as stakeholders who help shape law enforcement’s priorities and design and implement solutions.[16]  The literature on community policing identifies three other defining characteristics, but each of these can be seen as stemming from the defining hallmark of community input.  First, when community members are permitted to shape law enforcement priorities and programs, it is not surprising that community police officers hear different community concerns in different neighborhoods.  One neighborhood might be plagued by street-level drug dealing, another by prostitution, and another by noise caused by kids skateboarding at midnight.  Accordingly, community policing, unlike rapid-response policing, tends to adopt strategies by intrajurisdictional, geographic distinctions, rather than adopting a monolithic approach to the entire jurisdiction.[17]

Second, unlike traditional policing that prioritizes investigation of serious offenses over minor ones, community-based policing tends to focus on relatively “low-level, quality-of-life” problems.[18]  This is because, in at least some neighborhoods, community members’ biggest complaints are about relatively minor offenses such as graffiti, trespassing, public intoxication, and other forms of disorder.  Advocates of aggressive enforcement of relatively minor crimes often invoke George Kelling and James Wilson’s influential “broken windows” theory, which posits that one broken window is a sign of general lawlessness, leading to another and then others.[19]  The appearance of disorder deters law-abiding residents from exerting control over their neighborhoods while validating the conduct of lawbreakers.[20]  In contrast, the theory goes, police enforcement of positive social norms will empower law-abiding residents in their own communities and send a message to the lawless that they are unwelcome.[21]

Finally, because community-based police officers are called on to respond to low-level but common and chronic problems, the traditional, reactive approach of investigation, arrest, and prosecution is untenable.[22]  Instead, community policing employs Herman Goldstein’s recommended approach of proactive policing, seeking to develop long-term, preventative, programmatic responses to recurring quality-of-life problems.[23]  In this form of policing, arrest and prosecution are used only as a means to an end, not for purposes of punishment.[24]

In a model of law enforcement in which prosecution is only a means to an end, what is “community prosecution”?  Prosecutors use the term in different and, at times, contradictory ways.  The vague concept may be thought to refer to a philosophy, a strategy, or both.[25]  The concept’s list of “commonly cited operational elements,” such as prioritization of “problem-solving” and quality-of-life issues, partnerships with community, geographic focus, and integration of “proactive strategies,” clearly shares ground with community policing principles.[26]  At the same time, however, the community prosecution concept clearly extends—at least for some—well past the hallmark characteristics that initially defined community policing.  Although some identify community prosecuting exclusively or primarily with responses to quality-of-life crimes,[27] others use it equally to describe nontraditional responses to serious crimes such as drug trafficking and gang violence.[28]  Although some assume that community prosecuting exclusively or primarily involves “proactive” strategies,[29] others identify the concept with a combination of reactive and proactive strategies.[30]  In fact, as the pliant term has come to be used, community prosecuting is not necessarily about either community or prosecuting.  Community prosecuting strategies do not necessarily target particular communities[31]—although they typically do[32]—and many of these strategies do not include prosecuting criminal offenders.[33]

B.     Contrast with Traditional Prosecution

Community prosecuting, regardless of how it is defined, is viewed as a departure from how prosecutors traditionally think about and conduct their work.[34]  Despite the prevalence of guilty pleas, most prosecutors imagine themselves as trial lawyers whose work is centered at the courthouse.[35]  They focus attention on whether a particular crime was committed, by whom, and what should be done about it through the use of the criminal process, not on broader social problems and how to solve them by employing the full arsenal of government powers.  Their work is reactive, commenced in response to crimes and police investigations.  In the investigative stage, prosecutors’ work is most often in support of, and ancillary to, that of the police and other investigators.  They secure search warrants, wiretap authorizations, arrest warrants, or other court orders, or obtain documents and evidence with the aid of the grand jury.  In the prosecution stage, prosecutors decide whether to file criminal charges or offer an alternative disposition.  They negotiate conditions of guilty pleas and serve as the state’s counsel at trial.  The traditional role involves employing prosecutorial power to achieve criminal justice objectives: incapacitating criminals (i.e., “putting away bad guys”) and deterring future crimes while protecting and avoiding harm to the innocent.  This necessitates the exercise of discretion,[36] sometimes on an ad hoc basis and sometimes based on preestablished office policy.  Discretionary decisions may draw on a host of factors relating to criminal justice—such as the seriousness of the offense, the dangerousness of the offender, the strength of the evidence, and the availability of resources—and are essentially immune from judicial review.[37]

Community prosecuting takes prosecutors out of the courthouse and into the community and casts them in a more proactive role.  Community prosecutors typically work with members of the community to identify recurring, ongoing criminal justice problems (drug dealing, graffiti, vagrancy) and then work in tandem with community representatives and agencies to address these problems through a project, policy, or strategy, often involving nontraditional methods.[38]  Some community prosecuting activities engage prosecutors in such extralegal pursuits as community education;[39] others involve responses to criminal conduct, including, but not exclusively, quality-of-life crimes and other low-level crimes, through mechanisms aside from arrest and prosecution;[40] and still other examples involve the use of criminal justice authority in ways that exploit information from, or relationships with, the community.[41]

While a prosecutor’s office may include one or more lawyers who are designated as community prosecutors, this work supplements the ordinary work of a prosecutor’s office.[42]  Many prosecutors’ offices do not consciously engage in community prosecuting at all, and as far as we know, none engage exclusively in community prosecuting.[43]  The first order of priority for prosecutors’ offices is the bread-and-butter work of processing, investigating, and prosecuting felony cases, or what Portland, Oregon prosecutor Michael Schrunk calls “taking care of business,” by which he means prosecuting murderers, rapists, and other serious criminals.[44]  This engages much or most of an office’s time and resources.  Community prosecuting is, in most cases, an add-on—indeed, one that may be eliminated if funding is reduced.  Thus, community prosecuting does not involve a rejection of the traditional role and responsibilities so much as an expansion of them.

The activities said to comprise community prosecuting seem to reflect a broader philosophy of prosecuting than the traditional one.  Community prosecuting enlarges the prosecutor’s role, emphasizing and calling attention to the prosecutor’s status as a public official, as opposed to merely a courtroom lawyer or advocate for the state in criminal adjudication.  The community prosecutor is more like the mayor than the public’s criminal trial lawyer.  Community prosecuting takes the prosecutor not only outside the courthouse but outside the conventional “administrative” role of processing individual cases.[45]  The prosecutor’s object of concern goes beyond criminal justice.  The prosecutor may deal with vagrancy, drawing graffiti on private and public property, and drug use not as criminal problems but as social issues, as might officials of departments of homelessness, sanitation, and public health.  This typically requires the adoption of proactive policies as distinguished from ad hoc reactions to individual cases.

Even when serving a decidedly lawyerly role, community prosecutors try to develop “integrated, solutions-based” approaches to crime.[46]  For example, community prosecutors might work to draft and implement ordinances to authorize police to engage in earlier, more discretionary intervention in quality-of-life crimes and general disorder.[47]  Portland’s celebrated community prosecution unit, for instance, responded to neighborhood complaints about high concentrations of drug offenses with a “drug-free zone” ordinance that permitted police officers to banish suspected offenders from the targeted safety zone.[48]  Offenders who violated the order of exclusion were subject to arrest for criminal trespass.[49]  In the name of community, laws have also been passed to regulate sitting or lying on sidewalks,[50] sleeping and eating in parks,[51] panhandling,[52] and juvenile curfews.[53]  Community prosecutors may then be called upon to process the cases that arise from the new policing, often with alternative approaches, such as community-based courts.[54]

Prosecutors are traditionally independent of, if not isolated from, public officials and agencies other than criminal law enforcement agencies, such as the police, and are equally removed from the public.[55]  Community prosecuting implies less autonomy and more interaction with other officials and public representatives in order to deal with criminal and social problems in a more comprehensive manner.[56]  Collaboration with other public agencies may be useful either because the prosecutor is willing to employ prosecutorial powers toward noncriminal objectives or because the prosecutor seeks to commandeer noncriminal powers to prevent or deter crime or achieve other criminal justice objectives.  Interaction with the community may both assist the prosecution in identifying problems and provide an ally in the prosecution’s efforts to deter, investigate, or prosecute criminal activity.

Community prosecuting also implies both a less abstract idea of public accountability and greater transparency.  Traditional prosecutors, like judges, expect to work in accordance with professional expectations, not particular public expectations; in fact, they often stand as buffers against the popular hue and cry.  Prosecutors may announce arrests, indictments, and convictions, but they traditionally do not publicly justify discretionary decisions or publicly announce and explain their internal policies.[57]  The community prosecutor, however, is accountable in a more concrete, geographically confined sense, and is more open, since the success of community prosecuting strategies often depends on publicizing them and obtaining the community’s support for them.  Normatively, community prosecuting implies that community representatives’ perceived interests deserve consideration, whether in the development of prosecutorial policies or in the ad hoc exercise of discretion in individual cases, and that the relevant normative expectations are not exclusively those implicit in legislation, in the history of the office, or in the prosecutor’s own professional philosophy.

II.  Prosecutorial Discretion and Community Prosecuting

When it comes to exercising discretion in the course of prosecutors’ traditional work, conventional understandings or principles have developed over time.[58]  Rooted in the objectives of the criminal justice process, these understandings are broadly, if not universally, shared, and are communicated in various ways within prosecutors’ offices and among prosecutors of different offices.  These understandings do not dictate particular outcomes in particular cases, but do channel prosecutors’ decision making and provide benchmarks against which the public can judge prosecutors’ actions.  Community prosecution strategies may be inconsistent with ordinary principles regarding how prosecutors should employ their discretion, and the departures may not be sufficiently justified by the social utility of these strategies.  We explore these concerns in the context of a story that is loosely drawn from a twenty-year-old Pennsylvania state court decision.[59]  We offer the story to suggest both how the insights of community prosecuting may broaden decision making in prosecutors’ traditional work and how community prosecuting may lead to unjustified departures from traditional principles of prosecutorial discretion.

The story is set in Delaware County in the southeast corner of Pennsylvania in the late 1980s.  As it remains today, the county was mostly rural and mostly white, except for the City of Chester, which was working class and populated mostly by people of color, most of whom were black.  The story is of a simple drug deal, like those that occurred many times daily in Chester and other cities throughout the United States.

One evening, three coworkers at a local manufacturing company decided to try to purchase some cocaine.  They were recreational drug users and had never before been arrested.  They knew of a place in Chester near a bar where drugs could be bought quickly and easily.  The police knew the spot, too, but it was poorly lit, and drug sellers could get away by dashing into the bar or into an apartment above it if they were spotted.  The three white men in a Toyota were noticeable in a neighborhood comprised primarily of racial minorities and attracted the attention of plain-clothed surveillance officers sitting in unmarked police cars who knew that there was no commerce in the area and no reason for the men to be there except to buy drugs.  The officers observed two black men approach the car and complete what appeared to be a drug sale, then followed the Toyota back to the company parking lot, where the officers arrested the three men and retrieved two plastic bags of cocaine from the floor of the car.  One of the men claimed both bags were his.

The police brought the case to the Delaware County prosecutor, who then had to decide whether to bring charges and whether to offer the three men some kind of deal.  There were various options.  The men might be charged with purchasing drugs, conspiring to purchase drugs, and/or drug possession.  The prosecutor could choose not to file any charges, to file only certain of the possible charges, or to offer to defer bringing charges for a period of time, during which the men would be required to avoid any further drug use or other criminal conduct.  Another possibility was to offer the men admission into the state’s Accelerated Rehabilitative Disposition (“ARD”) program for which first offenders with low-level drug offenses were eligible if they would benefit from drug rehabilitation.[60]  Those who successfully completed the program avoided a criminal record.[61]

The traditional prosecutor would make the charging and plea bargaining decisions based on a number of considerations, which may or may not be codified in internal office policy.  Among these would be whether, based on the evidence, the prosecutor thought that the defendants were guilty of a crime and, if so, whether a crime could be proven beyond a reasonable doubt if the case went to trial.[62]  One conventional understanding is that prosecutors should not bring charges unless they are personally convinced of the defendants’ guilt—although there is no consensus on the requisite level of conviction.[63]  Another is that prosecutors should not initiate or continue charges unless there is some possibility or likelihood of securing a conviction—although there is no consensus on how likely.[64]  Beyond that, prosecutors may offer more lenient resolutions in cases where they are worried about the ability to win at trial.

Other considerations relate to whether particular punishment would fit the crime and whether the ends of the criminal process can be adequately served without a conviction or imprisonment.  Is incapacitation needed to keep the public safe or to deter future lawbreakers, or are there less harsh ways to prevent the offender and others from committing future crimes?  Prosecutors generally agree that not all offenders should be prosecuted and that offenders should be treated in proportion to the magnitude of their wrongdoing and their dangerousness.[65]  For example, prosecutors typically treat murderers more harshly than shoplifters, treat willful and venal offenders more harshly than negligent offenders, and treat repeat offenders more harshly than one-time offenders.[66]  Another commonly held principle is that similarly situated offenders should be treated similarly, and not treated more or less harshly because of irrelevant considerations.[67]  Given two men who committed the same crime, have the same criminal history, and have all other relevant characteristics and attributes in common, it would ordinarily be regarded as an abuse of discretion to charge one but not the other for no reason or based on an irrelevant reason, such as that they have different lawyers or that one is better connected.[68]  On the other hand, relevant distinctions might be taken into account.  For example, that one was employed and the other unemployed might be relevant to the likelihood of recidivism.

It is also understood that law enforcement and administrative interests might be given weight.[69]  Individuals may be given leniency without regard to their culpability and dangerousness to serve such interests.  For example, a mob hit man might be given leniency in exchange for testifying against members of the mob.  Arguably, individuals may also be treated more harshly than otherwise deserved or expected in order to serve law enforcement interests.[70]  Many defendants who plead guilty are offered more lenient treatment than if they stand trial[71]: whether this means treating those who plead guilty leniently to promote administrative efficiency and spare witnesses or treating those who stand trial with disproportionate harshness is subject to debate.

In the case of the three men arrested for buying cocaine in Chester, the Delaware County prosecutor was disinclined to dismiss the charges.[72]  The evidence would have seemed strong, given the officers’ observations and the discovery of the cocaine.  The question for the prosecutor was whether to invite the men either to enter the ARD program as an alternative to facing trial or to plead guilty to one or more of the possible charges.[73]  In cases involving offenders in the county who purchased small amounts of cocaine for their recreational use, the Delaware prosecutor’s ordinary practice was to offer the defendants entry into the ARD program and to prosecute them on drug charges if they declined.  There was nothing in the nature of the men’s background or conduct that called for harsher treatment.

The Delaware County prosecutor might have come under criticism for allowing the men into the ARD program, however, not so much for the particular resolution but for the overall approach to drug crimes that it would have exemplified.  This approach, typical of how prosecutors traditionally exercise discretion,[74] would have been narrow, ad hoc, and reactive.  The resolution of the individual case would seemingly have failed to account for the magnitude of drug problems in the City of Chester.  By the late 1980s, the city had become a magnet for open drug sales, which led to drug-related violence and property crimes.  Drug buyers flocked from surrounding areas.  If the defendants were allowed into the rehabilitation program, the release of these young white men and others like them, whose demand for drugs had helped turn parts of Chester into an open-air drug market, might have been viewed by city residents as an expression of indifference to the local problem.  The prosecutor’s ad hoc approach to drug arrests would not have been perceived as part of a serious prosecutorial, law enforcement, or general public strategy to deal with the drug problem in Chester; if prosecutorial discretion was being exercised in service of such a strategy, the public would not have known.

In fact, the prosecutor did not take the traditional, ad hoc approach.  The prosecutor implemented a nonpublic internal policy under which low-level drug offenders arrested in the City of Chester were categorically excluded from the ARD program.  The policy was meant to target the city as a high-crime area.  In the actual case, the prosecutor was not acting consciously as a “community prosecutor”; the decision predated the first explicit “community prosecution” programs.[75]  Nonetheless, one can reimagine the prosecutor’s decision, and the policy on which it was based, as the product of community prosecuting and not traditional prosecuting.  The imaginative retelling underscores some of the potential ethical problems that may arise in community prosecuting.

In our fictional account, the Chester County prosecutor regarded himself as a community prosecutor, not a traditional prosecutor.  He recognized that Chester was different from surrounding areas of the county in that it was plagued by drug crimes and the attendant violence.  He met with business owners, teachers, clerics, and others at town hall meetings in Chester, as well as with the police and public officials, to understand how community representatives and other agencies perceived the problem, what they expected from the prosecutor and other public officials, and whether the community was willing to assist.  Afterward, the prosecutor responded by adopting an official zero-tolerance policy for the city of Chester.[76]  Drug offenders arrested in Chester would be ineligible for ARD, even in situations in which drug offenders in surrounding parts of the county were routinely allowed into the program.

Under the zero-tolerance policy, the three men were required either to stand trial on charges that were difficult to defend or plead guilty to a criminal charge.  Although the men were unlikely to be sentenced to imprisonment even if convicted, a conviction would carry a permanent stigma and a host of “collateral” legal consequences, impeding their future ability to obtain jobs, loans, and other opportunities.

The ethical problem, as some would see it, is that the policy is unfair to individuals arrested in Chester for simple, low-level drug offenses.  Denying admission to the ARD program to anyone arrested for a drug offense in Chester, while allowing admission to individuals with identical backgrounds arrested for identical conduct in other parts of the county, arguably violated two conventional normative understandings governing a prosecutor’s exercise of discretion.

First, the policy arguably violated the proportionality principle, resulting in unduly harsh treatment of the defendants.  Ordinarily, prosecutors are expected to make individualized charging and plea bargaining decisions based on all the relevant considerations.  The existence of the ARD program presupposes that, for some low-level, first-time drug offenders, the proportionate disposition is to offer treatment, rehabilitation, and the opportunity for a fresh start rather than punishment.  The prosecutor’s policy foreclosed this possibility based on the assumption that a harsher charging policy would somehow reduce the drug trade in Chester or that the existence of the policy would achieve other social values, such as greater community satisfaction or cooperation with law enforcement authorities.

Second, the policy arguably violated the equality principle, in that similarly situated drug offenders were treated more or less harshly depending on which side of the city line their offense occurred.  This consideration is unrelated to their culpability or dangerousness and, thus, seems like an arbitrary basis for deciding whether or not to pursue drug charges or instead admit individuals into the drug rehabilitation program.

A 2004 manual on the ethics of community prosecution noted these potential problems[77] and offered two unsatisfactory responses.  The first was a suggestion that community prosecution be defined to exclude punitive strategies and thereby avoid the possibility of disproportionately harsh punishment.[78]  Community prosecuting, as so limited, would focus on quality-of-life offenses and would seek to prevent or deter them through strategies other than prosecution, such as neighborhood watches, cameras, and brighter lighting.[79]  The problem, of course, is that the response defines “prosecution” out of the concept of “community prosecution” by excluding strategies that include the use of traditional prosecutorial charging power.  The second response was that inequities could be avoided by making community prosecuting strategies universal—that is, by applying them throughout the prosecutor’s jurisdiction rather than targeting them to particular communities.[80]  This approach, in the name of equal treatment, eliminates the distinctive focus on “community” and results in extending policies to segments of the jurisdiction where they are unjustified.  For example, the Delaware County prosecutor might avoid unequal treatment by denying low-level drug offenders access to the state’s rehabilitation program whether they were arrested in or out of Chester, but the result would be to deprive everyone access to a program that the state designed for them and that results in more proportionate disposition in order to promote a social good that relates to only some of their situations.

An alternative answer is that the social good achieved by the community prosecuting policy justifies disproportionate or unequal treatment of some offenders.  Just as a mob hit man who testifies against his confederates may be treated different and more leniently than other hit men to promote the criminal justice objective of punishing other offenders, one might argue that low-level drug offenders can be treated more harshly than would ordinarily be expected (though still within the limits prescribed by law) in order to serve criminal justice objectives or other worthy social ends.  The problem, however, is that the particular policy may not in fact serve the intended objectives and, indeed, may be counterproductive.  When a prosecutor violates conventional principles governing the exercise of discretion to serve what the prosecutor regards as the greater good of the community, there is no particular reason to assume that the prosecutor has exercised discretion fairly and prudently—just the contrary.  And with the benefit of hindsight, many would now say that harsh drug-prosecution policies like the one adopted in Chester proved unsuccessful.

III.  The Community’s Influence on Prosecutorial Discretion

The story of the Delaware County prosecutor is not meant as an examination of all the issues of prosecutorial discretion that might arise in the context of community prosecuting.  It is meant simply to illustrate a point that may be intuitively obvious, namely, that some community prosecution strategies may entail an unwise use of prosecutorial power.  If obvious, this should nonetheless warrant concern for at least two reasons.  The first is that community prosecution strategies are relatively new for prosecutors and are departures from their ordinary work.  Traditional principles governing the exercise of decision-making authority may not be a good fit.  But guidance on the wise use of the new strategies has not yet developed.[81]  The second reason for concern is that community prosecuting entails an expansion of the prosecution’s power and role.  Even in traditional criminal cases, the prudent exercise of prosecutorial discretion is essential in light of the enormity of the power that prosecutors wield for criminal law enforcement ends.[82]  Community prosecuting potentially gives prosecutors access to additional powers arising out of their collaborations with civil government agencies and community institutions, and potentially involves serving public objectives aside from traditional law enforcement objectives.  Expanded power and expanded jurisdiction imply the ability to cause greater harm and, therefore, the need for more careful attention to how discretionary decisions are made—for example, in accordance with what norms and by what process.[83]

One might argue that a community prosecutor’s cooperation with and accountability to the affected community provide their own checks on the prosecutor’s discretionary decision making.  After all, scholars and commentators frequently call on prosecutors to employ greater transparency and public accountability to improve the exercise of traditional prosecutorial discretion,[84] and community prosecution is founded on principles of transparency and accountability.  In the community policing context, community justice advocates have argued that community participation in the identification of problems and the development of solutions helps ensure that police discretion is unleashed to maximize social good.  For example, Dan Kahan and Tracy Meares have argued that courts should permit greater police discretion for law enforcement strategies that have been endorsed by minority-dominated neighborhoods.[85]  In their view, members of the affected communities are better situated “practically and morally” to strike the balance between liberty and order in their own neighborhoods.[86]  Similarly, Debra Livingston has argued in favor of extrajudicial, community-based checks on police discretion, such as civilian oversight boards.[87]  Because community prosecutors, unlike traditional prosecutors, exercise discretion outside their insular offices, in view of the community to which they are accountable, we might be less concerned about the risks of discretionary decision making by community-based prosecutors than traditional prosecutors.

But to rely on community participation as a means of improving prosecutorial discretion is to assume that the community is sufficiently democratic, informed, and powerful to ensure that community prosecution policies serve the community interest, but not so powerful as to override other prosecutorial priorities.  Without participation by representative, well-informed, and empowered stakeholders, there is a risk that law enforcement may co-opt the politically popular rhetoric of “community,” simply to advance its own agenda.[88]  At the same time, trusting the community to oversee the exercise of prosecutorial discretion creates a risk that community-based voices will co-opt prosecutorial values.  The remainder of this Part examines these dual concerns and then turns to the potential of community-based defense lawyers to help foster a different kind of partnership between communities and law enforcement.

A.     Co-Opting of Communities

Just as the term “community prosecution” is difficult to define, so is the very notion of “community.”[89]  Out of a recognition that crime and disorder tend to vary by neighborhood, community justice programs tend to define community by geographic boundaries.[90]  However, any meaningful idea of community suggests commonalities among its members that go beyond physical proximity.[91]  Because of the significant exit costs to residential relocation, one’s address may not be a valid indication of voluntary membership in a geographically defined community.[92]  Although one’s neighborhood may be a predictor of socioeconomic status or race, defining community geographically can mask the significant divisions that exist in a neighborhood, both among and within identifiable groups, especially about law enforcement.[93]  To say that a community endorses law enforcement’s efforts assumes that divergent constituencies within a neighborhood can agree.[94]

Moreover, even if the residents of a neighborhood could reach something resembling a consensus in identifying and responding to local crime and disorder, police and prosecutors may not be well situated to assess that consensus.  Involvement in community justice programs is typically by only a small, nonrepresentative segment of the population.[95]  Organizational and institutional stakeholders might be businesses, churches, and other “issue-oriented” groups with their own narrow agendas.[96]  For example, Multnomah County’s Neighborhood District Attorney Program, commonly seen as a leader in the growth of community prosecution, was formed in response to business leaders who were concerned that local disorder would interfere with the growth of an emerging commercial district.[97]  More than twenty years later, local businesses continue to provide partial funding of the program.[98]  As for individual stakeholders, the neighborhood associations that community justice programs often look to for residential participation tend to be dominated by older, whiter, and more fearful homeowners.[99]  Other community members might be chilled from participation based on distrust of law enforcement or simply because they are too busy.  One study of eight early community justice programs concluded that, despite the varied approaches the programs took to spur community involvement, only a “small core group of residents” was involved, while “ordinary” residents had no idea about, or only a vague awareness of, the programs operating in their neighborhoods.[100]

Even the most active community members may not have sufficient information to assess the desirability of community-based law enforcement programs.  Consider, for example, the Delaware County community prosecutor’s policy designating Chester as a drug-selling zone, where all drug offenses would be prosecuted.  Predictably, the policy would lead to a shift in police resources to Chester, where the prosecutor had determined to treat drug offenses more seriously.  Residents seeking safer streets through more law enforcement might initially support such a program.  However, in the long term, one could expect the policy to fall disproportionately on residents of Chester, who spent much more of their time in the targeted community, rather than on white out-of-towners who occasionally drove into the city to buy drugs.  Recreational drug users in suburban and rural parts of the county who kept out of Chester would largely be left alone, while young men and women of color who were found in possession of drugs would be prosecuted and convicted.  This would lead in Chester to the problem that Michelle Alexander calls “the new Jim Crow”[101]: the mass incarceration and relegation to second-class status of people (especially men) of color who were prosecuted for nonviolent drug offenses that are almost entirely ignored in middle-class white communities.  It is hard to imagine that, if the long-term consequences of the prosecutor’s zero-tolerance drug policy were described to Chester residents in 1990, it would be particularly welcome.

Similarly, to the extent that community justice programs often seek to improve the quality of life in neighborhoods by targeting the enforcement of low-level offenses, residents who might otherwise be wary of aggressive policing might endorse the programs on the assumption that low-level offenses do not trigger serious punitive consequences.  However, they may do so without understanding fully how the cases would otherwise be treated without their input, how the programs work, or how the collateral consequences of the programs they are supporting might affect their community and its members.  They may not, for example, consider the possibility that aggressive street policing might undermine cooperative relationships between the community and law enforcement in the long term.[102]  They may not know that the most minor misdemeanors can trigger not only informal policing of social norms, but also a full-blown custodial arrest.[103]  They may not know that the government is permitted to hold a person who is arrested without a warrant for up to forty-eight hours without a probable cause hearing.[104]  They may not realize that police can use minor offenses as a pretextual basis for making an arrest.[105]  They may not understand that the search that is permitted incident to such arrests[106] might yield drugs or guns that result in felony convictions and lengthy sentences, leaving members of the community with whom they share a “linked fate”[107] out of the neighborhood, away from their children, and with a criminal history that undermines their ability to participate in society.  Although the prosecutor, as an attorney, will have such knowledge, there is no guarantee that prosecutors will fully inform the community about consequences of the program that might provoke public concern.

Finally, the community may not be in a position to identify or to fight for alternative solutions to neighborhood problems beyond the strategies proposed by law enforcement.[108]  They may not realize, for example, that criminal cases can be resolved through diversion programs that enable defendants to avoid criminal convictions.  They may not know about nuisance law, property maintenance codes, or other civil approaches to regulating neighborhood disorder and other concerns.  If the prosecutor fails to identify alternative approaches to problem solving, the community might support a program proposed by law enforcement as the best of the known alternatives.  Although a well-intentioned community prosecutor presumably shares the community’s interest in devising the most effective response, she is also accountable to her office and to the government and must therefore be mindful of internal concerns.  The community, in contrast, might prefer far more expensive strategies than the larger jurisdiction to whom the prosecutor is ultimately accountable is willing to pay for.[109]

If neighborhood involvement in community prosecution programs is not truly representative of the relevant community and is not sufficiently informed or empowered, the rhetoric of community can be co-opted by law enforcement to advance its own objectives.[110]  Some of the leading scholars of criminal procedure have warned against the over lifting of the powerful and popular rhetorical banner of “community.”  Professors Albert Alschuler and Stephen Schulhofer, for example, once observed a need “to be on guard against the appealing but highly manipulable rhetoric of ‘community,’ a rhetoric that is increasingly prevalent in contemporary discourse.”[111]  Debra Livingston has noted “that a bewildering and sometimes inappropriate variety of police initiatives could well be implemented in community policing’s name.”[112]  Paul Chevigny has said, “So-called community policing that does not mean participation by the people isn’t really community policing.”[113]  And Robert Weisberg has cautioned that a “somewhat sentimental notion of ‘community’” can sometimes conceal “a dangerously majoritarian anti-Constitutionalism.”[114]  Without assurances that an affected community is actually represented, informed, and empowered, community participation and oversight may not serve as an effective check on prosecutorial discretion.

B.     Co-Opting of Prosecutorial Values

At the same time that we may worry about prosecutors who might advance an agenda driven entirely by law enforcement, but in the name of community, community prosecution also poses the opposing concern that majoritarian will might override prosecutorial values.[115]  A prosecutor’s well-known duty is not simply to punish, but to promote justice.[116]  In the interest of justice, prosecutors generally prioritize serious offenses over minor ones, seeking punishment that fits the severity of the crime.[117]  As a general matter, they also seek to have similarly situated offenders treated equally.[118]

In contrast, a neighborhood overridden by low-level crime and disorder does not approach crime-related problems like lawyers, let alone like prosecutors.  Community members may overestimate the comparative severity of their concerns, failing to prioritize local problems in light of overall jurisdictional needs.  They might also demand differential treatment of the offenders who are deteriorating the quality of life in their communities as compared to offenders in another location.  A public afraid of crime is known to respond by asking for more policing and more punishment, failing to recognize criminal law’s traditional retributive limits to utilitarian-based punishment.[119]

The Delaware County prosecutor’s decision to prosecute all drug offenses committed in Chester can be considered through this lens.  Vocal business owners, churches, and residents—tired of operating, worshipping, and living in the middle of the county’s drug district—may have demanded action.  The designation of a zero-tolerance zone would be a quick, clear, and highly visible reaction to crime concerns.[120]  Community prosecution is intended to promote consideration and implementation of alternatives to traditional punishment.  But when vocal and empowered communities demand more law enforcement, their participation might lead to more unleashing of punishment, not less, if the prosecutor is unable or unwilling to shape or resist community sentiment.

C.     Leveling the Playing Field: Community Defense Lawyers

The movement of prosecutors out of the courthouse and into local neighborhoods poses special concerns about the exercise of discretion by community-based prosecutors.  In developing community prosecution strategies, prosecutors may employ processes that compensate for the absence of well-developed normative understandings: the involvement of the community, other agencies, and others in the formulation of community prosecution strategies may help prevent policies that are unproductive or counterproductive and unfair.  Although the transparency and accountability on which this model of prosecution is premised provide some theoretical promise of guiding discretion,[121] the community’s potential to oversee prosecutorial decision making can be undermined if participation in prosecutorial programs is not sufficiently representative of all affected constituencies or if the community is not sufficiently knowledgeable or empowered to serve as a meaningful counterbalance.  At the same time, politically powerful contingents of the community may have the potential to co-opt prosecutorial values such as proportionality and equality.

One purpose of community prosecution is to bring a lawyer’s expertise to community justice efforts, demonstrating an understanding that lawyers are important to the process.[122]  But prosecutors are not general practitioners.  They have expertise in criminal law and from a prosecutorial perspective.  They tend to be isolated within their own profession, rarely participating in bar activities or engaging with other lawyers.[123]  Community prosecution often calls on them to apply nonadvocacy, “social work” types of skills that they may not have and may even be hostile toward.[124]  If the goal of community justice is to address neighborhood concerns outside the narrow approach of the usual rapid-response model of policing and prosecution, it is not obvious why the only legal expertise is being provided by prosecutors.  When we shift to community prosecution, there is a missing voice that is equally informed in law.  Defense lawyers may be in a better position to draw on the perspective of a clientele of people who commit crimes and are accused of doing so.  Defense lawyers can identify other “stakeholders” who may not be part of the community prosecution advisory circle.  They can also provide citizen participants with another perspective of the programs in question.  The defense lawyer’s perspective might help prosecutors temper their impulse to resort to traditional prosecution methods.

Consider, as a contrast to Delaware County’s drug-free zone policy, what has become known as the “High Point” model of intervention in the drug trade, shaped by Professor David Kennedy’s efforts in High Point, North Carolina.[125]  Kennedy describes the initiative as follows:

A particular drug market is identified; violent dealers are arrested; and nonviolent dealers are brought to a “call-in” where they face a roomful of law enforcement officers, social service providers, community figures, ex-offenders and “influentials”—parents, relatives and others with close, important relationships with particular dealers.  The drug dealers are told that (1) they are valuable to the community, and (2) the dealing must stop.  They are offered social services.  They are informed that local law enforcement has worked up cases on them, but that these cases will be “banked” (temporarily suspended).  Then they are given an ultimatum: if you continue to deal, the banked cases against you will be activated.[126]

In developing the model, Kennedy encountered deeply held beliefs on the part of both law enforcement and community residents that threatened to undermine cooperation between the two.  Law enforcement believed that the community lacked positive social norms and was apathetic or even supportive of drug dealing and its accompanying violence.[127]  Residents, on the other hand, believed that the police were part of a conspiracy to destroy their community.[128]  To get through a “brick wall that preclude[d] meaningful conversations,” Kennedy had to engage in “blunt conversations” with both sides, asking police to understand why residents saw them as the enemy and asking residents if they had done enough to express positive expectations of their own friends and family members.[129]  Importantly, in this model, the message to offenders that their drug activity must stop comes not only from police and prosecutors, but also from the community itself.[130]  And because the government has agreed to “bank” potential charges, community members who might otherwise be wary of criminal punishment are willing to engage in partnerships with law enforcement and to accept the charges that do result for offenders who fail to heed the community’s pleas for change.[131]

The High Point model demonstrates the broad array of discretion left to the prosecutor seeking to develop community prosecution strategies, the lack of any single ideal process, and the host of questions that might be raised.  For example, in seeking to develop community prosecution strategies, what information should be sought and from whom?  Should the prosecutor speak only with business leaders, clergy, and educators?  Or should the prosecutor also speak with the very population whose activities are at the heart of the community’s concerns?  To what extent should prosecutors look beyond community representatives and government agencies—that is, to social scientists, health care professionals, social workers, and others who might offer different perspectives?  What should community prosecutors do with the information they gather?  When should prosecutors promote community objectives and when should they serve as a check on community sentiment?

Prosecutors may not be in a position on their own to either identify all of the relevant stakeholders or to explore all of the divergent outlooks on a community problem.  Criminal defense lawyers, who have access to prior clients and their families, and who may generally hold a contrasting worldview from prosecutors, can bring lawyering skills to community justice efforts from a different perspective.

IV.  Transparency and Traditional Prosecution

We have posited that the public’s ability to serve as a check on prosecutorial discretion in the community prosecution context will depend on whether a diversely constituted community is fully participatory in prosecution efforts, and whether the public is sufficiently informed and empowered to meaningfully express its will.  At the same time, however, we have expressed an opposing concern that an overly empowered public can impose majoritarian will and override traditional prosecutorial values, such as treating similarly situated offenders equally or prioritizing more serious offenses.  We have suggested that the addition of defense lawyers to community justice conversations might increase community participation and education, while also tempering prosecutorial impulses toward traditional law enforcement methods.

We close by considering whether the lessons of community prosecution might be imported into other areas of traditional discretion.  As currently implemented, community prosecution takes place on a separate track from traditional prosecution, practiced by different lawyers and reflecting different models of law enforcement.[132]  Prosecutors who favor community-based prosecution have failed to articulate why the model’s tenets should not apply more broadly to all prosecutorial action.[133]  If transparency, public accountability, and an exploration of nonpunitive responses to crime are sensible in developing proactive law enforcement strategies, the obvious question is why these same principles should not apply to traditional prosecutorial work that is reactive to individual criminal offenses.[134]

One possible argument for separating “new” prosecution from “traditional” prosecution might hinge on a distinction between the minor, quality-of-life offenses that tend to be the subject of community prosecution and the serious crimes that almost universally trigger traditional prosecution.  One might argue that, from a retributive perspective, serious offenses demand a minimum level of punishment.  Therefore, it is improper for society to explore alternative, nonpunitive responses to these crimes.  In contrast, quality-of-life offenses are less wrong and, in some instances, are criminalized only as a means to an end of maximizing social good.  Retribution calls for little or no punishment for these offenses.  Accordingly, law enforcement may adopt an instrumentalist approach, seeking the most effective, responsive strategy, without offending society’s retributive notions of justice.  Reliance on a utilitarian model of punishment for minor offenses, while invoking retributive justifications for serious ones, would concede (and justify) a two-tiered system.[135]

However, the distinction between minor (“new”) and serious (“traditional”) offenses, and an accompanying differentiation between consequentialist and desert-based schools of punishment, does not explain why public participation, transparency, and accountability are appropriate for the former, but not the latter.  While half of all prosecutors’ offices practice some form of community prosecution,[136] prosecutors’ offices are still widely seen as insular, reluctant to relinquish their broad discretion, and resistant to calls for increased transparency.[137]  Community prosecutors may leave the courthouse to engage with outside voices, but much of what the traditional prosecutor does takes place not only at the courthouse, but also off the record, unseen, and unseeable from public view.[138]

Consider again, for example, the Delaware County prosecutor’s response to drug activity in the City of Chester.  Community input might assist the prosecutor in determining whether low-level drug transactions should be considered minor enough to qualify for “new” models of prosecution (and what those models should look like), or whether they are sufficiently harmful to justify retribution-based punishment.  Or if this decision is left entirely within the prosecutor’s discretion, perhaps the public should be informed about the adoption of a two-tiered system and the factors that guide the prosecutor’s determination about which types of cases are treated as “new” and which will be treated “traditionally.”

Moreover, traditional prosecution—even applying reactive, retributive models of punishment—might benefit from engagement with voices outside the prosecutor’s office.  As scholars have previously noted, prosecutorial transparency increases public confidence in prosecutors and courts and enhances the legitimacy of the criminal justice system.[139]  Public elections of prosecutors would be more reliable if the public were better informed about prosecutorial policies and discretionary decision making.[140]  Prosecutors might also be able to neutralize the kinds of cognitive biases that can result in wrongful convictions by talking about their cases with people—perhaps even defense attorneys—who might see the evidence or the offense in a different light.[141]

At the same time, in the context of much of prosecutors’ traditional work—namely, the prosecution of individual cases—there are practical and ethical limits on the ability to make decision making transparent and respond to community input.  Discretionary decision making is pervasive;[142] prosecutors would not have time to become transparent and accountable in every individual case even if it were desirable and proper to do so.  Prosecutors are limited by the interests in investigative secrecy and in fairness to the accused in their ability to discuss publicly the facts relevant to charging decisions and other discretionary decisions or the reasons for their decisions.[143]  The Manhattan District Attorney’s recent, highly publicized prosecution of Dominique Strauss-Kahn was a rare one in which the prosecutor had an opportunity, in the context of judicial proceedings, to explain the facts and standards governing a discretionary decision—in that case, the decision to seek to dismiss previously filed charges.[144]  In contrast, if the Manhattan prosecutor had decided not to bring charges in the first place and had issued a public statement explaining why, the prosecutor might have been criticized for being unfair both to the alleged accuser, whose credibility was called into question, and to the accused, who remained under a cloud of suspicion.  Similarly, if the prosecutor had solicited community input before deciding whether to bring or continue charges, the prosecutor would have been criticized for abdicating his authority to exercise independent professional judgment.  Prosecutors might be encouraged, based on the community prosecuting model, to develop and publicly articulate general principles governing their traditional work,[145] but it would be unrealistic to expect in their ad hoc, reactive decision making the kind of transparency and community engagement that is characteristic of the work of community prosecuting.

Conclusion

This Article set out to explore the special problem of discretion by the community prosecutor.  We have suggested that the exercise of prosecutorial discretion in developing community prosecution strategies poses unique problems from traditional prosecution work.  One implication is that prosecutors ought to discuss and develop normative understandings regarding the use of proactive strategies and policies of the kind that have been labeled as community prosecuting.  Another is that the public should be attentive to community prosecuting strategies, should ask how they are justified, and should evaluate the justifications with sufficient information to serve a meaningful participatory function.  And finally, whatever lessons emerge about the relationship between the public and prosecutorial discretion when prosecutors step out of the courthouse might also, within limits, inform the proper exercise of discretion within traditional prosecutorial functions.


        *   Louis Stein Professor, Fordham University School of Law; Director, Stein Center for Law and Ethics.

        **   Professor of Law, Hofstra Law School.

        [1].   History of Community Prosecution, Bureau of Just. Assistance, https://www.ncjrs.gov/html/bja/commpros/bja1.html (last visited Feb. 10, 2012) (showing chronology of community-based prosecution efforts).

        [2].   M. Elaine Nugent, Am. Prosecutors Research Inst., What  Does it Mean to Practice Community Prosecution? 4 (2004).

        [3].   History of Community Prosecution, supra note 1 (documenting federal funding distributed in the late 1990s and early 2000s to support the development, continuation, and growth of community-based prosecution efforts).

        [4].   See, e.g., M. Elaine Nugent et al., Am. Prosecutors Research Inst., The Changing Nature of Prosecution: Community Prosecution vs. Traditional Prosecution Approaches 3–4 (2004) [hereinafter The Changing Nature of Prosecution] (describing prosecutors’ differing understandings and uses of the term); Anthony C. Thompson, It Takes a Community to Prosecute, 77 Notre Dame L. Rev. 321, 323 (2002) (“It is not at all obvious . . . what the term ‘community prosecution’ actually means.”).

        [5].   Am. Prosecutors Research Inst. Criminal Prosecution Div., Community Prosecution: A Guide for Prosecutors 1 (n.d.) [hereinafter Guide for Prosecutors],available at http://www.ndaa.org/pdf/Community
%20Prosecution%20guide.pdf (“Community prosecution has derived some of its basic elements from community policing (i.e. directly engaging with community residents; responding proactively to crime; increasing accountability to the public; and decentralizing operations).”); Nat’l Dist. Att’ys Ass’n & Nat’l Ctr. for Cmty. Prosecution, Key Principles of Community Prosecution 3–4 (2009) [hereinafter Key Principles of Community Prosecution], available athttp://www.ndaa.org/pdf/final_key_principles_updated_jan_2009.pdf; Russ Freyman, D.A.s in the Streets, Governing, Sept. 1998, at 28, 28 (noting that community prosecution derived from community policing).

        [6].   Early forms of policing in the United States did focus more on order-maintenance than reactive, investigatory crime control.  See George L. Kelling & Mark H. Moore, From Political to Reform to Community: The Evolving Strategy of Police, in Community Policing: Rhetoric or Reality 3, 3–11 (Jack R. Greene & Stephen D. Mastrofski eds., 1988) (noting law enforcement’s shift during the twentieth century from a focus on social welfare work toward a prioritization of crime control); Debra Livingston, Police Discretion and the Quality of Life in Public Places: Courts, Communities, and the New Policing, 97 Colum. L. Rev. 551, 565–73 (1997) (documenting historical trends in American policing).

        [7].   Mark H. Moore & George L. Kelling, “To Serve and Protect”: Learning from Police History, Pub. Int., Winter 1983, at 49, 60; Thompson, supra note 4, at 338–39.

        [8].   Alafair S. Burke, Unpacking New Policing: Confessions of a Former Neighborhood District Attorney, 78 Wash. L. Rev. 985, 989 (2003).

        [9].   Thompson, supra note 4, at 339.

      [10].   Stephen D. Mastrofski & James J. Wills, Police Organization Continuity and Change: Into the Twenty-First Century, in 39 Crime and Justice: A Review of Research 55, 118 (Michael Tonry ed., 2010).

      [11].   Id.

      [12].   In his 1994 State of the Union Address, President Clinton vowed to place 100,000 community-oriented police officers on America’s streets.  President William Clinton, State of the Union Address (Jan. 25, 1994), in 30 Weekly Compilation of Presidential Documents 148, 155–56 (1994).  Within a year, the Department of Justice created its Office of Community Oriented Policing Services (“COPS”) to accomplish that goal by expanding community policing and distributing grant funds to support local community policing projects.  Ted Gest, The Evolution of Crime and Politics in America, 33 McGeorge L. Rev. 759, 762 (2002).

      [13].   Wesley G. Skogan & Susan M. Hartnett, Community Policing, Chicago Style, at vii (1997) (“The concept [of community policing] is so popular with the public and city councils that scarcely a chief wants his department to be known for failing to climb on this bandwagon.”).

      [14].   Between 1997 and 1999, the number of police departments employing community policing techniques doubled, and the number of police officers designated as community policing officers quadrupled.  Matthew J. Hickman & Brian A. Reaves, Bureau of Justice Statistics, Community Policing in Local Police Departments, 1997 and 1999, at 2 (rev. 2003), available at http://bjs.ojp.usdoj.gov/content/pub/pdf/cplpd99.pdf.

      [15].   Tracey L. Meares, Praying for Community Policing, 90 Calif. L. Rev. 1593, 1593 (2002) (collecting sources evidencing that the term community policing “has become ubiquitous among law-enforcement practitioners and scholars”).

      [16].   Jeffrey Fagan & Garth Davies, Street Stops and Broken Windows: Terry, Race, and Disorder in New York City, 28 Fordham Urb. L.J. 457, 502 (2000) (discussing the influence of community “stakeholders” in shaping police norms); Joan W. Howarth, Toward the Restorative Constitution: A Restorative Justice Critique of Anti-Gang Public Nuisance Injunctions, 27 Hastings Const. L.Q. 717, 720 (2000) (observing that “stakeholder” agreement is important to restorative justice programs).

      [17].   Archon Fung, Beyond and Below the New Urbanism: Citizen Participation and Responsive Spatial Reconstruction, 28 B.C. Envtl. Aff. L. Rev. 615, 629 (2001) (discussing neighborhood-specific identification of problems and solutions); Philip B. Heymann, The New Policing, 28 Fordham Urb. L.J. 407, 421 (2000) (“[P]olice are accountable to neighborhoods as well as to cities . . . .”).

      [18].   Eric W. Nicastro, Confronting the Neighbors: Community Impact Panels in the Realm of Restorative Justice and Punishment Theory, 9 Roger Williams U. L. Rev. 261, 261 (2003).

      [19].   James Q. Wilson & George L. Kelling, Broken Windows, Atlantic Monthly, Mar. 1982, at 29, 31–32; Livingston, supra note 6, at 583–85 (discussing the broken windows theory’s influence on contemporary policing).

      [20].   Wilson & Kelling, supra note 19, at 31–32.

      [21].   See id. at 33.  For more thorough discussions of the role of enforcement of social norms in community policing efforts, see Dan M. Kahan, Social Influence, Social Meaning, and Deterrence, 83 Va. L. Rev. 349, 367–77 (1997); Livingston, supra note 6, at 578–84; Richard C. Schragger, The Limits of Localism, 100 Mich. L. Rev. 371, 377 (2001); Sarah E. Waldeck, Cops, Community Policing, and the Social Norms Approach to Crime Control: Should One Make Us More Comfortable with the Others?, 34 Ga. L. Rev. 1253, 1256–58 (2000).

      [22].   Waldeck, supra note 21, at 1270–71.

      [23].   See Heymann, supra note 17, at 423 (noting Goldstein’s influence in shifting police priorities to the prevention of crime as a primary goal); Livingston, supranote 6, at 573–75 (discussing Goldstein’s influence on contemporary policing).  See generally Herman Goldstein, Problem-Oriented Policing (1990); Herman Goldstein, Improving Policing: A Problem-Oriented Approach, 25 Crime & Delinq. 236 (1979).

      [24].   Heymann, supra note 17, at 420 (“[O]ur policing strategies in the last decade have turned heavily towards prevention of crimes . . . rather than individual events.”).

      [25].   See, e.g., Guide for Prosecutors, supra note 5, at 1 (“APRI defines community prosecuting as a philosophy, as well as a strategy, involving prosecutors focusing their resources in response to the needs of specific communities.”).

      [26].   See id. at 5–7 (listing nine “elements critical to the success” of community prosecution); Key Principles of Community Prosecution, supra note 5, at 3–4.

      [27].   See, e.g., The Changing Nature of Prosecution, supra note 4, at 3 (community prosecution is an “integrated, solutions-based approach to eradicate crime. . . . [It] brings prosecutors together with residents to identify quality-of-life issues (such as graffiti, vandalism, trespassing, disorderly conduct, drug solicitation, prostitution, aggressive panhandling, etc.) in an attempt to develop and implement long-term strategies to address community concerns”).

      [28].   See, e.g., Guide for Prosecutors, supra note 5, at 9–10, 43 (illustrating the concept of community prosecuting through programs aimed at violent felons).

      [29].   See, e.g., id. at 4 (asserting that community prosecuting “involves a long-term, proactive partnership”).

      [30].   See, e.g., The Changing Nature of Prosecution, supra note 4, at 7 (Community prosecuting is commonly thought to include “[a]n integrated approach involving both reactive (e.g., prosecuting crimes identified by the police) and proactive strategies (e.g., anticipatory actions aimed at addressing problems at their root cause).”).

      [31].   See, e.g., Michael R. Kuykendall, Am. Prosecutors Research Inst., From the Courtroom to the Community: Ethics and Liability Issues for the Community Prosecutor 10 (2004) [hereinafter From the Courtroom to the Community] (suggesting that community prosecutors can avoid unwanted variations “by expanding their community prosecuting initiative jurisdiction-wide”).

      [32].   See, e.g., The Changing Nature of Prosecution, supra note 4, at 7 (listing among commonly cited characteristics of community prosecuting the concentration on “[a] clearly defined focus area, which has traditionally been defined as a targeted geographic area”).

      [33].   See, e.g., From the Courtroom to the Community, supra note 31, at 9 (“Neighborhood clean-ups, formation of block watches and foot patrols, and turning on porch lights are all tools used by community prosecutors to actually prevent crime.”).

      [34].   The Changing Nature of Prosecution, supra note 4, at 15–16; Kay Levine, The New Prosecution, 40 Wake Forest L. Rev. 1125, 1173–74 (2005) (noting “ambivalence or hostility” in prosecutors who see community-based, problem-solving role as beyond their traditional prosecutorial duties).  However, even the APRI concedes that “many prosecutors, policymakers, and scholars are still at a loss to explain how community prosecution differs from traditional prosecution.”  The Changing Nature of Prosecution, supra note 4, at 3.

      [35].   Frank O. Bowman, III, American Buffalo: Vanishing Acquittals and the Gradual Extinction of the Federal Criminal Trial Lawyer, 156 U. Pa. L. Rev. PENNumbra 226, 237 (2007), http://www.pennumbra.com/responses/11-2007
/Bowman.pdf.

      [36].   Bruce A. Green & Fred C. Zacharias, Prosecutorial Neutrality, 2004 Wis. L. Rev. 837, 837–38 (“Few decisions prosecutors make are subject to legal restraints or judicial review.  Consequently, the key question for prosecutors ordinarily is not whether their decisions are lawless, in the sense that a court might overturn them, but rather whether the decisions are wise or imprudent.” (citations omitted)).

      [37].   See id. at 877 (“[P]rosecutors must confine their decision-making criteria to a combination of resource considerations and policy considerations that drive the justifications for punishment.”).

      [38].   Guide for Prosecutors, supra note 5, at 1 (“The community prosecution approach is proactive and views community residents and law enforcement as partners in maintaining public safety.”).  In 1995, APRI adopted the following definition: “Community prosecution focuses on targeted areas and involves a long-term, proactive partnership among the prosecutor’s office, law enforcement, the community and public and private organizations, whereby the authority of the prosecutor’s office is used to solve problems, improve public safety and enhance the quality of life in the community.”  Id. at 4.

      [39].   E.g., id. at 27 (describing Milwaukee’s “education and prevention effort to teach the public about the criminal justice system, particularly courts and drug-case processing”); id. at 41 (describing a Manhattan youth education program “to educate elementary, junior high, and high school students about the criminal justice system”).

      [40].   E.g., id. at 32 (describing a Jackson County, Missouri, prosecutor’s creation of a drug court “to allow first-time substance abuse offenders charged with lesser drug felonies to receive substance abuse treatment in lieu of prosecution and prison time”); id. at 35 (describing a Jackson County, Missouri, prosecutor’s project to identify close residential and commercial buildings that were sites of drug activity through “controlled buys, search warrants, health and fire code inspections, property owner notification, evictions, civil abatement and forfeiture actions”); id. at 44 (describing Manhattan prosecutors’ use of obscure civil law to evict drug dealers from residential apartment buildings).

      [41].   E.g., id. at 10 (describing programs of Philadelphia District Attorney’s Office aimed at drug trafficking, including a program whereby selected cases were transferred to the federal authorities to be prosecuted under tougher federal criminal laws and a program “focusing intense prosecution efforts on a single police district”); id. at 43 (describing a Manhattan program in which information is gathered from specific neighborhoods to facilitate prosecutions of gang leaders for violent crimes); id. at 54 (describing a Multnomah County prosecutor’s policy of excluding individuals arrested for drug offenses from areas defined as “Drug-Free Zones” and arresting those who entered these areas for trespassing).

      [42].   Nugent, supra note 2, at 15–16.

      [43].   Id. at 27.

      [44].   From the Courtroom to the Community, supra note 31, at 13.

      [45].   With regard to prosecutors’ administrative role, see generally Rachel E. Barkow, The Ascent of the Administrative State and the Demise of Mercy, 121 Harv. L. Rev. 1332 (2008), and Gerard E. Lynch, Our Administrative System of Criminal Justice, 66 Fordham L. Rev. 21 17 (1998).

      [46].   The Changing Nature of Prosecution, supra note 4, at 3.

      [47].   For a general discussion of laws targeting low-level offenses, see Robert C. Ellickson, Controlling Chronic Misconduct in City Spaces: Of Panhandlers, Skid Rows, and Public-Space Zoning, 105 Yale L.J. 1165, 1217–19 (1996), and Schragger, supra note 21, at 378 (discussing laws targeting low-level offenses).

      [48].   Portland, Or., City Code §§ 14B.20.010–.070 (2002) (creating “drug free zones” from which drug offenders can be excluded).

      [49].   Id. § 14B.20.035.

      [50].   See Roulette v. City of Seattle, 97 F.3d 300, 302–06 (9th Cir. 1996) (upholding a Seattle ordinance prohibiting sitting or lying on sidewalks).

      [51].   See Pottinger v. City of Miami, 810 F. Supp. 1551, 1562–84 (S.D. Fla. 1992) (enjoining enforcement against the homeless of prohibitions against sleeping and eating in public).

      [52].   See Loper v. N.Y.C. Police Dep’t, 999 F.2d 699, 701–06 (2d Cir. 1993) (finding unconstitutional an ordinance prohibiting loitering for the purpose of begging); Helen Hershkoff & Adam S. Cohen, Begging To Differ: The First Amendment and the Right To Beg, 104 Harv. L. Rev. 896, 896 n.5 (1991) (summarizing laws regulating and prohibiting panhandling).

      [53].   See generally Brian Privor, Dusk ‘Til Dawn: Children’s Rights and the Effectiveness of Juvenile Curfew Ordinances, 79 B.U. L. Rev. 415 (1999) (discussing juvenile curfews).

      [54].   The Changing Nature of Prosecution, supra note 4, at 22.

      [55].   See John L. Worrall, Prosecution in America: A Historical and Comparative Account, in The Changing Role of the American Prosecutor 3, 8–9 (John L. Worrall & M. Elaine Nugent-Borakove eds., 2008).

      [56].   Community Prosecution: Key Dimensions, Bureau of Just. Assistance, https://www.ncjrs.gov/html/bja/commpros/bja2.html (last visited Feb. 10, 2012).

      [57].   Angela J. Davis, The American Prosecutor: Independence, Power, and the Threat of Tyranny, 86 Iowa L. Rev. 393, 443 (2001).

      [58].   Catherine M. Coles, Evolving Strategies in 20th-Century American Prosecution, in The Changing Role of the American Prosecutor, supra note 55, at 177, 182 (explaining how prosecutors developed standards and strategies for handling cases throughout the 20th century).

      [59].   Commonwealth v. Agnew, 600 A.2d 1265 (Pa. Super. Ct. 1991).

      [60].   234 Pa. Code §§ 300–320 (2000).

      [61].   Id. §§ 319–320.

      [62].   Marc L. Miller & Ronald F. Wright, Criminal Procedures 1129 (4th ed. 2011).

      [63].   See generally Alafair S. Burke, Prosecutorial Agnosticism, 8 Ohio St. J. Crim. L. 79, 84–86, 91–99 (2010) (noting the general belief that prosecutors must be personally convinced of the defendant’s guilt but arguing that prosecutors should strive for agnosticism); Bruce A. Green & Ellen Yaroshefsky, Prosecutorial Discretion and Post-Conviction Evidence of Innocence, 6 Ohio St. J. Crim. L. 467, 497–501 (2009) (describing alternative approaches that prosecutors might take to the question of how convinced they must be of a defendant’s guilt); Recommendation for Dismissal at 4, People v. Strauss-Kahn, No. 02526/2011 (N.Y. Sup. Ct. Aug. 22, 2011), (“[F]or generations, before determining whether a case should proceed to trial, felony prosecutors in New York County have insisted that they be personally convinced beyond a reasonable doubt of the defendant’s guilt, and believe themselves able to prove that guilt to a jury. . . . If, after careful assessment of the facts, the prosecutor is not convinced that a defendant is guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, he or she must decline to proceed.”), available at http://www.documentcloud.org
/documents/238252-motion-to-dismiss-dominique-strauss-kahn-case.html.

      [64].   See, e.g., ABA Standards for Criminal Justice: Prosecution and Defense Function § 3-3.9(a) (1993) [hereinafter ABA Standards] (“A prosecutor should not institute, cause to be instituted, or permit the continued pendency of criminal charges in the absence of sufficient admissible evidence to support a conviction.”); Frank W. Miller, Prosecution: The Decision to Charge a Suspect with a Crime 35 (1970) (“[P]rosecutors are not willing to devote resources to charging merely because the law would permit them to do so.  Instead they insist that the evidence be of a nature that conviction is very likely to follow.”).

      [65].   Cf. ABA Standards, supra note 64, § 3-3.9(b)(ii)–(iii) (listing “the extent of the harm caused by the offense” and “the disproportion of the authorized punishment in relation to the particular offense or the offender” among factors relevant to the decision to prosecute).

      [66].   Cf. id.; United States Attorneys’ Manual § 9-27.420 (2011) (advising federal prosecutors to consider the defendant’s criminal history and the “nature and seriousness of the offense” in evaluating the propriety of a plea bargain), available at http://www.justice.gov/usao/eousa/foia_reading_room/usam/title9/27mcrm
.htm#9-27.420.

      [67].   See, e.g., Bruce A. Green, Why Should Prosecutors “Seek Justice”?, 26 Fordham Urb. L.J. 607, 634 (1999) (“[M]ost would agree . . . [that the prosecutor should] treat lawbreakers with rough equality; that is, similarly situated individuals should generally be treated in roughly the same way.”); Press Release, Ala. Dist. Att’ys Ass’n (Sept. 17, 2007), available at http://blog.al.com/bn/2007/09/das_group_issues_response_to_a.html (defending a district attorney “for trying to ensure that similarly-situated defendants are treated similarly” in response to the state attorney general’s attack on a district attorney who agreed that an accomplice to homicide should not receive the death penalty after the triggerman was held ineligible for the death penalty because of his age).

      [68].   See M. Elaine Nugent-Borakove, Performance Measures and Accountability, in The Changing Role of the American Prosecutor, supra note 55, at 91, 99–100.

      [69].   See, e.g., Roger A. Fairfax, Jr., Prosecutorial Nullification, 52 B.C. L. Rev. 1243, 1256–58 (2011); Lynch, supra note 45, at 2140–41.

      [70].   See, e.g., Bruce A. Green, “Package” Plea Bargaining and the Prosecutor’s Duty of Good Faith, 25 Crim. L. Bull. 507 (1989) (discussing scenarios in which prosecutors seek to induce defendants to plead guilty in exchange for leniency to family members who might not ordinarily be prosecuted but for prosecutors’ interest in obtaining leverage).

      [71].   Miller & Wright, supra note 62, at 1108.

      [72].   Commonwealth v. Agnew, 600 A.2d 1265, 1266 (Pa. Super. Ct. 1991).

      [73].   Id.

      [74].   Norman Abrams, Internal Policy: Guiding the Exercise of Prosecutorial Discretion, 19 UCLA L. Rev. 1, 2–3 (1971).

      [75].   See History of Community Prosecution, supra note 1 (showing chronology of community-based prosecution).

      [76].   In Agnew, the policy was unwritten and, presumably, non-public, at least until it was challenged.  Agnew, 600 A.2d at 1267.  A community prosecutor, however, would ordinarily publicize the policy to promote both public accountability and deterrence.

      [77].   Others have as well.  See, e.g., Anthony V. Alfieri, Community Prosecutors, 90 Calif. L. Rev. 1465, 1474 (2002) (noting that pilot community prosecution programs “raise[d] issues of priority and proportionality in prosecution”); Kelley Bowden Gray, Community Prosecution: After Two Decades, Still New Frontiers, 32 J. Legal Prof. 199, 205–09 (2008) (discussing various ethical concerns regarding community prosecution, including “that similarly situated defendants may not be treated equally”).

      [78].   From the Courtroom to the Community, supra note 31, at 8–9.

      [79].   The APRI explains that defendants may be singled out for deterrence but not for disproportionate treatment.  Id. at 8.  The aim is to “reduce an impediment to livability” by focusing on low-level criminal conduct through policing, not punishment.  Id.  Prosecutors prevent crime through “[n]eighborhood clean-ups, formation of block watches and foot patrols, and turning porch lights on at night . . . . [T]here is no focus on criminal convictions at all, and offenders in the neighborhood therefore cannot be treated more harshly than their counterparts in the conventional prosecution scenario.”  Id. at 9.

      [80].   Id. at 10 (“Chief prosecutors can avoid [the failure to treat like cases alike] by expanding their community prosecution initiative jurisdiction-wide.”).

      [81].   See What Have We Learned From Evaluations of Community Prosecution?, Bureau of Just. Assistance, http://www.ojp.usdoj.gov/BJA
/evaluation/program-adjudication/comm-prosecution2.htm (last visited Feb. 13, 2012) (“There has been some disagreement within the field regarding the goals and objectives of prosecution generally and how to measure its accomplishments. . . . [A]s of yet there have been no strong, systematic evaluations undertaken to assess the performance of community prosecution initiatives.”).

      [82].   Leslie C. Griffin, The Prudent Prosecutor, 14 Geo. J. Legal Ethics 259, 261 (2001).

      [83].   Cf. Robert Jackson, The Federal Prosecutor, 24 J. Am. Judicature Soc’y 18, 18–20 (1940) (encouraging prosecutors to use their discretion in an ethical and moral manner).

      [84].   Angela J. Davis, Arbitrary Justice: The Power of the American Prosecutor 3–16, 176–77 (2007); Susan Bandes, Loyalty to One’s Convictions: The Prosecutor and Tunnel Vision, 49 How. L.J. 475, 494 (2006); Stephanos Bibas, Transparency and Participation in Criminal Procedure, 81 N.Y.U. L. Rev. 911, 917 (2006); Keith A. Findley & Michael S. Scott, The Multiple Dimensions of Tunnel Vision in Criminal Cases, 2006 Wis. L. Rev. 291, 391; Daniel S. Medwed, The Zeal Deal: Prosecutorial Resistance to Post-Conviction Claims of Innocence, 84 B.U. L. Rev. 125, 177–78 (2004).

      [85].   Dan M. Kahan & Tracey L. Meares, Foreword: The Coming Crisis of Criminal Procedure, 86 Geo. L.J. 1153, 1166–71 (1998); Tracey L. Meares, Norms, Legitimacy and Law Enforcement, 79 Or. L. Rev. 391, 410 (2000).

      [86].   Kahan & Meares, supra note 85, at 1177–80.

      [87].   Livingston, supra note 6, at 664–65; see also Reenah L. Kim, Legitimizing Community Consent to Local Policing: The Need for Democratically Negotiated Community Representation on Civilian Advisory Councils, 36 Harv. C.R.-C.L. L. Rev. 461, 476–82 (2001) (summarizing arguments that community partnerships serve as police oversight).

      [88].   See Kim, supra note 87, at 462.

      [89].   Jerome E. McElroy et al., Community Policing: The CPOP in New York 3–4 (1993) (noting that the term community is “imprecise” and can be “idealized”).

      [90].   See supra note 32 and accompanying text.

      [91].   Jerome H. Skolnick & James J. Fyfe, Above the Law: Police and the Excessive Use of Force 254 (1993) (noting that communities are rare if defined as having “a commonality of interests, traditions, identities, values, and expectations”); McElroy, supra note 89 (“Virtually all commentators agree that the concept of ‘community’ as used in the rhetoric of community policing is imprecise . . . and largely uninformed by a century of sociological usage and study.”).

      [92].   See Edward Glenn Goetz, Clearing the Way: Deconcentrating the Poor in Urban America 71, 86–87 (2003) (identifying expenses as significant barriers to voluntary relocation).

      [93].   See Regina Austin, “The Black Community,” Its Lawbreakers, and a Politics of Identification, 65 S. Cal. L. Rev. 1769, 1770–71 (1992); David Cole,Foreword: Discretion and Discrimination Reconsidered: A Response to the New Criminal Justice Scholarship, 87 Geo. L.J. 1059, 1085 (1999) (“[I]nner-city communities, like all communities, do not speak with one voice . . . .”); Tracey L. Meares, Place and Crime, 73 Chi.-Kent L. Rev. 669, 689 (1998); Eric K. Yamamoto,The Color Fault Lines: Asian American Justice from 2000, 8 Asian L.J. 153, 157–58 (2001) (discussing “color on color” conflicts).

      [94].   Adriaan Lanni, The Future of Community Justice, 40 Harv. C.R.-C.L. L. Rev. 359, 402 (2005) (“[C]riminal justice policies are largely imposed on underrepresented inner city communities by middle-class politicians and citizens who may have a radically different experience of crime and law enforcement.”).

      [95].   See Burke, supra note 8, at 1006–07; Kim, supra note 87, at 482.

      [96].   Kim, supra note 87, at 483.

      [97].   John S. Goldkamp et al., Bureau of Justice Assistance, Community Prosecution Strategies: Measuring Impact 2 (2002) (“The immediate origins of the community prosecution movement are often traced to the pioneering efforts of Multnomah County District Attorney (DA) Michael Schrunk, who established the Neighborhood DA Unit in Portland, Oregon, in 1990 in response to business leaders’ concerns that quality-of-life crimes would impede development of a central business district.”).

      [98].   Neighborhood DA Unit, Office of the Dist. Att’y,  http://www2.co.multnomah.or.us/cfm/da/NDAP/index.cfm?fuseaction=overview&menu=1 (last visited Feb. 11, 2012) (noting financial support from federal and local government, the local transportation agency, and local businesses).

      [99].   See Michael E. Buerger, A Tale of Two Targets: Limitations of Community Anticrime Actions, in Community Justice: An Emerging Field 137, 137–38 (David R. Karp ed., 1998); Wesley G. Skogan, Community Organizations and Crime, in 10 Crime and Justice: A Review of Research 39, 68 (Michael Tonry & Norval Morris eds., 1988) (concluding that residents are more likely to organize in “homogeneous, better-off areas of cities”).  But see Wesley G. Skogan, Police and Community in Chicago: A Tale of Three Cities 137 (2006) (reporting that participation in Chicago community policing programs “was highest in the city’s most violent, drug-infested neighborhoods”).

    [100].   Randolph M. Grinc, “Angels in Marble”: Problems in Stimulating Community Involvement in Community Policing, 40 Crime & Delinq. 437, 442–45 (1994).

    [101].   Michelle Alexander, The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness 11–17 (rev. ed. 2012).

    [102].   Richard R.W. Brooks, Fear and Fairness in the City: Criminal Enforcement and Perceptions of Fairness in Minority Communities, 73 S. Cal. L. Rev. 1219, 1227 (2000) (“Community tension with and distrust of police may rise with more aggressive policing of low-level offenses.”); Debra Livingston, Gang Loitering, the Court, and Some Realism about Police Patrol, 1999 Sup. Ct. Rev. 141, 178 (“[E]ven when properly employed, aggressive use of stop and frisk can alienate and estrange communities in ways that ultimately detract from, rather than contribute to, the maintenance of a vibrant civil order.”).

    [103].   See Virginia v. Moore, 553 U.S. 164 (2008) (holding that a custodial arrest for a misdemeanor was valid even when the state legislature had designated the crime a non-arrestable crime); Atwater v. City of Lago Vista, 532 U.S. 318 (2001) (holding that a custodial arrest for a seatbelt offense was lawful, even though the maximum penalty was a fine, not imprisonment, because the offense was designated a crime by the legislature).

    [104].   City of Riverside v. McLaughlin, 500 U.S. 44, 56 (1991).

    [105].   See Whren v. United States, 517 U.S. 806, 816–19 (1996) (upholding police seizure of a driver who had committed a minor traffic offense and holding that the officer’s subjective intentions for the seizure were immaterial).

    [106].   See generally Chimel v. California, 395 U.S. 752 (1969).

    [107].   Tracey L. Meares, Social Organization and Drug Law Enforcement, 35 Am. Crim. L. Rev. 191, 215–17 (1998) (discussing the concept of “linked fate,” both in people generally as they consider how government policies affect family and friends, and specifically by African Americans, who feel a connection even to Black strangers because of shared circumstances that have been shaped historically by race).

    [108].   See Grinc, supra note 100, at 456 (reporting that even the neighborhood group leaders who were most knowledgeable about community justice programs did not understand the community’s role in them).

    [109].   Cole, supra note 93, at 1088 (observing that inner-city residents might prefer expensive alternatives that the larger community is unwilling to pay for); Erik G. Luna, The Models of Criminal Procedure, 2 Buff. Crim. L. Rev. 389, 453 (1999) (“Inner-city minorities have opted for discretionary policing techniques not on the merits but because society at large refuses to provide adequate resources to safeguard urban communities.”).

    [110].   See Mastrofski & Willis, supra note 10, at 113 (citing William Lyons, The Politics of Community Policing: Rearranging the Power to Punish (1999)) (noting that a study of community policing programs in Seattle concluded that, despite early progress in developing “participatory and deliberative democracy,” the programs ultimately became “less a two-way communications mechanism than a means to garner community acquiescence to police priorities and acceptance of police-generated programs”).

    [111].   Albert W. Alschuler & Stephen J. Schulhofer, Antiquated Procedures or Bedrock Rights?: A Response to Professors Meares and Kahan, 1998 U. Chi. Legal F. 215, 216 (1998).

    [112].   Livingston, supra note 6, at 577.

    [113].   Roundtable, Law and Disorder: Is Effective Law Enforcement Inconsistent with Good Police-Community Relations?, 28 Fordham Urb. L.J. 363, 366 (2000) (comments of Paul Chevigny).

    [114].   Robert Weisberg, Foreword: A New Agenda for Criminal Procedure, 2 Buff. Crim. L. Rev. 367, 370 (1999).

    [115].   Lanni, supra note 94, at 369–70.

    [116].   Berger v. United States, 295 U.S. 78, 88 (1935); Model Rules of Prof’l Conduct R. 3.8 cmt. 1 (2009); Model Code of Prof’l Responsibility EC 7-13 (1980); ABA Standards, supra note 64, § 3-1.2(c).

    [117].   Devin J. Doolan, Jr., Community Prosecution: A Revolution in Crime Fighting, 51 Cath. U. L. Rev. 547, 547–48 (2002).

    [118].   Gray, supra note 77, at 206.

    [119].   Susan A. Bandes, Child Rape, Moral Outrage, and the Death Penalty, 103 Nw. U. L. Rev. Colloquy 17, 21 (2008), http://www.law.northwestern.edu
/lawreview/colloquy/2008/27/lrcoll2008n27bandes.pdf (noting the connection between fear and the public’s retributive impulses); Francis T. Cullen, Bonnie S. Fisher & Brandon K. Applegate, Public Opinion about Punishment and Corrections, in 27 Crime and Justice: A Review of Research 1 (Michael Tonry ed., 2000) (assessing public opinion about punishment); cf. Thompson, supra note 4, at 348, 353–54 (“Some might contend that placing too much emphasis on community sentiment could undermine the detachment the prosecutor needs in order to exercise discretion and fulfill the role of minister of justice. . . . [A]ny design of a community program must take into account the delicate balance between appropriate respect for and cooperation with the community on the one hand and the risk of ceding undue control to (or simply being perceived as having ceded undue control) to community members on the other.”).

    [120].   The rhetoric of “zero tolerance” has been traced to Ronald Reagan’s escalation of the war on drugs.  See Diana R. Gordon, The Return of the Dangerous Classes: Drug Prohibition and Policy Politics 199 (1994); Andrew B. Whitford & Jeff Yates, Presidential Rhetoric and the Public Agenda: Constructing the War on Drugs 55–63 (2009).  Since then, policy makers have adopted “zero tolerance” policies in response to a broad array of public concerns.  See Bernard E. Harcourt, Illusion of Order: The False Promise of Broken Windows Policing 2 (2001) (street crime and minor offenses); J. Richard Chema, Arresting “Tailhook”: The Prosecution of Sexual Harassment in the Military, 140 Mil. L. Rev. 1 (1993) (sexual harassment in the military following the highly publicized Tailhook scandal); Fairfax, supra note 69, at 1258 n.56 (domestic violence); Michael Pinard, From the Classroom to the Courtroom: Reassessing Fourth Amendment Standards in Public School Searches Involving Law Enforcement Authorities, 45 Ariz. L. Rev. 1067, 1069 (2003) (school violence); Cara Suvall, Restorative Justice in Schools: Learning from Jena High School, 44 Harv. C.R.-C.L. L. Rev. 547, 551 (2009) (“[Z]ero tolerance policies have expanded to include a wider range of student behavior including other violence, bullying, threatening, use of profanity, alcohol or tobacco consumption, and other offenses.”).

    [121].   See supra note 84.

    [122].   Goldkamp et al., supra note 97, at 7 (“[C]ommunity prosecutors can offer the legal expertise and authority to bring creative community policing solutions to fruition.”).

    [123].   The Effect of State Ethics Rules on Federal Law Enforcement: Hearing Before the Subcomm. on Criminal Justice Oversight of the S. Comm. on the Judiciary, 106th Cong. 53 (1999) (testimony of John Smietanka, former prosecutor) (stating that “[t]ime, money and, to some unfortunate extent, a cultural chasm” prevent prosecutors from “meaningful participation” in bar activities); Stanley Z. Fisher, In Search of the Virtuous Prosecutor: A Conceptual Framework, 15 Am. J. Crim. L. 197, 208 (1988) (noting that prosecutors tend to be isolated from groups who might encourage empathy for defendants, while surrounded by populations “who can graphically establish that the defendant deserves punishment, and who have no reason to be concerned with competing values of justice”).

    [124].   See Levine, supra note 34, at 1173–74 (documenting prosecutorial wariness of the “social work components” of California’s community-based Statutory Rape Vertical Prosecution Program).

    [125].   See David Kennedy, Drugs, Race and Common Ground: Reflections on the High Point Intervention, Nat’l Inst. Just. J., March 2009, at 12 (2009).

    [126].   Id. at 12–13.

    [127].   Id. at 13.

    [128].   Id.

    [129].   Id. at 15.

    [130].   Id. at 12–13.

    [131].   Id. at 16.

    [132].   See Lanni, supra note 94, at 362 (“The result [of community justice programs] is a two-tiered system in which minor and serious crimes are addressed through separate procedures with entirely different assumptions about what crime is and what punishment ought to accomplish.”); Levine, supra note 34, at 1173–74 (noting culture divide between traditional and community-based prosecutors).

    [133].   See Lanni, supra note 94, at 362–63 (“There is . . . a plausible rationale for diverting minor offenders from the traditional criminal justice process . . . .  But if the community justice movement aims to enhance the legitimacy of the criminal justice system as a whole by fostering popular participation and making law enforcement responsive to local community needs, community justice initiatives must address the crimes that make up the mainstream criminal docket.”).

    [134].   See Thompson, supra note 4, at 361 (“Those informed by a vision of community prosecution believe that prosecutors should make regular efforts to learn from those they serve, to explain choices they may be considering or find themselves pursuing, and to hold themselves more transparently accountable for their policies, decisions, and record.”).

    [135].   This two-tiered system might be seen as an application of Norval Morris’s philosophy of limiting retribution, which provides that the principle of just deserts should define the outer limits of an offense’s punishment, but that society may pursue utilitarian objectives within the permissible range.  See generally Norval Morris, The Future of Imprisonment 73–75 (1974); Norval Morris, Madness and the Criminal Law 199 (1982); Norval Morris & Michael Tonry, Between Prison and Probation: Intermediate Punishments in a Rational Sentencing System 84 (1990).  The authors thank David Yellen for this point.

    [136].   History of Community Prosecution, supra note 1.

    [137].   See Bibas, supra note 84, at 911.

    [138].   See Fairfax, supra note 69, at 1256–58; Medwed, supra note 84, at 177–78; Fred C. Zacharias & Bruce A. Green, The Duty to Avoid Wrongful Convictions: A Thought Experiment in the Regulation of Prosecutors, 89 B.U. L. Rev. 1, 18 (2009).

    [139].   Davis, supra note 84, at 176–77; Bibas, supra note 84, at 949; Ronald F. Wright & Marc L. Miller, The Worldwide Accountability Deficit for Prosecutors, 67 Wash. & Lee L. Rev. 1587, 1589 (2010).

    [140].   Sanford C. Gordon & Gregory A. Huber, Citizen Oversight and the Electoral Incentives of Criminal Prosecutors, 46 Am. J. Pol. Sci. 334, 336 (2002); Daniel C. Richman, Old Chief v. United States: Stipulating Away Prosecutorial Accountability?, 83 Va. L. Rev. 939, 963 (1997); Ronald F. Wright, How Prosecutor Elections Fail Us, 6 Ohio St. J. Crim. L. 581, 583 (2009).

    [141].   Alafair S. Burke, Improving Prosecutorial Decision Making: Some Lessons of Cognitive Science, 47 Wm. & Mary L. Rev. 1587, 1621 (2006); Findley & Scott, supra note 84, at 391.

    [142].   Green & Zacharias, supra note 36, at 840–41, 902 (“Discretion pervades every aspect of [prosecutors’] work, including investigations, charging and plea bargaining, trials, sentencing, and responding to postconviction events. . . . The practical realities of the criminal justice system, including the sheer volume of cases that need to be disposed of, to a large extent require society to trust prosecutors to make decisions in the right way and on the right grounds.” (citations omitted)).

    [143].   Id. at 902 (“Prosecutors would be far less effective if their work were transparent.  Full transparency might also compromise the safety and privacy of agents, witnesses, and others.”).

    [144].   Recommendation for Dismissal, supra note 63, at 1–3.

    [145].   Green & Zacharias, supra note 36, at 903 (“Prosecutors’ limited public accountability might be acceptable, or at least more acceptable, if there were well-established normative standards governing prosecutors’ discretionary decision-making. . . . [There is] a need for deeper thinking by prosecutors and for a public articulation of clearer first- and second-order principles that can guide prosecutors’ decisions.”).

GreenBurke_LawReview_9.12

By: Ben David*

Introduction

I am a North Carolina prosecutor.[1]  I speak for the dead in murder trials and dismiss registration violations in traffic court.  I advise police officers in station houses and listen to cooperating criminals in holding cells.  When a crime affects us all, I am the conscience for the community, and I give victims a voice at the courthouse.  I have been given a vast amount of responsibility, and much is expected of me in return.

I am a graduate of Wake Forest University School of Law.  Like most of my classmates, I went to work in private practice and was fortunate to work for a top firm that provided invaluable mentoring.[2]  Three years into my legal career, I was able to pay off my student loans while also getting two jury trials under my belt.  Like many fellow alumni,[3] I took to heart Wake Forest’s motto of Pro Humanitate[4] meaning “for humanity” and gave up the promise of financial riches in the private sector to become a public servant.

I am an elected official.  I am required to simultaneously build alliances with power brokers while making sure that justice applies evenly to everyone without regard to political affiliation.  The campaign trail has taken me to every quarter of my community, from million-dollar homes on Wrightsville Beach, to farms deep in rural Pender County, and to community centers in public housing projects.

Additionally, I am the president-elect of the North Carolina Conference of District Attorneys.[5]  The Conference holds monthly executive committee meetings where we hear the concerns of the other forty-three elected district attorneys, and we are able to get a view of how justice is served across North Carolina.  Like all district attorneys, I am keenly aware that our image has taken a hit over the last five years in both the courthouse and the court of public opinion.  Following the Duke lacrosse case, we are in an era where prosecutors have seemingly been put on trial[6] as often as the defendants they are trying, and where criminal defense attorneys have dubbed themselves “advocates for justice.”

I sit on the Chief Justice’s Commission on Professionalism and have been asked to chair the mentoring committee.  As many decry the loss of civility and training for new attorneys in our profession, Chief Justice Sarah Parker has realized that, as district attorneys, we often run the largest “law firms” in our communities.  Few people have a greater opportunity to mentor law students and new lawyers and to help shape the face of the legal community than district attorneys.  Additionally, few areas of the legal profession are in greater need of the best and brightest young lawyers than prosecutors’ offices.

The way forward for our profession, and specifically for prosecutors, is to embrace education and to move toward a model that puts the community at the center of everything that we do.  We must remain deeply committed to individuals but must also look at the overall legal system.  To be effective, we must be more than great trial lawyers—we have to be problem solvers.

At its core, community-based justice takes an inside-out approach to interacting with the community.  As prosecutors, there is a dance we do with the people we represent—we are shaped by the community we live in and are also able to help shape that community by sending messages through policies, verdicts, and outreach efforts.  While district attorneys are selected through partisan elections, our policies and actions should not be shaped by political considerations.  Rather, we must stay loyal to our oath; our actions should be guided by upholding the law and doing what is right, and not by popular opinion or political pressure.

My district is unique in that there is a large geographic and cultural divide between the two counties I represent.  New Hanover County has approximately two hundred thousand people, including many transplants from other places, but the county is the second smallest county in the state.[7]  New Hanover County is bounded by beautiful beaches and a historic riverfront district and frequented by tens of thousands of tourists and college students at any given moment.  Conversely, Pender County has roughly fifty thousand people, primarily lifelong residents, and is spread out over a large geographic, rural area.[8]

This Essay has two Parts.  In Part I, I will explain how I work inside the system by keeping the focus on the community.  As the courthouse officials with the greatest amount of discretion,[9] and as some of the only prosecutors in the country with calendaring authority,[10] North Carolina prosecutors have the opportunity to set the tone for their areas.  Yet, that power must be shared and used gracefully as we build relationships with others at the courthouse and look holistically at issues to maximize effectiveness.

In Part II, I will focus on going outside the system to work with others in the community on issues that cannot be solved at the courthouse alone.  I will highlight a great social issue that has been years in the making and is bigger than any of us: race and justice and disproportionate minority contact with the criminal justice system.  It is a problem that can be confronted through a community-based approach that may offer some hope for bringing about long-term solutions.  I will also explore how education holds the key to effective community outreach and the role that law schools could play in helping to shape the legal system through an outreach effort to district attorneys’ offices.

I.  Inside the System

District attorneys do not represent individuals—we represent whole communities.  Under the North Carolina Constitution, district attorneys are responsible for trying each district’s criminal cases as well as advising law enforcement officers.[11]  Few people have a better opportunity to set the tone for their area than the district attorney.  In my community of just over 250,000 people, there are over nine hundred officers in twenty different police agencies.  These officers send five thousand felonies, twenty thousand misdemeanors, and fifty thousand traffic offenses across my desk each year.[12]  That translates to thirty percent of the community coming into the courthouse annually.  The manner in which these cases are resolved contributes to the public’s perception of justice in our area.

My office’s mission is to protect the public through fair and efficient enforcement of the laws.  To achieve this objective, my office prioritizes cases to ensure that violent crimes and career criminals are our primary focus.  Broadly speaking, we look for efficiencies within district court (where misdemeanors are handled) and superior court (where felonies are handled) to ensure that justice is swift and, when appropriate, severe.  We work closely with law enforcement officers and other courthouse actors with the goal of seeing both defendants and victims walk away from the courthouse feeling that they were treated fairly.

To be effective, I cannot operate in a vacuum but have to reach out to members of the bench and bar.  I know that our office belongs not to me, but to everyone who walks into the courthouse.  Within a month of taking office, I invited the entire courthouse community—including judges, defense attorneys, bailiffs, and clerks—to the district attorney’s office for an open house around the holidays.  To my surprise, this group not only accepted my invitation, but has come back every year since.

I have found that the essence of professionalism is civility.  Opposing advocates in the criminal justice system serve different roles and purposes, but can exercise mutual respect in dealings.  It is in everyone’s shared interest to leave battles at the courtroom door.  The people in my office have attempted to keep an open dialogue, understanding that the vast majority of cases are resolved through plea negotiations where both sides need to be reasonable and have all the facts in order to resolve the cases.

We have also come to see that the problems we encounter cannot be solved alone.  There are some issues where defense attorneys, judges, and prosecutors can find common ground—everyone wants justice, fairness, and efficiency.  To confront these issues, I meet quarterly in a working group with the Chief District Court Judge, Resident Superior Court Judge, Chief Public Defender, and Elected Clerk of Court in a “Judicial Quarterly Review.”[13]  The judges produce courtroom utilization statistics for the prior three months.  County commissioners are invited to the meeting to hear from a sheriff’s liaison working in my office how inmates are monitored daily at the jail by a sheriff’s liaison working in my office.  Demonstrating this accountability to financial stakeholders and showing our ability to work together to efficiently run the courts have made local funding for our justice system much easier to obtain.

One scholar has referred to community-based prosecution as the process of democratization and decentralization.[14]  That is an apt description, as evidenced by the Judicial Quarterly Review.  But to me, community-based prosecution refers to more than getting a group together to work on areas of shared concern.  It involves being purposeful about how the public is brought into the system as witnesses, victims, and defendants.  It also means being intentional about the messages that are sent back to the community through the handling of cases.

Let there be no confusion: district attorneys must remain independent when seeking justice.  The notion of the “good old boys” network is an example of how collectively deciding justice at the courthouse can lead to abuse.  However, there are instances where the district attorney should work with a larger group of courthouse officials, especially when it involves the efficiency of the system and the creation of specialty courts.

In my district, I have established, either independently or in the courthouse working group, a number of policies to put the public at the center of the process.  This community-centered process occurs through the disposition of felonies at the superior court level, the resolution of misdemeanor and traffic offenses at the district court level, applying a mechanism for advising law enforcement, and finally, applying policies within the district attorney’s office to collectively carry out the mission of community-based prosecution.

A.     Superior Court

In the purest form, the community is able to speak in the justice system through jury verdicts.  Statewide, however, a significant majority of superior court cases are resolved through pleas or dismissals.[15]  That means that the few, egregious cases that make it in front of juries must achieve the goal of sending clear messages.  Our office is driven by the motto that we try the worst defendants who commit the worst crimes.  That translates to trying defendants with serious criminal records and defendants who have committed offenses that have caused the most harm to individuals or society.

North Carolina is one of the thirty-two states where crime victims have a bill of rights imbedded in the constitution.[16]  Being responsive to these victims is a high priority for the victim/witness legal assistants (“VWLAs”) and the prosecutors who work in my office.  When a violent crime occurs—like rape, armed robbery, or serious assault—my office moves quickly to reach out to victims and give them a voice in the process.  This does not, however, mean giving the victims control.  We take the responsibility to remain objective and occasionally be the bearers of bad news (such as when a case has to be pled down or dismissed, or alternatively, when we insist on going forward when a victim is reluctant to do so) in order to see that justice is served.  This is particularly true in murder cases where the victim is not available to speak for him or herself.  Homicide prosecutions are far more likely to go to trial than other types of offenses because the stakes are so high.[17]

It is not only the defendants in homicide cases who receive the highest priorities in my office; the family members of the deceased are also a high priority.  To shepherd them through the bizarre and unfamiliar process of a trial, we established the Homicide Family Support Group.[18]  The group gathers monthly with the prosecutors who handle the cases in a meeting that is one part informational and nine parts therapy.  No one is in a better position to counsel a grieving family who recently experienced the loss of a loved one through a brutal murder or vehicular tragedy than a family who had a similar loss and went through the court process.  Prosecutors and VWLAs are there to answer general questions about the road ahead without discussing the confidential, specific facts of each case until individual meetings.  When the cases go to trial, it is not uncommon for the whole group to attend in support of the family.  Immense healing takes place and trust is built during these meetings.  This program is now being replicated throughout the country.

Murder cases are often high-profile cases that receive public scrutiny.  Nevertheless, for victims whose cases do not receive media attention, our duty to seek justice is just as important.  Just as no one is above the law, no one is beneath its protection.  While it has frequently been said that “bad things happen to good people,” we far more frequently encounter victims who were engaged in criminal conduct at the time of their victimization.  When a prostitute gets raped or a drug dealer gets killed, it is our responsibility to reach out to these victims and their families just as we would any other victim of crime.  As will be discussed in greater detail, victims and witnesses are far more likely to come forward if they know that they can get justice at the courthouse regardless of their status. Simultaneously, we hope that the community, through its verdicts, comes to uphold the principle of equal protection under the law.

We also identify drug traffickers and dealers for vigorous prosecution.  While the consensual sale of illegal substances may seem, on the surface, to be a victimless crime, the reality is far different.  Apart from the fact that many users ultimately destroy or end their lives through drug use, the community immediately surrounding the drug trade often suffers collateral damage.  This is especially true in economically depressed areas and public housing projects.[19]  My office views these neighborhoods not as “high crime areas” but as “high victim areas.”  Drugs are the fuel for the engine of violent crime and often lead to turf wars, armed home invasions, and the formation of street gangs.  These secondary consequences of the drug trade can destroy whole neighborhoods.

My office not only seeks maximum justice in state court for these cases but, where appropriate, takes these cases into the federal system.  Five years ago I formed a partnership with the United States Attorney for the Eastern District of North Carolina, George Holding,[20] to apply for grant funding to allow my office to hire a senior prosecutor to be cross sworn to handle drug cases in the federal system.  The success of this partnership has been dramatic from the standpoint of prison years for serious offenders and the amount of weapons and drugs removed from the street.  Not only has the grant been renewed each year but the program is now being replicated by other district attorneys throughout the three federal districts of North Carolina.

B.     “H and I” Court

There are a great number of felony cases involving defendants who are not bad people, but rather, people who have made bad choices or have substance abuse problems.  For these nonviolent cases, usually involving property offenses and drug possession, the best disposition may not be found in superior court.  North Carolina established a law to resolve these low-level felonies in a special district court, without the need for indictment.[21]  Not all districts employ this court, sometimes named the “H and I court” after the classes of eligible offenses, but our district would scarcely be able to operate without it.

When one of the over five thousand felony cases comes to district court for a first appearance, every file is looked at by one of two career prosecutors who have a combined experience of over fifty-five years in our district.[22]  If the case clearly calls for grand jury indictment, the case is diverted to the rest of the team in the superior court division.  The remaining cases, typically over two thousand each year, are resolved in felony district court.[23]

There are two large benefits from the H and I court.  First, efficiency is greatly increased as minor cases bypass the grand jury, and superior court prosecutors are able to focus their time and resources on the violent and career criminals.  Second, many of the defendants whose cases are resolved through H and I court are given a chance to have either a misdemeanor or deferred prosecution that might not impair their ability to be productive members of society.[24]

C.     District Court

District court is frequently referred to as the “People’s Court,” and for good reason.  Every year thousands of cases come through the door, including minor traffic offenses, property offenses, underage drinking, and assaults.  Nearly all of these cases are initiated by police agencies, though North Carolina law allows for private citizens to charge each other.[25]  Assistant district attorneys encounter hundreds of cases each day and have to make quick decisions about how the community gets justice.  Setting priorities and managing time become central to effective prosecution in district court.

There are two classes of misdemeanor cases that kill people: impaired driving and domestic violence.  In the Fifth District we average over three thousand driving-while-impaired (“DWI”) cases annually and over one thousand cases of domestic violence, in addition to over seventy-five thousand other cases.[26]  Because these cases go to trial before a district court judge far more often than other types of cases, ensuring court time for these cases is challenging.

To help alleviate the problem of overcrowded dockets we filter out all of the minor traffic offenses.  In 1999, when I started as an assistant district attorney in New Hanover County, we implemented an “Administrative Traffic Court”[27] to handle compliance-based offenses (such as registration or inspection violations), moving violations (such as speeding or running a stop sign), and traffic accidents.  The court meets every Friday morning and handles anywhere from eight hundred to twelve hundred cases.  No judge sits on the bench and no officers are subpoenaed to court; instead, several prosecutors and VWLAs join with deputy clerks to encounter the masses.  In keeping with the priority of convicting the worst defendants, officers are advised not to set cases in traffic court that involve defendants with bad criminal histories or involve serious moving violations (such as DWI, driving during revocation, or reckless driving).

In traffic court, defendants are told that if they would like to contest their cases, or if they would like an attorney, the state will continue their matters to the officer’s court date.  Otherwise, they will be treated no differently than if they had a lawyer.  Depending on the violation, compliance-based offenses are typically dismissed upon proof of the driver having his car registered or inspected.  Those accused of moving violations are either sent to driving school, with a special emphasis on educating young drivers,[28] or dealt with through a disposition that allows defendants to pay fines and court costs.  Depending on their records, defendants charged with traffic accidents will either have their cases dismissed or be sent to driving school if they provide proof of insurance.  The vast majority of the community leaves court having had their cases disposed of within mere minutes (as opposed to hours if they were in district court), without the need for an attorney, and with the view that they were treated fairly.  The court has proven so successful that it became the law in October 2011.[29]

Because there is now more court time available to hear impaired driving cases, our district has set up a DWI court.  DWI cases either go to trial or plea because of our “no drop policy.”  As an additional issue, many defendants charged with these offenses have substance abuse issues.  We understand the reality of alcohol and drug abuse and the need to treat abusers rather than just incarcerate them, and have therefore sought to set aside time to bring in habitually impaired drivers and their family members to resolve their cases in a way that focuses on long-term probationary sentences.  This approach should not be viewed as going easy on crime—defendants who are convicted of impaired driving offenses will only serve about thirty days of a two-year sentence under current Department of Corrections policy.[30]  Rather, this approach protects the community through a focus on long-term treatment that may actually end the cycle of abuse.

Treatment courts understand that defendants with underlying substance abuse issues will continue to go through the revolving door of the criminal justice system if their dependency issues are not addressed.  Every two weeks, defendants stand before the same district court judge and, together with their probation officers, give an update on the defendant’s work history, treatment sessions, and drug test results.  The court often shows great latitude, but to get the defendant’s attention, the court may give defendants short jail sentences without revoking their probationary sentences.  After one year of living drug or alcohol free and complying with all of the standard terms of probation, defendants “graduate” from the program in an elaborate ceremony celebrated by all participants.  Judges and prosecutors have become so convinced of the value of this program that when state funding for the program was cut for the 2011-2012 fiscal year, county funding was obtained to continue the drug court’s operation.[31]

Domestic violence cases are among the most difficult in the court system.  Interfamily violence often remains hidden and is frequently only discovered after a major crime of violence occurs.  In 2004,[32] I created a family violence unit in our office that consists of two full-time prosecutors and a VWLA working with three detectives who are housed within the same office.  Victims are told about our unit when they go to the courthouse to obtain a civil domestic violence protective order.  Victims are counseled about the availability of a twenty-four-hour domestic violence shelter, and detectives investigate whether criminal violations have occurred.  The unit is on hand to follow up with photographs of injuries and collect physical evidence to preserve for future use at trial.  Following up and following through on these cases—especially with reluctant victims—has greatly increased law enforcement’s ability to hold offenders accountable and to prevent future, possibly more serious interfamily violence.

District court is also the venue for resolving juvenile offenses.  The severity of some of these crimes, including rape and murder, requires prosecutors to bind juveniles over to superior court to be tried as adults.  North Carolina is one of only two states where sixteen is the age of juvenile jurisdiction, so binding a young person over is rare, even with the most serious offenses.[33]  Far more common are cases, even involving young adults attending area high schools and colleges, which scream to be resolved through teachable moments that should not lead to a criminal record.[34]  For first-time offenders of nonviolent misdemeanors, we created Teen Court in 2000.  Cases are diverted from the juvenile justice system and put in Teen Court where every participant, including the prosecutor, defense attorney, and members of the jury, is also a teenager.  The only adult in the process is an attorney serving as the judge.  To qualify for Teen Court, the defendant must admit liability so that the “trial” is really a protracted sentencing proceeding where the jury is given a range of options for a community-based punishment.  The numbers show that Teen Court has reduced recidivism and allowed many young people to learn about the justice system through a positive experience.[35]

While we work hard not to sacrifice effectiveness in the name of efficiency, we have put systems in place in the Fifth District to move the community through the courthouse so that minor cases may be resolved without tying up the time of judges, officers, and juries.  Court time in the district and superior court divisions is reserved for cases where justice cries out for a full airing of the facts in an open courtroom.  We temper justice with mercy and, where appropriate, place people on probation or defer prosecutions to keep their records clean.  In both treatment courts and administrative traffic court, our goal is to resolve underlying problems rather than brand a citizen a criminal.  For the defendants and offenses where that is not possible, we use our time and energy to impose the full measure of the law.

D.    Law Enforcement

As the “top cop” in the district, the district attorney has a great opportunity to shape the policies and procedures of the police agencies through the constitutional mandate to advise local law enforcement.[36]  In the Fifth District, there are over nine hundred sworn law enforcement officers in twenty different police agencies.  While many of these agencies have embraced the emerging national best practice of community-based policing,[37] I will briefly focus on the relationship that I try to maintain with members of law enforcement as we jointly uphold our respective oaths of serving and protecting the public and defending the North Carolina Constitution.

First and foremost, constant communication is vital in order to have our priorities on the street translate to priorities in the courtroom and vice versa.  To that end, I personally hold monthly lunches with the heads of all police agencies to give them legal updates, hear their concerns, and keep the lines of communication open between all the agencies.  Second, we employ technology to get daily updates about arrests from the night before through “Watch Commander’s Reports.”  Prosecutors use this information at the first-appearance stage to assist in setting bonds and calling for follow-up discovery.  Finally, law enforcement liaisons within my office call officers in emergency situations, or have them on standby, in the event they are needed for trial so that they can remain on the street until they are needed.

We employ a police-and-prosecutor team approach to fighting crime.  All officers have the contact information of my senior assistant district attorneys.  They can call at any time to get legal advice on substantive charges and procedural issues that arise in the course of their investigations and arrests.  I have a district attorney investigator who is sworn to assist the police agencies with follow-up investigation and to bridge the gap between the probable cause for arrest and the proof beyond a reasonable doubt necessary for a conviction.  Additionally, prosecutors and investigators in my office visit crime scenes and go on ride-alongs to see firsthand the conditions on the street.

Training is also an essential component, and we attend lineups and conduct mock trials for basic law enforcement training.  A push is currently in place to have elected district attorneys and senior assistant district attorneys become certified as law enforcement instructors.[38]  Teaching officers good habits at the beginning of their career engrains in them the culture of doing justice and not simply convicting at all costs.  It is unquestionably better for the system if defendants’ rights are upheld at the time of search and arrest rather than if evidence is suppressed—and the community’s confidence compromised—because of an unconstitutional application of the law.

Despite the close working relationship between my office and law enforcement, we must always assure the community that we are independent agencies with separate functions.  When an officer has “tarnished the badge” by committing a crime, he is prosecuted by my office in the same manner as any other defendant.  Off-duty criminal conduct by officers is not tolerated by either my office or the larger law enforcement community, and those defendants receive no preferential treatment.

When an officer commits a crime or becomes the victim of a crime in the performance of his or her duties, public scrutiny becomes especially intense.  In these types of cases, which typically involve use of force or high-speed pursuit, a certain Bermuda Triangle is formed between the district attorney, the officer and his colleagues, and the community, as perceptions form over whether justice can truly be done.  Different factions may scream for leniency or maximum punishment, reactions based more on agendas and relationships than the facts of the case.  In these situations, the key for building and keeping trust among all parties is to remain independent and transparent while maintaining a commitment to doing the right thing.

Protocol never changes for cases that involve the law enforcement family.  When an officer is the victim or defendant in a serious felony, I call for an outside investigation by the State Bureau of Investigation (“SBI”).  If felony charges are to be lodged against an officer, they come not from prosecutors but from the grand jury.[39]  The same is true when a defendant is charged in the death of an officer.[40]  While these cases divide the community, it is the community who ultimately speaks through its verdicts.  Finally, when there are no charges and no grand jury is impaneled, I release a detailed synopsis of the investigation to the press and invite a member of the deceased’s family and his or her attorney to review the complete file and interview the lead SBI agent.[41]  While it would be easy to duck from the responsibility of handling these controversial cases, I personally involve myself in their prosecution and only refer the case to an outside prosecutorial authority in extraordinary circumstances.[42]

Ultimately, cases are only as strong as the investigations brought to the courthouse.  Therefore, it is vitally important for prosecutors to be engaged in the training of police and to maintain an open line of communication with them.  This close working relationship cannot, however, degrade the independence that each agency must have in the performance of its respective duties.  When officers enter the criminal justice system as victims or defendants, the community must be put in the middle of that relationship in order for public trust to be maintained.  Finally, the community is made a partner in finding solutions to the problems that police and prosecutors encounter in their jobs

E.         Inside the District Attorney’s Office

The district attorney’s office in the Fifth District is actually the largest “law firm” in our area.  In fact, you would have to travel two hours up the road to New Bern or to Raleigh to find a larger collection of lawyers in one office.  With just over forty people, evenly divided between attorneys and staff, our policies and practices help set the tone for the larger legal community—a group of over seven hundred attorneys in Wilmington alone.

Getting everyone in my office on the same page of community-based prosecution is a purposeful effort that takes many forms.  First, we employ a philosophy that respects everyone’s views in the office, regardless of status or level of experience.  We run on the principle that “nothing is above you and nothing is beneath you.”  That means that both the most senior assistant district attorney and the newest VWLA are expected to be responsive to the public by returning calls the same business day, fielding citizen concerns and complaints as they arise, and engaging with all aspects of our community.  It also means that there is no hierarchy in taking on a terrifying amount of responsibility in big cases.

To give everyone a shared sense of the mission of the office, everyone reads and signs an eight-page employee manual that lays out our expectations.  Employees are reminded that they represent the office at all times—at work during the business day, at home, and out in the community when the work day is over.  We enforce five core values: respect, honesty, responsibility, transparency, and trust.  Everyone rereads and signs this manual annually just before he or she receives a yearly employee performance appraisal.

On Monday mornings I hold a weekly meeting with the entire office to give individuals the opportunity to share information with the larger team.  The meeting begins with the assistant district attorneys and VWLAs giving a summary of the cases they resolved, through trial or plea, from the week before.  I have found that this gives the whole office ownership of these cases and gives accountability to the individuals who handled each case.  Praise is given in public, and any problems that surface during this process, such as courts breaking down early or unacceptable handling of cases, are addressed in private.  We also look at the week ahead and discuss the cases and events in the community that everyone should anticipate.  People step up to cover different courts or community events so that everyone in the office stays connected to the idea that he or she individually has a stake in the whole.

I also hold a Thursday morning meeting with the attorneys to prevent silos from developing and discuss issues with calendaring and court coverage.  There are six work groups by case type: violent crimes, drug offenses, property and financial crimes, motor vehicle offenses, sex crimes, and domestic violence.  The attorneys also jointly analyze the legal complexities that arise in some of their cases and seek each other’s advice.  Cases are sometimes reassigned at these meetings, or someone may volunteer to be a second chair to assist with trial preparation.  Attorneys take ownership by understanding that all the cases belong to the office and at any time they may be called on to handle, or assist in handling, a matter even if it falls outside their assigned areas.

Managing attorneys is a notoriously difficult task.  While some have referred to it as “herding cats,” I believe it is, as former President Bill Clinton said of being president, more like “running a cemetery; you’ve got a lot of people under you and nobody’s listening.”[43]  I respect the views of coequal professionals and do not bog them down with numerous written policies or micromanagement by senior staff.  Instead, everyone is vested with a large amount of discretion, and he is told that he should not act unless he would feel comfortable explaining his actions (such as plea offers he has made or advice to law enforcement he has given) to the community we all represent.

The lifeblood of my office is the people who work in it.  To recruit the best and brightest attorneys and staff, my office is very intentional about the intern program we have established.  Years ago I partnered with the local university, University of North Carolina Wilmington, to allow third- and fourth-year students to obtain course credit if they extern for 150 hours a semester in our office.  Each fall and spring semester, college interns are paired with individual VWLA mentors to carry out support staff tasks.  Many alumni of this program have gone on to law school or have been hired by our office as full-time employees upon graduation.

For law school students, we have set up a summer internship program that brings a mix of rising second- and third-year students.  Second-year law students are partnered with assistant district attorneys at the superior court level and assist with case preparation and legal research and writing.  Third-year law students get certified for the third-year practice and are partnered with assistant district attorneys at the district court level to assist in running the court.  Third years are also able to try some misdemeanor cases.  Because of the great demand for our intern program, and so that students’ experiences are not diluted—we have divided the summer into two sessions and have no more than ten law students working in the office at any given time.  Most of my assistant district attorneys have come through this program, and at least ten former interns have found placement in other districts.

We try to connect the undergraduate and law student interns to the larger courthouse working group and community we serve.  At the beginning of the summer, for example, I host a welcome reception in my backyard where students are able to mingle with judges, clerks, law enforcement officers, and defense attorneys before they begin their work.  Throughout the internship experience, we also send students on field trips to see the larger community.  These experiences include going to the jail, traveling to the SBI crime laboratory in Raleigh, touring a local drug treatment center, meeting with court advocates at the domestic violence center, and going to a shooting range with sheriff’s deputies.

Just as it is vitally important for prosecutors to stay connected to others inside the system, it is at least as important for prosecutors within an office to stay connected to each other.  Being intentional about recruiting, retaining, and training has made it easier to promote the community-based prosecution model that I employ in the office.  Focusing on education allows my prosecutors to stay connected to the officers we advise through cross training and legal updates.  It also allows my prosecutors within the office to focus on the fundamentals of our profession and stay abreast.

Education is also the cornerstone of the work we do outside of the criminal justice system.  Ultimately, the biggest issues that confront prosecutors in the community are often solved or prevented in an educational setting.  It is to those efforts that I now turn.

II.  Outside the System

As a district attorney, part of my job is crime prevention.  To achieve this end, I try to meet at-risk youth where they live and have a conversation about choices and consequences before they get in trouble.  For victims, I encourage them to report their victimization to help break cycles of violence.

Community outreach is not a task that I do alone.  Every one of my employees is allowed to take every other Friday afternoon off if he or she volunteers two hours each week to work with individuals who are, or might be, potential victims or defendants.  On nights and weekends, members of my office serve in roles as diverse as being basketball coaches, being reading tutors, or answering calls at the twenty-four-hour rape crisis hotline.

We also target certain areas of our community for increased enforcement.  Take, for example, the downtown tourist area on the River Walk of the Cape Fear River.  With eighty bars, shops, and restaurants packed into a central business district that spans only a few blocks, it is easy to predict that there will be crime.  Preventing an impaired driver from causing fatalities through checkpoints pays immediate dividends.[44]  Bars that become crime magnets for repeated violations, such as underage drinking and bar fights, receive a letter from me that they are being monitored.[45]  If the lawlessness continues, I file a suit in civil court to close them down.[46]  This active participation in enforcement efforts has led to a large decrease in crime in our central business district.[47]

For the cases involving societal ills like domestic violence, sexual assaults, and child molestation, underreporting is a problem.  Breaking the well-documented cycle of abuse is at the core of my prevention strategy.  Left unchecked, the abuse continues and ultimately gets perpetuated onto the next generation.  Local efforts to break this cycle and establish a support network to bring these cases out of the shadows and into the sunlight receive my full attention.

Community outreach should be distinguished from attending political functions or becoming active only at the height of a political season.  On the contrary, winning public confidence is not an event; it is a process.  This is a new day in North Carolina where many of the elected DAs are constructing their offices from the ground up.[48]  The modern trend is for us to be less political, not more.[49]  Party labels should matter no more for the DAs[50] than the political parties of the victims and defendants who come through the system.  The fact that I have been unopposed in the last two elections is the ultimate vote of confidence and confirms that my office’s outreach efforts transcend the political arena.

Outreach at local schools is also important.  Since being elected district attorney, I have made yearly visits to every public middle school and high school in my district to talk to the students about being responsible and doing the right thing.  Eighth graders hear about bullying, dangers on the Internet, and saying no to drugs.  Twelfth graders also hear about some of these subjects, especially drug laws, while also receiving a good dose of real-world perspective regarding the laws surrounding driving and relationship violence.  I also devote several nights each year to meet every incoming freshman at both the University of North Carolina Wilmington and Cape Fear Community College to welcome them to a new community and introduce them to the expectations we have for them as adults.  While the content may vary based on the age of the crowd, my theme of being a leader is unwavering, and I try to give concrete examples that my audience is likely to encounter and encourage students to report crimes.  If students are being bullied at school or being touched inappropriately at home, they must report it.  If they have stumbled across an online predator, they should not try to ignore it; they must tell a parent.[51]  Many have responded by reporting their victimization or that of others following our talks.

Through this outreach effort, I have attempted to encourage young people to take ownership in their community and to be involved in their own safety.  I have been amazed by their leadership and willingness to reach out for help, instead of suffering in silence, when they have been victims and witnesses.  But sadly, I have seen that with these young people, and their parents and grandparents too, there remains a broad category of unreported crimes that never reach the criminal justice system.

Street-level crime—from drug dealing in open-air transactions, to violent crime and gang activity—still goes largely unreported.  In the “stop snitching culture” that pervades our inner city, today’s victim (for example, a victim who is shot in the leg for dealing on the wrong corner or wearing the wrong colors) becomes tomorrow’s defendant as he seeks vigilante justice in retribution for his earlier victimization, perpetuating a seemingly never-ending cycle of violence.  The victim’s silence at the hospital speaks loudly about the mistrust he has in the justice system—a system with which he has likely had personal experience and a system that has likely incarcerated members of his family.  For this victim-turned-bounty hunter, his view is simple: if he cannot find justice at the courthouse, he will look for it in the street.

A.     Race and Justice: Confronting the Sleeping Giant

The D.A. is inevitably in daily collision with life at its most elemental level.  His job is somewhat akin to that of a young intern on a Saturday night ambulance call: he is constantly witnessing the naked emotions of his people—raw, unbuttoned, and bleeding . . . .  By virtue of his job the D.A. is the keeper of the public conscience . . . .[52]

Some years ago, after a racially charged killing occurred in my community, I asked my sheriff to look at the people who were incarcerated at the New Hanover County Jail.  We found that of the 520 inmates, 54% were African American.[53]  That was three times what would be expected if the county-wide demographic of 18% African American held up on a one-to-one correlation.  A look at serious crimes of violence made me only more disheartened.  Of the pending 34 murder cases, 30 involved African American defendants.  The numbers were equally staggering for assaults with a deadly weapon (25 total, 16 African American); sex crimes (29 total, 13 African American); armed robbery (40 total, 28 African American); and drug trafficking offenses (37 total, 22 African American).

These numbers are alarming for many reasons.  First, there is a theory that defendants tend to pick victims that look like them,[54] and this theory would suggest that if most of the defendants in the system were from a particular minority group, so too would be the victims of their crimes.  This dread was confirmed: of the 30 aforementioned African American murder defendants, 29 of their victims were African American as well.

Another reason for concern is that African Americans are underrepresented in the criminal justice system.  The majority of attorneys, judges, and law enforcement officers are white.  Any trust issues that underscore this divide could result in underreporting of crimes if African American victims do not feel that the justice system is at work for them.

What do we do when the population most affected by crime does not want to participate in the criminal justice process?  As Attorney General Eric Holder recently suggested, maybe we are not taking any risks at all.[55]  But if those of us in the system believe, as I do, that we have a duty to speak the truth to our community in the same way we speak the truth in court, then something must be done.  I will now discuss the two ways a district attorney can reach out to the community to confront this issue: first, an approach that does not work, and then an approach that does.

B.     Agenda Driven Outreach: Playing Politics with Cases

On a beautiful spring day in April of 2007, the relative calm of Easter weekend was thrown into turmoil with the loud popping of gunshots on the north side of Wilmington.[56]  For the crowd that gathered outside the Creekwood Housing Community, a public housing complex where crime has run rampant for years, the early stages of a cover up appeared to be in the works.  On the ground was the naked and lifeless body of Phillipe McIver, a young African American man with an extensive criminal record.  Two armed, white Wilmington Police Department officers stood over him.  As officers patiently waited for SBI agents from outside the city to arrive to handle the investigation, some members of the crowd began firing shots into the air.  A police tactical team had to come in and disperse the crowd.

Fear hung in the air in the days that followed.  Rumors swirled that there might be city-wide riots.  Marches took place.  Some walked with signs that read “Just Us” to refer to the prospect of getting “justice” against cops.  And at the height of it all, a group of concerned citizens came to me with a plea to pursue the officers to the fullest extent of the law.  These leaders were men and women whom I had admired: heads of the NAACP, of which I am a member; pastors and bishops who preside over huge congregations of law-abiding citizens; and political allies who helped me get elected.  In the middle of the group was a woman who had just lost a son, Ms. McIver.  I spoke with Ms. McIver and asked her to join me in calling for calm.  Together, we held a press conference to call for calm.  And for the moment, everyone listened.

If there was ever a time for using a case as an opportunity to build trust with a disenfranchised segment of the community, this was it.  Here was an opportunity not only to get justice for Mr. McIver but for all other similarly situated victims who did not have a celebrated case attached to their names.  The community was, and would be, watching.  The group of leaders who had come to my office wanted me to send a message they had heard me say many times before: no one is above the law, and no one is beneath its protection.

There was only one problem with prosecuting the officers who fired the lethal shots—they were innocent of any crime.  The shooting, as our investigation showed, was justified.  In-car cameras captured the events, and toxicology tests later confirmed that McIver was high on “love boat,” a combination of marijuana and formaldehyde, and sitting naked in the street, blocking traffic at the time officers approached him.[57]  As they attempted to remove him from the road, McIver wrestled one of the officers to the ground, removed the officer’s service revolver, and began shooting at him at point-blank range.  The other officer then shot and mortally wounded McIver in defense of his partner.  Both officers then secured the scene, including removing the weapon from McIver’s hands, before the crowd came.[58]

Prosecutors must start with the facts and not theories.  When they start with agendas and theories and then bend the facts to suit those theories, the results are disastrous.  At the very moment that I was handling the McIver case, another district attorney was having a similar discussion with his community about race and justice just up the road in Durham, North Carolina.

Durham’s district attorney, Mike Nifong, was embroiled in a political race, and many have speculated that his rush to judgment in seeking an indictment against four white Duke University lacrosse players accused of raping an African American entertainer had more to do with pandering to his base than getting justice.[59]  What would become clear over time is that Nifong had not properly vetted the case nor had he done the necessary background investigation prior to publically staking himself to a position.  Instead, he began a community quest to slay the larger giant using the well-established teaching tool of the case method.

North Carolina prosecutors, especially other elected district attorneys, watched the train wreck in horror.  Some of the more senior elected district attorneys offered to take over once it was apparent that Nifong could no longer remain objective.[60]  When Nifong did not accept this advice, the Executive Committee of the North Carolina Conference of District Attorneys, of which I am a member, took the extraordinary step of writing an open letter to Nifong calling for him to step aside in the interest of justice.[61]  Nifong’s subsequent disbarment made international news.[62]  The damage, in our view, was detrimental not just to Nifong but also to everyone in the criminal justice system, especially prosecutors.  Ultimately, the case has become synonymous with district attorneys playing politics and trying cases in the media instead of at the courthouse.  As I noted earlier, ethics violations filed against prosecutors have increased ten-fold since this case.[63]

Prosecutors are not the only ones who play politics with cases, however.  One need not leave the campus that gave rise to the Duke lacrosse scandal to see another example of how some exploit race to manipulate an outcome in a criminal case.  In September of 2004, the Center for Death Penalty Litigation, led by an adjunct faculty member at Duke, sought to have a recent death penalty conviction I had obtained a week earlier overturned on the grounds that I tried the case for political motives.[64]

At the time the motion was filed, I was running against three defense attorneys in a special election to replace the retiring district attorney.  The election was to take place two days after the motion was filed.  The motion, which was sent to the press and passed around the African American community, accused me of being racist and compared me to a former district attorney from the same district who had lost his job after uttering a racial slur.[65]  The motion was heard three months after the election by the same superior court judge who presided over the trial.  In a scathing eight-page order, following a four-day hearing, Judge Jerry Cash Martin found that the motion was “blatant political sabotage.”[66]  The professor who lodged the allegation was fired, and Duke has since severed connections with the Center for Death Penalty Litigation.[67]

It would be nice if the recent painful history of mixing race, politics, and the death penalty was in the past, but that is not the reality.  Recently, a new debate has been waged over the Racial Justice Act.[68]  While the Act has a laudable title, the application has been disastrous.  District attorneys have united against it, risking condemnation and being labeled as racists by advocates more interested in abolishing the death penalty than ensuring justice in individual cases.[69]  Sadly, the chasm that has been created between district attorneys and the communities we represent, especially the African American communities, has grown as this emotional issue has been exploited for political purposes.

C.     Elevating the Conversation: The Professor and the Gospel Singer

As I was deciding how best to address the larger community discussion that was taking place in Wilmington over the McIver shooting, I traveled to Durham to see my mother.  She lived five houses from the Duke lacrosse house and was closely following the case.  When the opportunity came to attend a public forum hosted by her alma mater, Duke University, she quickly registered and invited me to attend with her.

While Nifong had launched his own effort to “heal Durham,” Duke embarked on a similar quest using a much different approach.  In an effort to create a community-based discussion around the thorny issue of race and justice, Duke enlisted the assistance of Professor Tim Tyson.  Dr. Tyson, who is white, majored in African American studies and has gained a national reputation for writing about the civil rights struggle both in learned treatises and in novel form.[70]  The son of a preacher,[71] Dr. Tyson approached the issue of race relations with a fervor that bordered on religious zealotry and considered equality for all people to be a moral imperative.

Dr. Tyson’s approach was cutting edge and bold in its execution.  Instead of having an academic lecture on Duke’s campus (that few would likely attend), he opted instead to teach a “class” of three hundred students,[72] diverse in every respect, at the Hayti Heritage Center, a historic African American church.  One hundred community leaders, including my mother, were also invited to audit the eight-week offering that would explore the history of race and justice in Durham in three-hour sessions.  One night might have been devoted to the Greensboro sit-ins while another night might have involved relations in Durham during the World War II era.  At the end of Dr. Tyson’s talk, which usually lasted about an hour, he would moderate a panel of local leaders who would provide their own first-hand accounts.  A third hour was devoted to either an open microphone discussion with the whole class or breakout sessions in small work groups for community-based action on current issues.

To underscore the point that the purpose of the gathering was not merely an academic exercise, Dr. Tyson elevated the conversation by inviting a gospel singer to teach the class with him.  Mary Williams, with a powerful singing voice reminiscent of Aretha Franklin, could take over the room from the moment the class began.  With a force that has to be experienced to fully appreciate, Ms. Williams drew everyone into singing well-known songs from the civil rights struggle and hymns from the slave era.  When the songs were finished, Williams began a lecture about the oral history that was transmitted through the music.  In doing so, she peeled back the secret codes and buried lessons in a different way of learning that inspired the crowd in a way that Dr. Tyson could not do alone.

Within minutes of watching the class, I knew that I had found a much better vehicle to engage in community outreach in Wilmington.  Over the next several days, I met with the same leaders who had come to my office after the McIver shooting.  I encouraged them to come with me to Durham to see firsthand what I had witnessed and rented vans to bring sixteen of them to the next class.  All were similarly impressed and agreed to approach Dr. Tyson and Williams about replicating the class in our community.  Both were excited by the opportunity and intrigued by the idea of working with a district attorney on the issue, rather than working to undo the damage a district attorney was causing.  Both said yes.

Dr. Tyson grew up in Wilmington, witnessed its racial history firsthand, and became a celebrated author in chronicling it.[73]  Going back over one hundred years, a great divide had been created in our community along racial fault lines.  While once a shining example of racial equality in the Jim Crow South, the city’s black middle class was run out of town in 1898, and black elected leaders were forced to resign at gunpoint in the only coup d’état in American history.[74]

Seventy years later, tension again boiled over when African American students were relegated to second-class citizenship when their school, Williston High School,[75] was closed to comply with desegregation laws brought about by Brown v. Board of Education.[76]  The race riots that followed that painful chapter of Wilmington’s history spawned the celebrated case of the Wilmington Ten, in which African American defendants were initially convicted of firebombing a white-owned grocery store and then were later pardoned by the governor.[77]  While much of this history was never documented in school textbooks, it was handed down in an oral tradition, especially in the African American community in Wilmington, which left a lingering mistrust of established power a century later.

The group that went with me to Durham was called the “Big Picture Talkers.”[78]  Our goal was to bring together the unofficial leaders of the community—public educators, pastors, and heads of nonprofit agencies.  We were not looking for an event but for the beginning of a process, one that would reflect the words of the mission statement: we are committed to bringing together a new multicultural community in order to create a space and the time to dissect, discuss, and confront Wilmington’s racial history.  Furthermore, we wanted to attempt to understand history’s persistence in the present and its possible effects in the face of the future.  Our purpose was not only to wallow in our city’s painful history but also to celebrate its many triumphs and highlight the incredible achievements of our residents.[79]

The class we created, “The History of Wilmington in Black and White,” was held in the old Williston High School building to underscore its historical significance.  First-year attendance numbered over three hundred, all from the community—as opposed to just from the local colleges.  Now going into its fifth year, our goal is to have one thousand graduates.  The class is funded through grants from the Z. Smith Reynolds Foundation and is run through the YWCA.[80]  The friendships that have formed out of this shared experience survive the end of a semester, and the relationships formed have turned into community action.  As a result, people inside and outside the criminal justice system affect change in our community.

The Big Picture Talkers, like Dr. Tyson and Williams, recognized the incredible organizational power of the church, especially in the African American community, as a way of spreading the message of reconciliation and elevating the debate beyond the political realm.  The pastors who I had befriended and who helped keep the community calm following the McIver shooting knew the power of the truth: murder is the leading cause of death in North Carolina for African American males under the age of twenty-four, and they are 4.5 times more likely to die of a homicide than their white counterparts.[81]  The pastors looked at crime prevention as a moral issue.  As Pastor Rob Campbell of New Beginnings Church in Wilmington has said to me, these are not black children or white children dying in the streets of Wilmington but “God’s children.”

The clergy also knew that their congregations were the most segregated part of our community.[82]  They committed to leading by example to help end the divide by hosting each other’s congregations in their respective churches.  Results were celebrated.  Eight pastors from some of the most established churches, four white and four African American, formed a joint bible study to give “The History of Wilmington in Black and White” students yet another way to learn from each other and form a bond.

In time, the various congregations adopted a home through Habitat for Humanity to construct together.  Additionally, one of the established congregations donated the resources of its church.  The congregation had recently purchased the building that formerly housed the county jail and turned it into an outreach center for gang prevention and work placement for the homeless.[83]  In short, these pastors put their faith into action and became great allies for the community—an outcome that no verdict alone could deliver.

D.    Bringing Leaders Together: Ideas Into Action

The judges, defense attorneys, deputies, and elected leaders whom I worked with to improve courthouse and jail efficiency wanted to break the cycle of violence where street-level crimes were going unreported.  They had observed the success of the Big Picture Talkers and were eager to build on that momentum.  Part of the solution involved making it easier to report crime and to protect informants once information was given.[84]  But for reporting to really take place, victims and witnesses had to believe in the justice system and trust in its ability to protect them.

These public officials knew that, while we had the responsibility to lead, we had to go beyond the courthouse or the political realm.  We also knew that there would be no quick-fix solution but instead there would be years of work—years that would outlive election cycles or grant funding.  To these ends, we invited into our group four distinct parts of the community, who also had a stake in helping us confront this issue: business leaders, religious leaders, school officials, and nonprofit organizations.  The result was the Blue Ribbon Commission on the Prevention of Youth Violence (“BRC”).[85]

The business leaders understood that crime greatly influenced the quality of life and that the reality or perception of crime in the downtown business district greatly impacted our ability to attract investment.  They also knew that displacing crime to another area of the community would not solve this issue for the entire area.[86]  The head of the Greater Willington Chamber of Commerce was made a part of the BRC and has worked to engage this vital part of the team by hosting power breakfasts, applying for grants, and encouraging corporate investment in our prevention efforts.

The religious leaders, who came together around the movement of the Big Picture Talkers to start a unity and reconciliation effort, were also made part of the endeavor.  Two pastors, one from an established African American church and the other from one of the oldest and largest white congregations downtown, were each given a place on the commission.

The school superintendent was also invited to join the team.  He was facing the same racial divide with greater suspensions and dropouts, and a “minority achievement gap.”  If there was a part of our community where fence mending was needed to confront our present by looking at our history, school officials knew they had a role to play.

There were over forty nonprofit groups working directly with the at-risk youth we were seeing at the courthouse.  Many of them had been doing incredible work in diverse areas such as Boys and Girls Clubs, after-school arts programs, and gang intervention programs.  While they all had the same desire to help, many of the groups were in direct competition for scarce grant dollars.  In an attempt to bring the groups together behind a common cause, we gave them a seat at the table by forming a distinct arm of the BRC, known as the Tactical Advisory Committee, and invited the local director of the United Way to join the board.

With the BRC now established, we hired a strategic director from the community to work full time on the effort.  We created three subteams to focus on specific areas.  The Youth Violence Action Team was tasked with reducing crime by twenty-five percent over the next three years.  The Education Action Team was tasked with reducing out-of-school suspensions and the dropout rate by twenty-five percent over the same time period.  The Community Engagement team was charged with enlisting a volunteer army of four thousand and promoting our efforts to the larger community.

The BRC adopted two national best practices: an intervention-based strategy for youth already inside the system and a prevention-based strategy to keep youth outside the system from entering it. The High Point Model, named for the North Carolina town where it was piloted, employs a focused deterrence approach with the involvement of several community actors to promote the success of the program.[87]   In the High Point Model, the heads of several local street gangs, who are all on probation and are still at a point where they face the real prospect of rehabilitation, are called into a meeting.  This focus group includes carefully screened young offenders who are told that they are heading down a path that, if left unchecked, will likely lead to a prison cell or the morgue.  Examples are given of other people they know from the streets of our community who have already received heavy sentences or who have died as a result of criminal conduct.

State and federal law enforcement officers, probation officials, and members of my office tell these young offenders that life as they know it is over.  Here forward, their actions, and those of their known associates, will be heavily monitored by a combination of a gang task force and probation officers.  If the young offenders are arrested again, prosecutors will advocate for a high bond, pursue an indictment for being a habitual felon, and change the venue to federal court to maximize the time of active incarceration.  My office has expanded its reach into the federal system by targeting gun crimes and drug offenses of violent gang members.  Enforcing these laws is far more effective than prosecuting these defendants’ violent crimes in state court, where defendants fear the repercussions of being a snitch if they testify against other defendants from their neighborhoods.

The effectiveness of the High Point Model hinges not only on severe consequences but also on second chances.  Participants are carefully screened by a team of police, prosecutors, probation officers, and judges to determine if they have the potential for rehabilitation through the program.  To lend support to their success, participants are given a way to save face and to escape a life of crime through bimonthly call-in meetings.  Present at the meeting are members of the young offender’s family, as well as pastors, educators, and other non-law enforcement representatives of the BRC.  A member of our homicide support group is also present to share a testimonial about the effects that criminal activity has had on his family.

The young offenders are given the opportunity to continue their education by enrolling at the local community college to earn their GEDs or college credit.  Members of the Wilmington Housing Authority YouthBuild U.S.A. Program[88] (a program, much like Habitat For Humanity, where at-risk youth are paid through a grant to build a home together) and a program called Leading Into New Communities (“LINC”)[89] (a group of ex-offenders who get reintegrated into society by working, at no cost to a potential employer, with grant money used to pay for the first four months of employment) are also on hand to offer employment.  The message coming from the meetings is simple: everyone, from police to the offenders’ families, wants them to succeed and to avoid further contact with the criminal justice system.  The choice of which path to travel can only be made by the young person listening.

The BRC also created a Youth Enrichment Zone (“YEZ”) patterned after the Harlem Children’s Zone.[90]  The idea behind the YEZ was to look at crime statistics and hospital reports to identify the areas in our community needing the most help.  After an exhaustive analysis of this data, we identified a fifteen-block area on the north side of Wilmington, the same area where McIver had been shot.  The concept behind the YEZ is to start with a small geographic area and focus resources on the schools, houses of worship, businesses, and nonprofits that work directly with the young people living there.  Young children, especially in the critical zero- to five-year-old population, are assessed to determine the resources necessary for their long-term success.  Additional areas may be annexed in the future as success is demonstrated.

Many of the problems that we jointly confronted could better be addressed at the child’s house rather than at the courthouse or the schoolhouse.  We hired a caseworker, a man who lives in the YEZ, to go door-to-door to make an assessment of resident needs and to do a de facto census of who was living at each residence.  What he found was alarming, but not altogether surprising.  He visited eighty-four homes and found that those homes were housing 231 school age children, ninety lived at or near the poverty line, 98.7% were African American, and only four fathers lived under the same roof as their children.[91]

We adopted the philosophy that, while resources would come from the outside, ultimately this needed to be an organic process where residents were made a part of the solution.  We held town hall meetings to hear from residents about existing problems and current services to identify gaps and redundancies and to get the community to buy into the concept of the YEZ.  We created a youth ambassador group, made up of young men and women in the YEZ, who went door-to-door with the caseworker.  Instead of these young people joining gangs and becoming part of the problem, they are now setting a different example.

Recently, the middle school in the heart of the YEZ closed amid much controversy.  The school, D.C. Virgo, was closed because it was historically underperforming, causing parents to pull their children out, reducing the number of students to only half the capacity.[92]  The school board made the financial decision to close the school and bus the remaining students elsewhere.  But to the children and parents within the YEZ, the school was a treasure, leading many to invoke the memory of the closing of Williston High School to say that history was repeating itself.[93]

The BRC moved quickly to try to remedy the problem.  We recognized that our crime prevention efforts are ultimately tied to keeping the kids in school.  We wrote a resolution requesting that the school board reopen D.C. Virgo within one year as either a magnet school within the public system or as a charter school.  The school board listened and adopted the resolution.[94]  Whether it ultimately takes the shape of a charter school or remains in the public system, it has already been determined that an advisory board, made up of community members, equally appointed by the BRC and school board, will help decide its future direction.

E.     The Role of Law Schools in Community Prosecution

Recently at the annual bar meeting in Blowing Rock, North Carolina, Chief Justice Sarah Parker convened a meeting of the Executive Committee of the North Carolina Conference of District Attorneys and an even number of some of the leading members of the criminal defense bar.  The meeting, moderated by Mel Wright, the executive director of the Chief Justice’s Commission on Professionalism, was called to see if the group could identify why there appeared to be so much animosity between the two sides and if there was any common ground that could begin to heal the divide.  The resounding answer from both sides was that more needed to be done to train the new members of our profession.

Today, there are seven law schools in North Carolina turning out almost eleven hundred graduates each year, and an equal number sit for the Bar Exam.  It is now largely believed that the supply of new lawyers has outstripped the demand for them.  Today’s graduates enter a job market with few prospects, and many are forced to hang a shingle where mentoring is virtually nonexistent.

Both defense attorneys and prosecutors at the meeting concluded that prosecutors could do more to help train all attorneys in their communities.  This is largely because jobs in public service, including prosecutors’ and public defenders’ offices, have continued to grow, while jobs in the private sector have largely dried up.[95]  And the turnover in the offices suggests that the future is bright for new graduates to begin their legal careers in a district attorney’s office.  Consider that there are more than six hundred prosecutors in North Carolina, and roughly half of them have been attorneys for less than five years.[96]  The valuable mentoring that will take place in these offices will help shape the profession moving forward whether these young lawyers stay in public service for a lifetime or only a short while.

Following the Blowing Rock meeting, Mel Wright and I assembled a group of deans and professors from law schools across the state to meet at the Norman A. Wiggins School of Law at Campbell University.  We pitched the idea of starting a public service class at the various schools where each dean would design a curriculum that fits students’ needs.  Students would undertake a course work component that would include reading materials that are actually used in the field.[97]  Professors could bring in guest lecturers who are prosecutors and public defenders in area districts.  These professionals could start to be involved in the education of students while they are still students, rather than starting with on-the-job training as assistant district attorneys.

The training could continue with students working as externs at nearby district attorneys’ and public defenders’ offices during their fall and spring semesters.  During the summer, they could continue their training in prosecutors’ and public defenders’ offices around the state.  A website has been created by the Conference of District Attorneys to give students the opportunity to apply to offices in rural communities that are frequently overlooked by students and younger lawyers.[98]  This structure will connect offices in need of new attorneys with students and recent graduates who are in need of a job.

Think of the benefits to our profession.  Go to one of the seven law school campuses in North Carolina and you will find some type of “actual innocence” clinic.[99]  These are worthy efforts and should continue.  But we should remember that these clinics need balance for justice to be done in an adversarial system.[100]  Respectfully, it is not the role of defense attorneys to “advocate for justice.”  That job, including the responsibility of being first in line to see that innocents do not suffer, belongs to prosecutors.[101]  Having prosecutors involved in these classes might not only sensitize future advocates to the crucial role of prosecutors, but it will allow for a greater dialogue on existing cases where actual innocence is alleged.[102]  Giving students an opportunity to work directly with crime victims will also ensure that these law students are representing the actually innocent in the criminal justice system and upholding constitutional rights.[103]

As I mentioned earlier, prosecutors not only have the constitutional duty to advise law enforcement; they are given increasing responsibility in the training of officers on procedural and substantive law.  It is better for our profession to focus some efforts on teaching our prosecutors to give officers good advice on the front end rather than focus all of our resources on assisting defense attorneys on suppression hearings and appeals later in the process.  It is also unquestionably preferable to prevent wrongful convictions and constitutional violations at the trial level than attempt to undo these costly mistakes years later through endless appeals.  These public service academics within law schools, in time, I believe, could include not only training for law students but could also serve as an academy for training assistant district attorneys and assistant public defenders.

Such a setting could also allow for more meetings between members of the criminal justice system to debate the great issues that confront us all.  This Essay has explored just one large social issue, race and justice, to highlight how it can be addressed either through politics or through education.  While the case method is effective in teaching the law,[104] it rarely serves the larger good to extrapolate from individual cases to set overall policies.  Problems that appear to be ubiquitous, requiring dramatic overhaul to the system, are instead frequently episodic, confined to the case that receives all the attention.[105]  These issues can continue to be debated by politicians with predicable outcomes or we can elevate the discussion by bringing defense attorneys and prosecutors together to begin to see if there is common ground.  An academic setting provides the best possibility.

Finally, over time, an early emphasis on community prosecution might also begin to address the inadequate funding found in public service.[106]  The gap between assistant district attorney pay and the pay for a beginning associate at a major firm left little cause for debate about the direction I would take right after graduation.[107]  Today, students face an even larger and more crushing student debt load.[108]  One long-term response to this issue is that law schools could begin to invest in the public service area of our profession.  That can take the form of public interest grants for students working in district attorneys’ and public defenders’ offices during their summers and loan forgiveness for graduates who work in these offices after graduation.  Although, with North Carolina Legal Education Assistance Foundation (“LEAF”) loan repayment money having recently been eliminated, the future is bleak.[109]

The challenge for law schools today is to stay relevant, blending emerging best practices with timeless, good education, and to elevate the next generation of excellent lawyers who will be leaders in their communities.  The challenge for district attorneys today is to attract the best and brightest legal minds while at the same time demonstrating a willingness to engage in a dialogue with others in the legal community that can lead to more quality prosecution and the implementation of national best practices.  In short, law schools and prosecutors need each other.  The opportunity for positive impact in our profession and the individual lives of our graduates will be greatly enhanced if law schools begin to balance their curriculum to focus not just on criminal defense but on prosecution as well.

Conclusion

Prosecutors and their offices are strengthened from within when they reach out to the communities they represent.  Successful community-based prosecution involves finding a balance: building relationships while remaining independent; leading employees without micromanaging; providing structure while maintaining the flexibility to exercise discretion; setting the tone and listening to the unheard.  It means recognizing that criminal prosecutions start with the prosecutor, but ultimately justice is not all about the prosecutor.  When prosecutors succeed, they are celebrated.[110]  When they fail, the results are catastrophic.

Success comes from looking inward, focusing on the core functions of the office—trying cases and advising law enforcement.  Effective case management involves prioritization and efficiency, giving others in the district attorney’s office and the larger courthouse work group a stake in the outcome in ensuring that justice is done.  Effectively advising law enforcement means keeping lines of communication open and staying involved in officer training to see that justice is carried out on the streets through the fair enforcement of the criminal laws.

Success also comes from looking outward, taking the role of public official out into the community you serve.  It means speaking the truth, even when difficult, and including leaders outside of the justice system in finding solutions to issues that transcend individual cases.  It involves alliance building and long-term commitment.  At the core is education, not politics.  Law schools, not the legislature, hold the most promise for supporting prosecutors and ultimately the entire legal profession by teaching future attorneys that, even in an adversarial system, everyone wants justice.

As I look to the future, I am optimistic about the role community-based prosecution will have in our profession and state.  It is a model that has proven to be successful in practice and must be taught in our schools.  As president-elect of the Conference of District Attorneys, I am committed to this curriculum of strengthening the future attorneys of our state and, in turn, having the law schools strengthen our profession.


         *   District Attorney for New Hanover and Pender Counties.  This is dedicated to my family and the past and present employees of the DA’s Office who still teach and inspire me.  I would like to thank Sarah Hayward, Mona Farzad, and Samantha Dooies for their help with research and editing.

        [1].   I have worked as a prosecutor for the Fifth District since 1999.  I have been the elected District Attorney since 2004.

        [2].   I was an associate attorney in the trademark litigation section of the Intellectual Property group at Petree Stockton, now Kilpatrick Townsend & Stockton, in Winston-Salem from 1995 to 1998.

        [3].   The District Attorney who hired me, John Carrkier (J.D. ’72), as well as his first assistant district attorney, John Sherrill (J.D. ’79), were both career prosecutors and Wake Forest graduates.  The Chief District Court Judge at the time I was sworn in, John Smith (J.D. ’78), was also a Wake Forest graduate and a career prosecutor before taking the bench.  Smith currently heads the Administrative Office of the Courts.

        [4].   Just the Facts, Wake Forest U., http://admissions.wfu.edu
/discover/facts.php (last visited Feb. 9, 2012).

        [5].   2011-2012 Executive Committee, N.C. Conf. of Dist. Att’ys, http://www.ncdistrictattorney.org/executivecommittee.html (last visited Arp. 14, 2012).

        [6].   Ethics complaints against North Carolina prosecutors have seen a steep increase since the Duke lacrosse case.  According to the North Carolina Conference of District Attorneys, the year before Mike Nifong was prosecuted there were only five opened files on grievances filed against prosecutors.  In 2006, the year Nifong was prosecuted, there were seventeen files.  In 2007 there were over eighty grievances filed against prosecutors, with the number of grievances against prosecutors remaining between eighty and ninety per year through 2010.  E-mail from Peg Dorer, Director, N.C. Conference of Dist. Att’ys, to author (Apr. 3, 2012, 10:51 EST) (on file with author).

        [7].   QuickFacts for New Hanover County, North Carolina, U.S. Census Bureau, http://quickfacts.census.gov/qfd/states/37/37129.html (last updated Jan. 31, 2012).

        [8].   QuickFacts for Pender County, North Carolina, U.S. Census Bureau, http://quickfacts.census.gov/qfd/states/37/37141.html (last updated Jan. 31, 2012).

        [9].   Prior to the advent of structured sentencing in 1994, judges had the most discretion about how to sentence defendants.  See generally James J. Collins et al., Evaluation of North Carolina’s Structured Sentencing Law, Final Report (1999), available at https://www.ncjrs.gov/pdffiles1
/nij/grants/187349.pdf (describing the changes enacted by the 1994 Structured Sentencing Act and the effects its reforms had produced in the decade following its passage).  After this system was implemented, the responsibility of sentencing was transferred to the district attorney, who has the authority to make and negotiate plea offers and sentences.

      [10].   See, e.g., John Rubin, 1999 Legislation Affecting Criminal Law and Procedure, Admin. of Just. Bull., Oct. 1999, at 1, 9, available athttp://www.sog.unc.edu/sites/www.sog.unc.edu/files/aoj9905crimlegislation.pdf (“Unique among the fifty states, North Carolina has allowed prosecutors control over the calendaring of felony cases.”).  But see, e.g., Andrew M. Siegel, When Prosecutors Control Criminal Court Dockets: Dispatches on History and Policy from a Land Time Forgot, 32 Am. J. Crim. L. 325, 327 n.6 (2005) (finding this North Carolina report to be erroneous).

      [11].   The North Carolina Constitution provides in part: “The District Attorney shall advise the officers of justice in his district, be responsible for the prosecution on behalf of the State of all criminal actions in the Superior Courts of his district, . . . and perform such other duties as the General Assembly may prescribe.”  N.C. Const. art. IV, § 18(1).

      [12].   The Team, Dist. Att’y’s Office for N.C. Court Sys. Dist. 5, http://www.nccourts.org/County/_Common/District5/Documents/theteam_021610.pdf (last visited Apr. 14, 2012).

      [13].   The Institute of Government at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill also holds a retreat for these officials to encourage dialogue and synergy between court officials.  See Judicial District Executive Seminar, UNC Sch. of Gov’t, http://www.sog.unc.edu/node/1234 (last visited Mar. 18, 2012).  Headed by Jim Drennan, the former director of the North Carolina Administrative Office of the Courts, the seminar is an invaluable resource, and officials from every district would be well served to attend.

      [14].   Ronald F. Wright, Community Prosecution, Comparative Prosecution, 47 Wake Forest L. Rev. 361, 362 (2012).

      [15].   See N.C. Admin. Office of the Courts, 2009-10 Judicial Branch Annual Report 8 (2010).

      [16].   N.C. Const. art. I, § 37.

      [17].   David W. Neubauer, America’s Courts and the Criminal Justice System 272 fig.13.1 (Wadsworth Publ’g, 10th ed. 2010).

      [18].   Benjamin R. David, The Homicide Family Support Group: Helping Victims’ Families and Prosecutors, Prosecutor, Oct.–Dec. 2010, at 24.

      [19].   One heartbreaking example is an eight-year-old boy who was killed by a stray bullet when one drug dealer shot and killed another dealer during a dispute. See State v. Carter, 584 S.E.2d 792, 796 (N.C. 2003).  A park, in the center of the Jervay Park community where the killing occurred, has been named in memory of the little boy, Demetrius Greene.  Ken Little, Child’s Memory to Live On Through Namesake, Star-News, Apr. 30, 2005, at B5.  His killer, Shan Carter, sits on North Carolina’s death row.  Id.

      [20].   Holding and I know each other from attending law school together at Wake Forest and thereafter working as associates together at Kilpatrick Stockton.  We have maintained a friendship despite being on opposite ends of the political spectrum.

      [21].   See  N.C. Gen. Stat. § 7A-272 (2012).

      [22].   Notably, both of these prosecutors are graduates of Wake Forest.  W. Holt Trotman (J.D. ’80) runs the felony district court and Todd H. Fennell (J.D. ’83) runs the first appearance court.

      [23].   See, e.g., Amy Craddock & Tamara Flinchum, N.C. Sentencing & Policy Advisory Comm’n, Structured Sentencing Statistical Report for Felonies & Misdemeanors 8 (2011), available at http://www.nccourts.org
/Courts/CRS/Councils/spac/Documents/statisticalrpt_fy09-10.pdf (stating that for the 2009–2010 fiscal year, 4939 Class H or I felony pleas were accepted in district court).

      [24].   Justice Reinvestment Act, N.C. Gen. Stat. §§ 90-96, 15A-145.2 (2012) (requiring that defendants receive deferred prosecutions for first-time drug offenses and allowing for expunction).

      [25].   Many self-initiated warrants are brought by parties who know each other and frequently involve cross warrants where both parties claim victimization and are simultaneously charged.  We have found that mediation out of court, with the consent of both parties, is frequently more effective in reducing recidivism.  For a discussion of the mediation services available to resolve such disputes see Mediation Services, ADR Center of Wilmington, NC, http://www.theadrcenter.org/Mediation.html (last visited Apr. 14, 2012).

      [26].   See, e.g., 20092010 District Court Analysis of Domestic Violence, N.C. Jud. Dep’t 7 (Sept. 1, 2010), available at http://www.nccourts.org/Citizens
/SRPlanning/Documents/dome2009-2010.pdf; Analysis of FY20102011 Impaired Driving Charges and Implied Consent Charges Filed and Charges Disposed, N.C. Jud. Dep’t 3 (Sept. 12, 2011), http://www.nccourts.org
/Citizens/SRPlanning/Documents/ratfy2010-2011.pdf.

      [27].   In 2008, we began an Administrative Traffic Court in Pender County that meets once a month.  See Administrative Traffic Court in District 5, N.C. Ct. Sys., http://www.nccourts.org/County/Pender/Courts/Traffic/Default.asp (last visited Apr. 14, 2012).

      [28].   The StreetSafe Driving program was developed for drivers under the age of twenty-five to have a hands-on four-hour driving course with a law enforcement officer in the passenger seat.  See About Us, StreetSafe, http://www.streetsafeus.com/about.asp (last visited Apr. 14, 2012).  Students, who attend the course with their parents, also hear testimonials from judges, prosecutors, and other young drivers who have lost loved ones through impaired driving offenses.  The program, which began in 2007, has now spread to several other judicial districts.  See Ken Little, Steering Teens to Safety, StarNews Online (July 17, 2007), http://www.starnewsonline.com/article/20070717/NEWS
/707170374.

      [29].   See 2011 N.C. Sess. Laws 1, 243 (to be codified at N.C. Gen. Stat. § 7a-304) (directing in Section 15.11A that Administrative Courts be developed for hearing motor vehicle infractions).

      [30].   Jamie Markham, Sentence Reduction Credits and Parole for DWI Inmates, UNC Sch. of Gov’t Blog (Jan. 13, 2010, 9:09 AM), http://sogweb.sog.unc.edu/blogs/ncclaw/?p=988.

      [31].   DWI Court continues to operate under a grant, but will face similar fiscal challenges at the end of its grant term.

      [32].   That year, there were six first-degree murder cases in the Fifth District related to domestic violence.  In four of these cases, the women had come to the courthouse to get a civil protective order.  Three of the cases ended when the defendants committed suicide after the murder.  In the seven years since the creation of the family violence unit, the murder rate has dropped precipitously, leading many to call our unit the “Homicide Prevention Team.”

      [33].   See Christian Henrichson & Valerie Levshin, Cost-Benefit Analysis of Raising the Age of Juvenile Jurisdiction in North Carolina, Vera Inst. of Justice (Jan. 20, 2011), available at http://www.vera.org/download?file=3185
/CBA-of-Raising-Age-Juvenile-Jurisdiction-NC-final.pdf.

      [34].   Deferred prosecutions involving community-based punishment are especially common in underage drinking offenses for first-time offenders.

      [35].   Benjamin David, The Benefits of Teen Court, Bus. Life, Nov. 1997, at 30, 63.

      [36].   N.C. Const. art. IV, § 18(1).

      [37].   These local efforts have included assigning officers into schools to form a bond with the same young people who may be victims or witnesses years later; starting a sports league with at-risk youth; and relocating police headquarters into the heart of the Youth Enrichment Zone.  See infra notes 87–92 and accompanying text.

      [38].   The Attorney General’s Training and Standards Division, Criminal Justice Education and Training Standards Commission is responsible for this certification.  See Instructor Certification, N.C. Dep’t Just., http://www.ncdoj.gov/getdoc/b92dba07-e030-4022-8e95-e3b64202566e/2-6-3-1-2-4-Instructor-Certification.aspx (last visited Apr. 14, 2012).  I obtained my certification this past year and am now working with the local community college to personally conduct Basic Law Enforcement Training.

      [39].   In December 2006, Chris Long, a SWAT team member with the New Hanover Sheriff’s Office, killed an unarmed man when he shot him through a closed door during a raid of the home.  See Ken Little, Long Cleared in Death, StarNews Online (July 12, 2007), http://www.starnewsonline.com/article
/20070712/NEWS/707120423?p=2&tc=pg.  SBI Agents conducted an investigation and appeared before the grand jury on two different occasions: once to present charges of second-degree murder and again to consider charges of voluntary manslaughter.  Kelli O’Hara, Christopher Long Case Before Grand Jury, WECT TV, http://www.wect.com/Global/story.asp?s=6765925&clienttype
=printable (last visited Apr. 14, 2012).  The grand jury ultimately returned no true in each instance.  Grand Jury Won’t Indict Former Deputy in Shooting, WWAY TV (July 11, 2007, 10:49 AM), http://www.wwaytv3.com/breaking_news
_no_indictment_in_strickland_shooting/07/2007.

      [40].   In February 2009, Officer Richard Matthews of the Wilmington Police Department was killed during a high-speed chase of an armed drug dealer.  Patrick Gannon, Pierce Indicted on Murder Charge in Police Officer’s Death, StarNews Online (Mar. 10, 2009), http://www.starnewsonline.com/article
/20090310/ARTICLES/903101994.  Matthews was one of several Wilmington officers involved in the chase when his car struck a tree over two miles from where the defendant was apprehended.  Id.  The SBI presented the case to the grand jury, which indicted the defendant for second-degree murder.  Id.  The defendant was later convicted of this charge after a jury trial.  State v. Anthony Pierce, 718 S.E.2d 648, 650–51 (N.C. App. 2011) (detailing the trial court jury’s findings); Veronica Gonzalez, Anthony Pierce Found Guilty of Second Degree Murder, StarNews Online (May 6, 2010), http://www.starnewsonline.com
/article/20100506/ARTICLES/100509777.

      [41].   These cases range from in-custody deaths in the jail to people who are injured or killed by officers in situations where the officer used force.

      [42].   In rare circumstances, an actual or apparent conflict requires the district attorney to refer the case to either the Attorney General’s office or a neighboring prosecutorial authority.  N.C. Gen. Stat. § 7A-64 (2004); N.C. Gen. Stat. § 114-11.6 (2010).

      [43].   Robert A. Rankin, Hitting the Road, the President Finds His Audience After a Quiet Opening No Cold Shoulder After All, Phila. Inquirer, Jan. 11, 1995,available at http://articles.philly.com/1995-01-11/news/25713212_1

_clinton-rally-middle-class-bill-tax-proposals.

      [44].   Our checkpoints routinely round up at least twenty impaired drivers during any weekend night.

      [45].   In “Operation Last Call,” I teamed with North Carolina Alcohol Law Enforcement agents to send letters to several area bar owners.  We offered to meet with them and give police assistance to anyone who wanted our help.  Several took us up on the suggestion.

      [46].   See N.C. Gen. Stat. § 18B-901(c)(9) (2000) (authorizing licensing agencies to initiate summary suspension proceedings following sufficient notice to the licensee).  I invoked this law in January 2011 after a murder occurred in front of the Rhino Club, an establishment that had nearly two hundred calls for service to the 911 Center in the nine months after receiving the warning letter in Operation Last Call.  The bar was shut down, and the owners have since filed for bankruptcy protection.  See Wayne Faulkner, Major Downtown Wilmington Landowner Files for Bankruptcy, StarNews Online (Apr. 12, 2011), http://www.starnewsonline.com/article/20110412/ARTICLES/110419909.

      [47].   Crime rates in Wilmington have been steadily declining since 2002.  See Brian Freskos, Drop in Wilmington Crime Rate Reflects National Decline, StarNews Online (Dec. 19, 2011), http://www.starnewsonline.com/article
/20111219/articles/111219710.

      [48].   In the 2010 election cycle we lost a number of elected district attorneys to retirement and elections.  See, e.g., Scott Saxton, Pope Upsets Long-Time D.A. Gore, WECT.com (May 5, 2010, 10:26 AM), http://www.wect.com/Global
/story.asp?S=12428029.

      [49].   See N.C. Gen. Stat. § 163-322 (2007) (detailing North Carolina’s nonpartisan primary election system).  Notably, judges’ races went from partisan elections to nonpartisan contests.  There is currently an effort underway to return political labels to these contests.  I believe this is a mistake.

      [50].   Jon David, the district attorney of the 13th District, is my identical twin.  He is a Republican, and I am a Democrat.  We make no distinction in how we run our offices based upon parties—in fact, we worked together in the Fifth District for ten years, and much of what I have written about we helped shape together.

      [51].   FBI statistics show that “one in seven youngsters has experienced unwanted sexual solicitations online” and “[o]ne in three has been exposed to unwanted sexual material online.”  Keeping Kids Safe Online—FBI Program Offered in Schools, Fed. Bureau of Investigation, (Jan. 11, 2011), http://www.fbi.gov/news/stories/2011/january/online_011111/online_011111.  To encourage dialogue between children and parents about Internet habits, I leave Internet safety contracts with school faculty to distribute to parents.  The contract, on my letterhead, lays out ten points of agreement between child and parent, ranging from not talking to strangers or giving out personal identifying information, to reporting immediately to the parents if the child is approached.  I also give parents computer software that monitors their home computers and includes contact information for a local task force if they suspect that their child has received a solicitation from an adult.

      [52].   Robert Traver, Small Town D.A. 10–11 (1954).

      [53].   Memorandum from the New Hanover Sheriff’s Office to author (Jan. 31, 2008) (on file with author).

      [54].   See Christian D. Rutherford, “Gangsta” Culture in A Policed State: The Crisis in Legal Ethics Formation Amongst Hip-Hop Youth, 18 Nat’l Black L.J. 305, 310 (2005).

      [55].   In a speech at the Department of Justice’s African American History Month Program on February 18, 2009, Holder remarked, “Though this nation has proudly thought of itself as an ethnic melting pot, in things racial we have always been and continue to be, in too many ways, essentially a nation of cowards.”  Eric Holder, Att’y Gen. of the U.S., Remarks at the Department of Justice African American History Month Program (Feb. 18, 2009), http://www.justice.gov/ag/speeches/2009/ag-speech-090218.html.

      [56].   Ken Little, State Asked to Investigate Man’s Death in Incident with Police; Neighbors Upset, Star-News, Apr. 7, 2007, at A1.

      [57].   See Veronica Gonzalez, Racial History Course Making a Return Visit; Controversial Shooting Prompted Dialogue, Star-News, Sept. 2, 2009, at B1 (discussing McIver’s use of drugs on the night of the shooting); Ken Little, SBI Report: McIver Shooting Justified, Star-News, Apr. 17, 2007, at A1 (discussing the facts of the incident).

      [58].   Consistent with my policy, supra note 41 and accompanying text, I released a synopsis of the SBI investigation to the community and invited Ms. McIver to review all the evidence and meet with the lead case agent and me when I announced my decision.  She accepted my conclusion and called for continued calm.

      [59].   See generally Howard M. Wasserman et al., The Phases and Faces of the Duke Lacrosse Controversy: A Conversation, 19 Seton Hall J. Sports & Ent. L. 181 (2009).

      [60].   District attorneys staged an intervention at an elected district attorneys’ conference in April 2006.  Among the prosecutors offering to help were Peter Gilchrist, who had been the elected district attorney in Charlotte since 1974, and Tom Keith, the elected district attorney in Winston-Salem since 1990.

      [61].   News Release, North Carolina Conference of District Attorneys (Dec. 29, 2005), http://www.wral.com/asset/news/state/2006/12/29/1121238/nifong
_opinion.swf.

      [62].   See Findings of Fact, Conclusions of Law and Order of Discipline, N.C. State Bar v. Nifong, No. 06 DHC 35 (Disciplinary Hearing Comm’n of the N.C. State Bar June 16, 2007); see also Duff Wilson, Prosecutor in Duke Case is Disbarred for Ethics Breaches, N.Y. Times, June 16, 2007, http://www.nytimes.com/2007/06/16/us/16cnd-nifong.html.  Interestingly, Nifong’s replacement, Tracey Cline, was also recently ousted from her position.  See J. Andrew Curliss, Durham District Attorney Removed, Charlotte Observer, Mar. 3, 2012, http://www.charlotteobserver.com/2012/03/03/3064914
/durham-district-attorney-removed.html.  A Durham judge found that Cline engaged in conduct that was prejudicial to the administration of justice.  Id.

      [63].   See supra note 6.  The fact that none of these complaints have been substantiated is hardly balm for the wound.  Going through the process of an ethics complaint is punishment in itself.  See also Tom Keith, Aristotle’s Swallow: The Infrequency of Prosecutorial Error in NC 1 (unpublished manuscript) (on file with author) (“‘One swallow does not make a summer,’ or to paraphrase the epigram, ‘One Mike Nifong does not make prosecutorial misconduct a trend’”).

      [64].   See Ken Little, Judge Asked to Overturn Cummings Conviction, Star-News, Sept. 15, 2004, at 4B.

      [65].   See Ken Little, D.A. Denies Race a Factor in Case, Star-News, Jan. 27, 2005, at 1B.  In 1998, DA Jerry Spivey became the first district attorney in North Carolina to be removed from office when he uttered a racial slur at an African American man during an altercation at a Wrightsville Beach bar.  See generally In reSpivey, 480 S.E.2d 693 (N.C. 1997).

      [66].   Maggie Alexander, Race, Politics Not a Factor in Murder Trial, Judge Rules, WECT (Jan. 28, 2005), http://www.wect.com/story/2867127/race-politics-not-a-factor-in-murder-trial-judge-rules?clienttype=printable&redirected=true; see also State v. Cummings, No. 02-CRS-20548 (Sup. Ct. New Hanover County Jan. 27, 2005) (order denying Motion for Appropriate Relief).

      [67].   Veronica Gonzalez, Racial Disparity Remains Wide in Death Sentences, StarNews Online (Aug. 8, 2011), http://www.starnewsonline.com/article
/20100808/ARTICLES/100809739?p=1&tc=pg.

      [68].   On December 14, 2011, Governor Perdue vetoed a bill that sought to amend the Racial Justice Act in order to bring it in line with U.S. Supreme Court precedent.  North Carolina Governor Vetoes Repeal of Racial Justice Act, Reuters, Dec. 14, 2011, available at http://www.reuters.com/article/2011/12/15
/us-crime-penalty-racial-idUSTRE7BE04W20111215.  On January 5, 2012, the House met in a special session in an attempt to override the veto.  See S.B. 9, 2011 Gen. Assemb., 2011 Reg. Sess. (N.C. 2011).

      [69].   See, e.g., Michael Hewlett, DA Under Fire From Ministers’ Group Over Racial Justice Act, Winston-Salem Observer (Jan. 10, 2012), http://www2.journalnow.com/news/2012/jan/10/wsmet01-da-under-fire-from-ministers-group-over-ra-ar-1797433/ (discussing a local group objecting to a district attorney speaking out against the Act).

      [70].   Tyson’s best-selling book, Blood Done Sign My Name, recounts the story of an interracial murder in Oxford, North Carolina, and the race riots that followed in that community and later in Wilmington, in the early 1970s.  See generally Timothy Tyson, Blood Done Sign My Name (2004).

      [71].   Dr. Tyson’s father and five uncles all attended Duke Divinity School to become Methodist ministers.  Id. at 63, 178.

      [72].   One hundred students came from Duke, one hundred from North Carolina Central, and one hundred from University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.

      [73].   See generally Timothy B. Tyson, Wars for Democracy: African American Militancy and Interracial Violence in North Carolina During World War II, inDemocracy Betrayed: The Wilmington Race Riot of 1898 and Its Legacy 253 (Timothy B. Tyson & David S. Cecelski eds., 1998).

      [74].   See generally Philip Gerard, Cape Fear Rising (1994).

      [75].   See Tyson, supra note 70, at 256–58.  Williston High School was long considered a model for education and boasted a number of elite graduates who went on to prominent colleges and universities, making the school the pride of the African American community.  Id. at 257.  Notably, Martin Luther King Jr. was scheduled to speak at Williston on April 4, 1968, but cancelled to remain in Memphis, where he was killed that same day.  See id.

      [76].   See Brown v. Bd. of Educ., 347 U.S. 483, 495 (1954).

      [77].   Firebomb Reversal Hailed, Bulletin, Dec. 5, 1980, at 10.

      [78].   The “Big Picture Talkers” reference is from the book Their Eyes Were Watching God.  See Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God 1–2 (HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. 2006) (1937).

“The sun was gone, but he had left his footprints in the sky.  It was the time for sitting on porches beside the road.  It was the time to hear things and talk.  These sitters had been tongueless, earless, eyeless conveniences all day long.  Mules and other brutes had occupied their skins.  But now, the sun and the bossman were gone, so the skins felt powerful and human.  They became lords of sounds and lesser things.  They passed nations through their mouths.  They sat in judgment.”

Id.

      [79].   Great athletes who grew up in Wilmington include basketball superstar Michael Jordan; boxer Sugar Ray Leonard; tennis great Althea Gibson, the first African American to win Wimbledon; and NFL Hall of Fame quarterbacks Roman Gabriel and Sonny Jurgenson.  Great artists include painters Minnie Evans and Ivey Hayes and jazz musician Percy Heath.

      [80].   To see a syllabus, please visit The History of Wilmington in Black and White, http://www.wilmingtoninblackandwhite.org/Home_Page.html (last visited Apr. 14, 2012).

      [81].   Tom Keith & S. Stanley Young, Racial Justice Act Repeal Should Stand, Winston-Salem J., Jan. 4, 2012, available athttp://www.journalnow.com/news/2012/jan/04/wsopin02-tom-keith-and-s-stanley-young-guest-colum-ar-1775245/.

      [82].   “At 11:00 on Sunday morning when we stand and sing and Christ has no east or west, we stand at the most segregated hour in this nation.”  Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Address at Western Michigan University: “Conscience of America” Lecture Series (Dec. 18, 1963) (transcript available at http://www.wmich.edu/~ulib/archives/mlk/q-a.html).

      [83].   Mike Queen, the recently retired pastor of the two-hundred-year-old First Baptist Church of Wilmington, is also a Wake Forest graduate.  See Ben Steelman,Queen Stepping Down After Decades at First Baptist,  Starnews Online (July 3, 2011), http://www.starnewsonline.com/article/20110703
/ARTICLES/110709913?p=5&tc=pg.

      [84].   The Wilmington Police Department created a “Text a Tip” program for people to anonymously report crime.  Wilmington Police Introduce “Text a Tip” Program, WWAY TV, (Sept. 23, 2008, 4:42 PM), http://www.wwaytv3.com
/wilmington_police_text_a_tip_program/09/2008.  I then appeared before the N.C. Legislature to have the discovery law changed to protect the identity of confidential informants.  See N.C. Gen. Stat. § 15A-904 (2012).

      [85].   See Blue Ribbon Commission on the Prevention of Youth Violence, United Way of the Cape Fear Area, http://www.uwcfa.org/brc (last visited Apr. 14, 2012).

      [86].   When the Rhino Club was closed downtown, the group that occupied it (verified gang members of a local chapter of the Bloods) moved to a midtown location known as Club 609.  Three months later, a murder occurred there, leading the Alcoholic Beverage Control Commission to immediately revoke the club’s liquor license.  Promoters then moved the party to a farm in rural Columbus County, and another murder was committed by the same gang.  Marissa Jasek, NC ABC Revokes, Denies Club 609 Permits After Murder; Cites Ties to Slain Gang Leader, WWAY TV (May 13, 2011 11:48 PM), http://www.wwaytv3.com/2011/05/13/nc-abc-revokes-denies-club-609-permits

-after-murder-cites-ties-to-slain-gang-leader.

      [87].   See David Kennedy, Don’t Shoot: One Man, A Street Fellowship and the End of Violence In Inner City America (2011).

      [88].   YouthBuild U.S.A., Wilmington Housing Authority, http://www.wha.net
/Housing_Programs/Resident_Services/YouthBuild.htm (last visited Mar. 23, 2012).

      [89].   About LINC, Leading Into New Communities, http://www.lincnc.org
/AboutLINC/tabid/57/Default.aspx (last visited Mar. 23, 2012).

      [90].   The Harlem Children’s Zone was created by Geoffrey Canada.  See generally Geoffrey Canada, Reaching Up for Manhood: Transforming the Lives of Boys in America (1998) (discussing the effects of growing up in the inner-city).

      [91].   E-mail from Tufanna Thomas, Strategic Dir., New Hanover Cnty. Blue Ribbon Comm’n on the Prevention of Youth Violence, to author (Apr. 3, 2012, 16:11 EST) (on file with author).

      [92].   See Amanda Greene, Superintendent Recommends Virgo Middle School Be Shuttered, StarNews Online (Feb. 16, 2011), http://www.starnewsonline.com/article/20110216/ARTICLES/110219727; Amanda Greene, Virgo Middle to Close, Reopen As Charter or Magnet School, StarNews Online (May 17, 2011), http://www.starnewsonline.com/article
/20110517/ARTICLES/110519640.

      [93].   Greene, Virgo Middle to Close, Reopen As Charter or Magnet School, supra note 92.  The school was named for the first African American principal in the area.  Michael Jordan is counted among the alumni.  Id.

      [94].   Pressley Baird, New Hanover Submits Charter-School Application for Virgo Middle, StarNews Online (Nov. 30, 2011), http://www.starnewsonline.com/article/20111130/ARTICLES/111139991 (stating that New Hanover County Schools submitted a fast-track application to charter D.C. Virgo and that a successful application would allow the school to open in the fall of 2012).  But see Editorial, Virgo’s Success Will Require Strong, Competent Leadership and Public Support, StarNews Online (Jan. 5, 2012), http://www.starnewsonline.com/article/20120105/ARTICLES/120109875 (stating the application for charter school was denied).

      [95].   When my predecessor, John Carriker, joined the district attorney’s office in the early 1970s, our office had only five members.  Three decades later, our office has more than forty people.  See The Team, supra note 12.

      [96].   E-mail from Karen Wood, Deputy Director, N.C. Conference of District Attorneys, to author (Mar. 19, 2012, 9:43 EST) (on file with author).

      [97].   Such reference materials would inevitably include the Prosecutors’ Trial Manual.  See generally Robert L. Farb, North Carolina Prosecutors’ Trial Manual (2000).

      [98].   See Job Opportunities, N.C. Conf. of Dist. Att’ys, http://www.ncdistrictattorney.org/jobopportunities.html (last visited Apr. 14, 2012).

      [99].   See North Carolina Center on Actual Innocence, http://www.nccai.org (last visited Apr. 14, 2012).

    [100].   It is my understanding that Advocates for Justice already provide a free one-year membership and certificate to the highest performing student in the trial practice class at some law schools.  Prosecutors should provide this similar level of support.

    [101].

The [prosecutor] is the representative not of an ordinary party to a controversy, but of a sovereignty whose obligation to govern impartially is as compelling as its obligation to govern at all; and whose interest, therefore, in a criminal prosecution is not that it shall win a case, but that justice shall be done.  As such, he is in a peculiar and very definite sense the servant of the law, the twofold aim of which is that guilt shall not escape or innocence suffer.

Berger v. United States, 295 U.S. 78, 88 (1935).

    [102].   See Criminal Prosecution Clinic, Stan. L. Sch., http://www.law.stanford.edu/program/clinics/criminalprosecution/ (last visited Apr. 16, 2012) (“The Criminal Prosecution Clinic helps students learn what it means to act morally with power.  Prosecutors are the system’s front line of defense against wrongful convictions.  If the evidence to convict isn’t there—or wasn’t gotten legally—the prosecutor can drop the case before it ever reaches a judge or jury.”); see also The Law Clerk Internship Program at Santa Clara District Attorney’s Office, Santa Clara L. (Oct. 4, 2011, 9:21 EST), http://law.scu.edu/blog/lcs/the-law-clerk-internship-program-at-santa-clara-district-attorneys-office.cfm (implementing a similar program to Stanford’s program).

    [103].   See N.C. Const. art. I, § 37.

    [104].   The recent shooting death of Florida teenager Trayvon Martin has sparked a national dialogue about race and justice.  Ironically, just days before this incident, I was teaching officers from the Wrightsville Beach Police Department about the case of State v. Joe, 711 S.E.2d 842 (N.C. Ct. App. 2011), where a suspect, who was wearing a hoodie and acting evasively, did not give officers the right to detain him under the Fourth Amendment because there was no “reasonable suspicion” to believe that a crime had occurred.

    [105].   A recent example is State v. Taylor, No. 91 CRS 71728 (Sup. Ct. Wake County Feb. 17, 2010).  In that case, a defendant’s murder conviction was overturned.  Id.  Discrepancies in the way the SBI reported its blood spatter results led to a call for an examination of almost two hundred cases statewide.  None of the other defendants were found to be innocent in the examination, and yet district attorneys were roundly accused of protecting convictions and coaching SBI agents.

    [106].   The court system received about $480 million in 2011, or roughly two percent of the annual state budget, and will be cut by $40 million in the 2012–2013 fiscal year.  See Office of State Budget & Mgmt., Office of the Governor, Governor’s Proposed Budget 2011-2013, at 180 (2011), available athttp://www.osbm.state.nc.us/files/pdf_files/budget2011-13_web_corrected.pdf.

    [107].   The starting salary for an assistant district attorney in my office is $40,000 per year.  The starting salary for new associates at Kilpatrick Townsend & Stockton is $130,000 per year.  Kilpatrick Townsend & Stockton LLP, FindLaw’s Information, http://www.infirmation.com/shared/lss/one-payscale.tcl?employer_id=GA0280  (information as of Mar. 2007) (last visited Mar. 4, 2012).

    [108].   See David Segal, What They Don’t Teach Law Students: Lawyering, N.Y. Times, Nov. 19, 2011, at A1.

    [109].   The North Carolina legislature recently reallocated $17.5 million of the Golden Leaf Foundation’s budget to reduce the overall state budget shortfall.  SeeRichard Craver, Golden Leaf Foundation May Be Less Effective, Winston-Salem J. (July 5, 2011), http://www.journalnow.com/news/2011/jul/05
/wsmain01-foundation-may-be-less-effective-ar-1179245/.

    [110].   The newest freeway heading into Wilmington is named for the first district attorney of the modern era, John Burney.  See Ben Steelman, Civic Leader John Jay Burney Jr. Dies at 85, StarNews Online (Apr. 10, 2010), http://www.starnewsonline.com/article/20100410/ARTICLES/100419986.  Burney also graduated from Wake Forest School of Law in 1951 and served as district attorney for almost ten years.  Id.  The courthouse where I work is named for his successor, W. Allen Cobb. See Oliver Carter III, Better Know a Judicial District 5th Judicial District: New Hanover and Pender Counties, N.C. B. Ass’n (Mar. 28, 2011), http://younglawyers.ncbar.org/newsletters
/theadvocatemarch2011/judicialdistrict.aspx.

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