The Right To Due Process

The Right to
Due Process
Edited by Kimberly Troisi-Paton
Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 2018 with funding from
Kahle/Austin Foundation
https://archive.org/details/righttodueprocesOOOOunse
The Bill of Rights
The Right to
Due Process
The Bill of Rights
The Right to
Due Process
Other books in this series:
Freedom from Cruel and Unusual Punishment
Freedom from Unfair Searches and Seizures
Freedom of Religion
Freedom of Speech
Freedom of the Press
The Right to a Fair Trial
The Right to a Trial by Jury
The Right to Bear Arms
The Bill of Rights m
The Right to
Due Process
Edited by Kimberly Troisi-Paton
Bruce Glassman, Vice President

Bonnie Szumski, Publisher
Helen Cothran, Managing Editor
Scott Barbour, Series Editor
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
The right to due process / Kimberly Troisi-Paton, book editor.

p. cm. — (Bill of rights)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 0-7377-1941-9 (lib. : alk. paper)
1. Due process of law—United States—History. I. Troisi-Paton, Kimberly.
II. Bill of Rights (San Diego, Calif.)
KF4765.R544 2005
347.73'5—dc22 2005040253
Printed in the United States of America

.
e Bill af Rights CONTENTS
Foreword 11
Introduction 14
Chapter 1: The History of the Right

to Due Process
1. The Origins and Evolution of Due Process
by John V. Orth 21
A law professor summarizes the history of the
right to due process and its evolution into two
doctrines—procedural due process and sub¬
stantive due process.
2. A Colonial Law Guaranteeing Due Process

by the General Assembly of Maryland 27
The text of an early law demonstrates how
important the concept of due process was to
the colonists.
Chapter 2: Due Process and the Rights

of Accused Criminals
1. Protection Against Double Jeopardy Is Not
a Fundamental Right
by Benjamin N. Cardozo 30
In Palko v. Connecticut (1937) the Supreme
Court decided that the protection against double
jeopardy was not among the rights that are guar¬
anteed against state infringement by virtue of the
Fourteenth Amendment.
2. The Court Expands the Right to Counsel

by Anthony Lewis 36
A Pulitzer prize-winning journalist writes about
Gideon v. Wainwright (1963), the landmark
Supreme Court case that guaranteed the right
to counsel.
3. The Court Establishes the Miranda Rights

by Earl Warren 43
In Miranda v. Arizona (1966) the Supreme Court

protected the rights of accused criminals who are
under interrogation.
4. Due Process Protects the Rights of

Juveniles
byAbeFortas 56
In re Gault (1967) applied basic due process
protections to children for the first time.
Chapter 3: Due Process and Civil

Liberties
1. Due Process Protects the Liberty of
Contract
by Rufus Peckham 68
In Lochner u. New York (1905) the Supreme

Court decided that the Fourteenth Amendment
protected the right of employers and workers
to establish working conditions without legal
interference.
2. Due Process Prohibits Racial Segregation

in Schools
by Earl Warren 78
In Bolling u. Sharpe (1954), a companion case to
Brown u. Board of Education, the Supreme Court
ruled against racial segregation in the Washing¬
ton, D.C., schools, based on the Fifth Amend¬
ment’s due process clause.
3. The Court Infers a Right to Privacy in the

Fourteenth Amendment
b y Jerry Goldman 81
A political scientist comments about one of the
most controversial cases in the history of Su¬
preme Court jurisprudence, Roe v. Wade (1973).
The Court ruled that, based on an inferred right
to privacy, a woman has the right to an abortion.
4. Due Process Guarantees Fair Procedures,

Not Substantive Rights
by John Hart Ely
A law professor criticizes the Supreme Court’s

doctrine of substantive due process.
5. Due Process Prohibits Government Control

of Personal Relationships
by Anthony Kennedy
Lawrence v. Texas (2003) specifically overturned

Bowers v. Hardwick, the Court’s 1986 decision
that the privacy interests of homosexuals were
not protected by the due process clause.
Chapter 4: Current Issues and

Perspectives
1. “Enemy Combatants” Are Entitled
to Due Process Protections
by Sandra Day O’Connor
In Hamdi v. Rumsfeld (2004) the Supreme Court

determined that a United States citizen who is
detained in the United States as an “enemy com¬
batant” is entitled to due process.
2. Ensuring Due Process for Detained

Terror Suspects
by Thomas F. Powers
A political science professor proposes a policy of

preventive detention, which would allow the U.S.
government to detain suspected terrorists even
without enough evidence to prosecute them in
a court of law.
3. Even a Tyrant Is Entitled to Due Process

by Robert Scheer
A journalist opines that even Saddam Hussein is

entitled to more due process than he is receiving
since being captured in Iraq by U.S. soldiers.
Appendix
The Origins of the American Bill of Rights 123
Supreme Court Cases Involving the Right

to Due Process 126
For Further Research 132
Index 134
FOREWORD
“I cannot agree with those who think of the Bill of Rights

as an 18th century straight jacket, unsuited for this age.
. . . The evils it guards against are not only old, they are
with us now, they exist today. ”
—Hugo Black, associate justice of the
U.S. Supreme Court, 1937-1971
T he Bill of Rights codifies the freedoms most essential to

American democracy. Freedom of speech, freedom of reli¬
gion, the right to bear arms, the right to a trial by a jury of
one’s peers, the right to be free from cruel and unusual pun¬
ishment—these are just a few of the liberties that the Found¬
ing Fathers thought it necessary to spell out in the first ten
amendments to the U.S. Constitution.
While the document itself is quite short (consisting of
fewer than five hundred words), and while the liberties it
protects often seem straightforward, the Bill of Rights has
been a source of debate ever since its creation. Throughout
American history, the rights the document protects have
been tested and reinterpreted. Again and again, individuals
perceiving violations of their rights have sought redress in
the courts. The courts in turn have struggled to decipher the
original intent of the founders as well as the need to accom¬
modate changing societal norms and values.
The ultimate responsibility for addressing these claims
has fallen to the U.S. Supreme Court. As the highest court
in the nation, it is the Supreme Court’s role to interpret the
Constitution. The Court has considered numerous cases in
which people have accused government of impinging on their
rights. In the process, the Court has established a body of
case law and precedents that have, in a sense, defined the
Bill of Rights. In doing so, the Court has often reversed itself
and introduced new ideas and approaches that have altered
11
12 The Right to Due Process
the legal meaning of the rights contained in the Bill of

Rights. As a general rule, the Court has erred on the side of
caution, upholding and expanding the rights of individuals
rather than restricting them.
An example of this trend is the definition of cruel and un¬
usual punishment. The Eighth Amendment specifically
states, “Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive
fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted.”
However, over the years the Court has had to grapple with
defining what constitutes “cruel and unusual punishment.”
In colonial America, punishments for crimes included brand¬
ing, the lopping off of ears, and whipping. Indeed, these pun¬
ishments were considered lawful at the time the Bill of
Rights was written. Obviously, none of these punishments
are legal today. In order to justify outlawing certain types of
punishment that are deemed repugnant by the majority of
citizens, the Court has ruled that it must consider the pre¬
vailing opinion of the masses when making such decisions.
In overturning the punishment of a man stripped of his citi¬
zenship, the Court stated in 1958 that it must rely on soci¬
ety’s “evolving standards of decency” when determining what
constitutes cruel and unusual punishment. Thus the defini¬
tion of cruel and unusual is not frozen to include only the
types of punishment that were illegal at the time of the fram¬
ing of the Bill of Rights; specific modes of punishment can be
rejected as society deems them unjust.
Another way that the Courts have interpreted the Bill of
Rights to expand individual liberties is through the process
of “incorporation.” Prior to the passage of the Fourteenth
Amendment, the Bill of Rights was thought to prevent only
the federal government from infringing on the rights listed
in the document. However, the Fourteenth Amendment,
which was passed in the wake of the Civil War, includes the
words, “. . . nor shall any state deprive any person of life, lib¬
erty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any
person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the
laws.” Citing this passage, the Court has ruled that many of
the liberties contained in the Bill of Rights apply to state and
local governments as well as the federal government. This
Foreword 13
process of incorporation laid the legal foundation for the civil

rights movement—most specifically the 1954 Brown u. Board
of Education ruling that put an end to legalized segregation.
As these examples reveal, the Bill of Rights is not static.
It truly is a living document that is constantly being reinter¬
preted and redefined. The Bill of Rights series captures this
vital aspect of one of America’s most cherished founding texts.
Each volume in the series focuses on one particular right pro¬
tected in the Bill of Rights. Through the use of primary and
secondary sources, the right’s evolution is traced from colo¬
nial times to the present. Primary sources include landmark
Supreme Court rulings, speeches by prominent experts, and
editorials. Secondary sources include historical analyses, law
journal articles, book excerpts, and magazine articles. Each
book also includes several features to facilitate research, in¬
cluding a bibliography, an annotated table of contents, an
annotated list of relevant Supreme Court cases, an introduc¬
tion, and an index. These elements help to make the Bill of
Rights series a fascinating and useful tool for examining the
fundamental liberties of American democracy.
INTRODUCTION
N o person shall be deprived “of life, liberty, or property,

without due process of law.” This is a concept so critical
to the notion of democracy in the United States that it ap¬
pears twice in the amendments to the Constitution: first, in
the Fifth Amendment, ratified with the initial Bill of Rights
in 1791; then, in the Fourteenth Amendment, ratified after
the Civil War in 1868. Yet in neither of those places are the
various components of the phrase clearly defined. For better
or worse, this lack of clarity has left the interpretation of
“due process” subject to the prevailing societal norms of any
given moment in history. As a result, as stated by former
Supreme Court justice Benjamin N. Cardozo, the constitu¬
tional guarantee of due process truly “varies from age to age.”1
Procedural Due Process

Early attempts to define due process focused on the latter
part of the guarantee—no deprivation of rights should occur
“without due process of law.” The Supreme Court examined
the procedures that were used as a means to any given legal
end, such as the legal procedures used to collect debts or to
punish criminals. The Court performed an analysis of the
procedures at issue and created a body of law now known as
“procedural due process” cases. With the first procedural due
process cases, great frustration arose from the fact that, in the
words of former Supreme Court justice Benjamin R. Curtis,
the “constitution contains no description of those processes
which it was intended to allow or forbid. It does not even de¬
clare what principles are to be applied to ascertain whether
it be due process.”2
At first the Court determined that a procedure generally
constituted due process if the procedure did not violate the
Constitution and was similar to procedures used in Eng¬
land. Later, the Court simplified this analysis by dropping
14
Introduction 15
the comparison to English law. In Hurtado v. California

(1884), due process was defined as “any legal proceeding en¬
forced by public authority ... in furtherance of the general
public good, which regards and preserves . . . principles of
liberty and justice.”3 In the 1937 case Palko v. Connecticut,
the Court further modified this test by asking whether the
legal proceeding in question was “implicit in the concept of
ordered liberty” such that it involved one of the “fundamen¬
tal principles of liberty and justice which lie at the base of all
our civil and political institutions.”4 In other words, the Court
ruled that a procedure would only be considered a violation
of due process if it impinged on a right that the Court deemed
“fundamental.”
Over time, the Court essentially has created a checklist of
procedural elements that make up proper process. The list in¬
cludes such protections as appropriate notice of an impending
legal action, proper opportunity for all parties to have their
sides of the case heard, an opportunity to be represented by
counsel, and a hearing before a neutral judge or other deci¬
sion maker. However, this focus on a procedural analysis cre¬
ated results that probably would not be acceptable under
today’s due process standards. For example, in 1927 the Court
examined a Virginia law that permitted the sterilization of
institutionalized mental health patients in a case called Buck
v. Bell. Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes, one of the most es¬
teemed jurists of all time, found that a court order calling for
the sterilization of an institutionalized eighteen-year-old
woman was proper. The Court determined that adequate legal
procedures were in place, including a hearing on notice. Not¬
ing the woman’s family history of mental illness, Holmes in¬
famously commented, “Three generations of imbeciles are
enough.”5 Under the standards applied at the time, the insti¬
tutionalized woman had received due process.
Substantive Due Process

Later cases departed from this procedural analysis and fo¬
cused on the first part of the due process guarantee—protec¬
tion against deprivation of “life, liberty, or property.” The
Court began to focus on the end result of a legal proceeding
(the substance of the case) and not just the means to it (the
procedure). The attempt to define the various substantive
rights at stake is now known as “substantive due process.”
Substantive due process analysis brought with it problems
similar to the early procedural due process cases. The partic¬
ular rights at issue were not mentioned anywhere in the Con¬
stitution. Rather, they were grounded in the concepts
protected by due process—life, liberty, and property. However,
the concepts of liberty and property also were not clearly ex¬
plained in the text of the Constitution. As Cardozo states:
Liberty is not defined. Its limits are not mapped and

charted. How shall they be known? Does liberty mean
the same thing for successive generations? May re¬
straints that were arbitrary yesterday be useful and
rational and therefore lawful today? May restraints
that are arbitrary today become useful and rational
and therefore lawful tomorrow? I have no doubt that
the answer to these [last two] questions must be yes.6
Cardozo’s questions strike at the heart of the due process

quandary—due process and its substantive and procedural
components mean different things to different people. And
history has proven his answer correct.
Today, substantive due process analysis is both criticized
and lauded as “creating” new rights. For instance, recent sub¬
stantive due process cases have focused on individual auton¬
omy, or privacy, as an important liberty interest. Privacy is a
liberty not delineated anywhere in the Constitution. Yet the
privacy interest today includes rights that were not even ac¬
knowledged by the Court only decades ago: the right of all in¬
dividuals to use contraception, of women to obtain an abortion,
of competent patients to refuse life-sustaining medical treat¬
ment, and of same-sex couples to engage in sexual relation¬
ships. Many Americans cannot envision a world without these
rights, while many others wish these rights still did not exist.
The Evolution of Liberty and Due Process

At times the evolution of liberty interests in the face of vary¬
ing public viewpoints has required the Court to overrule its
Introduction 17
own precedent. For example, in the 1986 case Bowers u.

Hardwick the Court determined that the due process clauses
do not create a privacy right for homosexuals in consensual
relationships. In 2003 the Court considered the same issue
and specifically overruled Bowers, granting a privacy right to
same-sex couples. Calling to mind Judge Cardozo’s comments
on liberty, the Court stated in Lawrence u. Texas:
Had those who drew and ratified the Due Process

Clauses of the Fifth Amendment or the Fourteenth
Amendment known the components of liberty in its
manifold possibilities, they might have been more spe¬
cific. They did not presume to have this insight. They
knew times can blind us to certain truths and later
generations can see that laws once thought necessary
and proper in fact serve only to oppress. As the Consti¬
tution endures, persons in every generation can invoke
its principles in their own search for greater freedom.7
Given the consistent expansion of the privacy interest in the

past few decades, it is not surprising that the Court overruled
its prior Bowers decision. Indeed, it is likely that if today’s
Court examined a case such as Buck v. Bell, the original result
would no longer be acceptable on substantive due process
grounds, no matter what the procedural provisions in place.
Yet, despite the recent emphasis on substantive due
process, procedural due process is still an indispensable com¬
ponent of the Constitution’s guarantees. The Court experi¬
enced a renewed focus on procedure in the summer of 2004
when it heard several cases involving individuals detained at
the U.S. Naval Station at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. The indi¬
viduals, labeled “enemy combatants” by the U.S. government,
were being held but not necessarily charged with a specific
crime in the aftermath of the events of September 11, 2001,
and the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. The complainants ar¬
gued that they should not be detained without access to an
attorney or a trial. The government responded that adequate
process had been provided to the detainees, considering the
national security issues at stake and the government’s right
to restrict wartime access to the court system.
In what is possibly the most significant of these cases,

Hamdi v. Rumsfeld, the Supreme Court reached a plurality
decision, which means that no single opinion of the Court
carried a majority of the nine justices. The fractured Hamdi
Court demonstrated that due process can vary not only from
age to age, but also from justice to justice. The plurality opin¬
ion, which permitted an “enemy combatant” detainee the
chance to contest the detention before a neutral decision
maker, emphasized the importance of upholding individual
rights even in times of national crisis: “It is during our most
challenging and uncertain moments that our Nation’s com¬
mitment to due process is most severely tested; and it is in
those times that we must preserve our commitment at home
to the principles for which we fight abroad.”8
The Right Balance

The due process cases from 2004 demonstrate why the law
must be embodied both with principles that remain un¬
changed throughout history as well as flexible, fluid concepts
that cannot have static and ironclad definitions. The framers
of the Constitution could not have envisioned the cata¬
strophic events of September 11, yet the fundamental princi¬
ples for which they struggled to find words have given
Americans the tools to cope with the results of that day.
While disagreement about due process may fuel debate
about procedure and substance in perpetuity, this disagree¬
ment is constructive. The challenge is to strike the right bal¬
ance between holding fast to the framers’ perceived original
intent and applying that intent to new, unique circum¬
stances. The Court’s task is to honor the principles embodied
in a document that has been successful in preserving free¬
dom for over two hundred years, while modifying the compo¬
nent parts to meet the expectations of each subsequent
generation.
Notes
1. Benjamin N. Cardozo, The Nature of the Judicial Process: The Storrs Lectures
Delivered at Yale University. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1921, p. 83.
Introduction 19
2. Benjamin R. Curtis, Murray’s Lessee v. Hoboken Land & Improvement Co.,

1855.
3. Stanley Matthews, Hurtado v. California, 1884.
4. Benjamin N. Cardozo, Palko v. Connecticut, 1937.
5. Oliver Wendell Holmes, Buck v. Bell, 1927.
6. Cardozo, The Nature of the Judicial Process, pp. 76-77.
7. Anthony Kennedy, Lawrence v. Texas, 2003.
8. Sandra Day O’Connor, Hamdi v. Rumsfeld, 2004.
CHAPTER ONE
The History of the

Right to Due Process
The Bill of Rights gfjj|

The Origins and Evolution
of Due Process
John V. Orth
John V. Orth is a professor of law at the University of North

Carolina, Chapel Hill. He has authored several books and
articles about judicial power in the United States. His publi¬
cations have been cited by many courts, including the U.S.
Supreme Court.
The following selection is excerpted from the introductory
chapter of Orth’s book Due Process of Law: A Brief History.
Orth summarizes the history behind the Constitution’s due
process clauses and touches on the major issues that have
arisen since the U.S. Supreme Court began to apply the
clauses. Orth demonstrates how, from the seemingly simple
phrase “due process of law,” two doctrines of due process
have evolved. These two doctrines are known as procedural
due process and substantive due process. The doctrine of pro¬
cedural due process holds that fair procedures must be fol¬
lowed in both criminal and civil cases in order to ensure the
rights of individuals. The doctrine of substantive due process
holds that there are fundamental rights that are not explic¬
itly stated in the Constitution.
O ne of the most frequently asked questions in American

constitutional history has been, what is required by the
constitutional guarantee of “due process of law”? The phrase
appears twice in the U.S. Constitution—in the Fifth Amend¬
ment in the Bill of Rights, which prohibits the federal govern¬
ment from depriving any person of “life, liberty, or property,
without due process of law,” and in the Fourteenth Amendment,
John V. Orth, Due Process of Law: A Brief History. Lawrence: University Press of
Kansas, 2003. Copyright © 2003 by the University Press of Kansas. All rights reserved.
Reproduced by permission.
21
adopted almost one hundred years later in the aftermath of

the Civil War, which extends the same prohibition to the
states: “No State shall . . . deprive any person of life, liberty,
or property, without due process of law.” What exactly does
due process require? . . .
Can a law make a man a judge in his own case? Can a law
take the property of A and give it to B? These questions more
than any others were used over the centuries to illuminate
the demands of due process. They are not questions asked
only in American law; they can arise in any legal system. And
“due process of law” was not a phrase invented by American
constitution-writers: it was picked up by them from the rich
tradition of English constitutionalism in which they were
formed. From this perspective, the War of American Indepen¬
dence can be regarded as a civil war within the British Em¬
pire over the meaning and future course of the British
constitution. Unlike their French counterparts a few years
later, American Revolutionaries did not lay claim to “the
rights of man” but to “the rights of Englishmen.”
The Law of the Land

English rights were first memorably expressed in Magna
Carta in 1215. Among many other things, the notorious King
John was forced by his rebellious barons to promise that “nul-
lus liber homo capiatur, vel imprisonetur, aut disseisiatur, aut
utlagetur, aut exulatur, aut aliquo modo destruatur, nec super
eum ibimus, nec super eum mittemus, nisi per legale judicium
parium suorum vel per legem terrae” (no free man shall be
taken or imprisoned or disseised or outlawed or exiled, or in
any way ruined, nor will we go or send against him, except by
the lawful judgment of his peers or by the law of the land).
What exactly that meant in the Middle Ages is not completely
clear, and scholars continue to debate the point. Over the en¬
suing centuries, Magna Carta was even lost sight of temporar¬
ily, but in the constitutional controversies of the seventeenth
century, as other English monarchs encroached on English lib¬
erties, it was rediscovered and gained renewed prominence.
Sir Edward Coke, a contemporary of . . . [English author
William] Shakespeare, wrote influential commentaries on
The History of the Right to Due Process 23
English statutes, restating and in the process enlarging the

demands of Magna Carta: the “law of the land,” Coke said,
meant the common law, and the common law required “due
process.” The earliest American state constitutions clung to
the words of the Great Charter and safeguarded the “law of
the land”; a few of them still do. But the drafters of the fed¬
eral Bill of Rights opted for Coke’s phrase, and “due process
of law” has been standard American usage ever since. Most
state constitutions today follow the federal example, and
those that continue to guarantee the “law of the land” are
routinely interpreted to require the same thing.
In its English origin the guarantee of due process (or the
law of the land) was a restraint on the sovereign: before King
John or his royal officers could take action against a person,
certain procedures had to be followed, procedures designed
to ensure fairness. Fair procedures are still at the heart of
due process today; in modern parlance they are often ex¬
pressed by the somewhat different phrase, “the rule of law.”
Although a number of elements constitute the rule of law,
the procedural essentials can be encapsulated in the require¬
ment of an accessible, impartial, and effective decision maker
or, to put it simply, a good judge. Can a law make a man a
judge in his own case? The question can be used to test the
procedural fairness of any legal system by highlighting one
of its most essential features, whether cases are decided by
an independent decision maker, one with no personal stake
in the outcome and no fear of retribution from the powers
that be if the case is decided one way or the other. It can be
used to test, in other words, whether the system guarantees
the rule of law; in the common law system it signifies respect
for the traditional procedures of the “law of the land” or “due
process of law.”
The Substantive Part of Due Process

Six hundred and fifty years after Magna Carta, in the last
quarter of the nineteenth century, due process in America
had come to include significant constitutional limitations on
legislative power as well. No longer exclusively concerned
with how the executive proceeded, due process had developed
a concern with what the legislature did; that is, due process
had acquired a substantive dimension. The U.S. Supreme
Court justice Samuel Miller had the historical perspective to
recognize the contrast. In 1878 in Davidson v. New Orleans
he wrote on behalf of the Court: “It is easy to see that when
the great barons of England wrung from King John, at the
point of the sword, the concession that neither their lives nor
their property should be disposed of by the crown, except as
provided by the law of the land, they meant by Taw of the
land’ the ancient and customary [procedural] laws of the Eng¬
lish people, or laws enacted by the [local] Parliament of which
those barons were a controlling element. It was not in their
minds, therefore to protect themselves against the enactment
of [substantive] laws by the [national] Parliament of Eng¬
land.” But, he continued, the Fourteenth Amendment di¬
rected the Supreme Court’s attention to action by the states.
“Can a State make anything due process of law which, by its
own legislation, it chooses to declare such?” he asked rhetori¬
cally, and promptly answered on behalf of his brethren: “To
affirm this is to hold that the prohibition to the States is of
no avail, or has no application where the invasion of private
rights is effected under the forms of State legislation. It
seems to us that a statute which declares in terms, and with¬
out more, that the full and exclusive title of a described piece
of land, which is now in A, shall be and is hereby vested in B,
would, if effectual, deprive A of his property without due
process of law, within the meaning of the constitutional pro¬
vision.” Taking from A and giving to B had become, in other
words, the shorthand to describe what substantive due
process was designed to prevent. As one modern scholar
[John Harrison] put it, quoting Davidson, the A-to-B para¬
digm was “every nineteenth century lawyer’s favorite exam¬
ple of an unconstitutional statute—albeit one that was
unconstitutional for various different reasons.”
Making a man a judge in his own case was a bad thing,
all could agree. So was taking from A and giving to B, but
what the problem was exactly was not so clear. A great many
cases, some of them quite different, could be comprehended
within the seemingly simple A-to-B paradigm, and that am-
The History of the Right to Due Process 25
biguity allowed a good deal of out-of-sight judicial develop¬

ment. At first, the taking was assumed to involve A’s prop¬
erty: the classic formula was, in fact, as Justice Miller put it,
a law that took A’s land and gave it to B. Law has always
been about power, and in medieval England, at the origin of
the common law, power was intimately tied up with land
ownership, so the early common law showed a precocious in¬
terest in property. For centuries, land law remained at the
center of things, elaborated into an increasingly complex sys¬
tem with its own vocabulary and concepts, some of them
quite fantastic. But property was never confined to land, and
as concepts of property expanded over time to include a host
of intangible interests, so did the scope of due process.
The Changing Nature of Substantive Rights

Beginning in the eighteenth century, in the years before the
American Revolution, the common law was forced to confront
new economic arrangements with momentous consequences
for the distribution of power within society. International
trade, spurred by Britain’s world-girdling empire, required
the organization of production and the transportation of
goods over vast distances. Frontier conditions in America put
unheard of amounts of land on the market, much of it pur¬
chased on installment contracts or with complicated loan
agreements. In the mobilization of the new productive forces,
contract assumed an importance that was to rival, if not sur¬
pass, property; wealth and power now lay in agreements as
much as in ownership. As the emphasis of the common law
shifted from property to contract, so the cases involving due
process shifted as well. If the law was to protect contract as
zealously as it protected property, a new view of due process
was required. Liberty, it was recalled, was covered as well as
property, and concern about taking away A’s property was
soon rivaled by concern about taking away A’s liberty, specifi¬
cally As liberty to enter into enforceable agreements or, as it
was more commonly called, A’s freedom of contract.
The shift from property to contract by no means marked
the end of the story. In time, as experience with takings ac¬
cumulated, it appeared that what was taken and who got it
were less important than that any kind of taking had oc¬
curred. The new focus on individual agreement had redi¬
rected attention away from things and toward persons.
Liberated from a preoccupation with property, the law in¬
creasingly recognized less tangible interests, at first in labor
but later in private matters such as reproductive rights. In
the twentieth century, as the emphasis in the law shifted
from contract to civil rights, so the cases shifted from con¬
cern with interfering with As freedom of contract to concern
with interfering with A’s freedom in other regards.
Beginning as the history of proper procedure, the history
of due process became the history of substantive guarantees
as well. Procedure is a perennial concern of the courts, but
substance varies with the times, as economic and social de¬
mands come and go.
A Colonial Law Guaranteeing
Due Process
General Assembly of Maryland
As colonial Americans struggled to establish their autonomy

from the British Crown, Virginia took the lead in creating a
system of self-government with an elected legislature in 1606.
Massachusetts followed in 1629, then Maryland in 1632. The
charters that established these governing systems were basic
statements that the colonists were entitled to the same rights
as their English counterparts across the Atlantic.
With their legislatures in place, the colonists were then
able to clarify exactly what their rights were. In 1639 the
General Assembly of Maryland passed a law entitled An Act
for the Liberties of the People. The act specifically provided
for due process; no colonist would lose liberty or property un¬
less the loss occurred according to the laws of the province of
Maryland. It was a simple law that created a significant
guarantee. Some commentators have even called the act the
first American Bill of Rights.
B e it Enacted By the Lord Proprietarie of this Province of

and with the advice and approbation of the freemen of
the same that all the Inhabitants of this Province being
Christians (Slaves excepted) Shall have and enjoy all such
rights liberties immunities priviledges and free customs
within this Province as any naturall born subject of England
hath or ought to have or enjoy in the Realm of England by
force or vertue of the common law or Statute Law of England
(saveing in such Cases as the same are or may be altered or
changed by the Laws and ordinances of this Province)
General Assembly of Maryland, An Act for the Liberties of the People, 1639.
27
And Shall not be imprisoned nor disseissed or dispos¬

sessed of their freehold goods or Chattels or be out Lawed
Exiled or otherwise destroyed fore judged or punished then
according to the Laws of this province saveing to the Lord
proprietarie and his heirs all his rights and prerogatives by
reason of his domination and Seigniory over this Province
and the people of the same This Act to Continue till the end
of the next Generali Assembly
Due Process and
the Rights of
Accused Criminals
The Bill of Rights ;§f|l:

Protection Against Double
Jeopardy Is Not a
Fundamental Right
Benjamin N. Cardozo
The following selection was excerpted from the 1937 Supreme

Court opinion in Palko v. Connecticut. At Frank Palko’s trial
for first-degree murder, the jury had returned a verdict of
guilty on a count of second-degree murder. The difference in
a degree was huge—it meant life in prison instead of a death
sentence for Palko. The prosecutor for the state of Connecti¬
cut appealed the verdict, citing several errors of law that he
believed had occurred at the trial. A Connecticut state law al¬
lowed the prosecution to make such an appeal. One of the al¬
leged errors involved the judge’s instructions to the jury about
the difference between first- and second-degree murder.
Palko was retried. At the second trial he objected that the
new trial placed him in “double jeopardy,” in violation of the
Fifth Amendment, which forbids trying a suspect twice for
the same crime. However, the Fifth Amendment places lim¬
its on the federal government, and Palko was being tried by
a state government. Accordingly, Palko hinged his double
jeopardy argument on the due process clause of the Four¬
teenth Amendment. The language of that amendment pro¬
vides, “nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty,
or property without due process of law.” Palko argued that
this language meant that if the federal government cannot
place someone in double jeopardy, then a state government
cannot either.
Unfortunately for Palko, no courts agreed with him. The
trial court overruled his objection, and the second trial pro¬
ceeded. Palko was convicted of first-degree murder and ap-
Benjamin N. Cardozo, opinion, Palko v. Connecticut, 302 U.S. 319, December 6, 1937.
30
Due Process and the Rights of Accused Criminals 31
pealed all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court. The Court re¬
fused to overturn his conviction in 1937, and Palko was exe¬
cuted in 1938.
Justice Benjamin N. Cardozo wrote the opinion in Palko v.
Connecticut. Having previously served as the chief judge on
the New York Court of Appeals and written volumes on the
nature of the judicial process, Justice Cardozo was one of the
most scholarly, influential, and respected judges of the twen¬
tieth century.
In Palko, Cardozo sorted through the case law to date in
an effort to resolve the question of “incorporation.” At issue
was whether, in light of the Fourteenth Amendment, the Bill
of Rights protects citizens from state government actions in
the same way that it protects them from federal government
actions. Cardozo’s answer was that only those rights in the
Bill of Rights that involve certain fundamental principles
that are essential to the preservation of ordered liberty are
to be applied by incorporation against the states. At the time,
freedom from double jeopardy was not considered a funda¬
mental right as compared to other rights, such as the First
Amendment’s speech-related freedoms. Furthermore, Car¬
dozo reasoned that the state’s right to have a trial free from
legal error is just as important as a defendant’s right to an
error-free trial.
Cardozo’s attempt to define which rights were fundamen¬
tal remains one of the clearest articulations of a very com¬
plex doctrine. However, over the next several decades his
seemingly firm distinctions blurred as the law of criminal
procedure evolved one case at a time.
T he argument for appellant is that whatever is forbidden

by the Fifth Amendment is forbidden by the Fourteenth
also. The Fifth Amendment, which is not directed to the
States, but solely to the federal government, creates immu¬
nity from double jeopardy. No person shall be ‘subject for the
same offense to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb.’ The
Fourteenth Amendment ordains, ‘nor shall any State deprive
any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of
law.’ To retry a defendant, . . . subjects him, it is said, to dou¬

ble jeopardy in violation of the Fifth Amendment, if the pros¬
ecution is one on behalf of the United States. From this the
consequence is said to follow that there is a denial of life or
liberty without due process of law, if the prosecution is one
on behalf of the people of a state.
We do not find it profitable to mark the precise limits of
the prohibition of double jeopardy in federal prosecutions.
The subject was much considered in Kepner u. United States,
decided in 1904 by a closely divided court. The view was
there expressed for a majority of the court that the prohibi¬
tion was not confined to jeopardy in a new and independent
case. It forbade jeopardy in the same case if the new trial was
at the instance of the government and not upon defendant’s
motion. All this may be assumed for the purpose of the case
at hand, though the dissenting opinions show how much was
to be said in favor of a different ruling. Right-minded men,
as we learn from those opinions, could reasonably, even if
mistakenly, believe that a second trial was lawful in prosecu¬
tions subject to the Fifth Amendment, if it was all in the same
case. Even more plainly, right-minded men could reasonably
believe that in espousing that conclusion they were not fa¬
voring a practice repugnant to the conscience of mankind. Is
double jeopardy in such circumstances, if double jeopardy it
must be called, a denial of due process forbidden to the
States? . . .
Only Fundamental Rights Are Protected

from State Infringement
We have said that in appellant’s view the Fourteenth Amend¬
ment is to be taken as embodying the prohibitions of the
Fifth. His thesis is even broader. Whatever would be a viola¬
tion of the original bill of rights (Amendments 1 to 8) if done
by the federal government is now equally unlawful by force
of the Fourteenth Amendment if done by a state. There is no
such general rule.
The Fifth Amendment provides, among other things, that
no person shall be held to answer for a capital or otherwise
infamous crime unless on presentment or indictment of a
grand jury. This court has held that, in prosecutions by a

state, presentment or indictment by a grand jury may give
way to [be replaced by] informations at the instance of a pub¬
lic officer. The Fifth Amendment provides also that no person
shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness
against himself. This court has said that, in prosecutions by
a state, the exemption will fail if the state elects to end it.
The Sixth Amendment calls for a jury trial in criminal cases
and the Seventh for a jury trial in civil cases at common law
where the value in controversy shall exceed $20. This court
has ruled that consistently with those amendments trial by
jury may be modified by a state or abolished altogether.
On the other hand, the due process clause of the Four¬
teenth Amendment may make it unlawful for a state to
abridge by its statutes the freedom of speech which the First
Amendment safeguards against encroachment by the Con¬
gress or the like freedom of the press, or the free exercise of
religion, or the right of peaceable assembly, without which
speech would be unduly trammeled, or the right of one ac¬
cused of crime to the benefit of counsel. In these and other
situations immunities that are valid as against the federal
government by force of the specific pledges of particular
amendments have been found to be implicit in the concept of
ordered liberty, and thus, through the Fourteenth Amend¬
ment, become valid as against the states.
The line of division may seem to be wavering and broken
if there is a hasty catalogue of the cases on the one side and
the other. Reflection and analysis will induce a different view.
There emerges the perception of a rationalizing principle
which gives to discrete instances a proper order and coher¬
ence. The right to trial by jury and the immunity from prose¬
cution except as the result of an indictment may have value
and importance. Even so, they are not of the very essence of
a scheme of ordered liberty. To abolish them is not to violate
[as stated in Synder v. Massachusetts (1934)] a ‘principle of
justice so rooted in the traditions and conscience of our people
as to be ranked as fundamental.’ Few would be so narrow or
provincial as to maintain that a fair and enlightened system
of justice would be impossible without them. What is true of
jury trials and indictments is true also, as the cases show, of

the immunity from compulsory self-incrimination. This too
might be lost, and justice still be done. Indeed, today as in
the past there are students of our penal system who look
upon the immunity as a mischief rather than a benefit, and
who would limit its scope, or destroy it altogether. No doubt
there would remain the need to give protection against tor¬
ture, physical or mental. Justice, however, would not perish
if the accused were subject to a duty to respond to orderly in¬
quiry. The exclusion of these immunities and privileges from
the privileges and immunities protected against the action of
the States has not been arbitrary or casual. It has been dic¬
tated by a study and appreciation of the meaning, the essen¬
tial implications, of liberty itself.
Due Process and Fundamental Rights

We reach a different plane of social and moral values when
we pass to the privileges and immunities that have been
taken over from the earlier articles of the Federal Bill of
Rights and brought within the Fourteenth Amendment by a
process of absorption. These in their origin were effective
against the federal government alone. If the Fourteenth
Amendment has absorbed them, the process of absorption
has had its source in the belief that neither liberty nor jus¬
tice would exist if they were sacrificed. This is true, for illus¬
tration, of freedom of thought and speech. Of that freedom
one may say that it is the matrix, the indispensable condi¬
tion, of nearly every other form of freedom. With rare aberra¬
tions a pervasive recognition of that truth can be traced in
our history, political and legal. So it has come about that the
domain of liberty, withdrawn by the Fourteenth Amendment
from encroachment by the states, has been enlarged by latter-
day judgments to include liberty of the mind as well as lib¬
erty of action. . . . Fundamental too in the concept of due
process, and so in that of liberty, is the thought that condem¬
nation shall be rendered only after trial. The hearing, more¬
over, must be a real one, not a sham or a pretense. For that
reason, ignorant defendants in a capital case were held to
have been condemned unlawfully when in truth, though not
in form, they were refused the aid of counsel. The decision

did not turn upon the fact that the benefit of counsel would
have been guaranteed to the defendants by the provisions of
the Sixth Amendment if they had been prosecuted in a fed¬
eral court. The decision turned upon the fact that in the par¬
ticular situation laid before us in the evidence the benefit of
counsel was essential to the substance of a hearing.
Our survey of the cases serves, we think, to justify the
statement that the dividing line between them, if not unfal¬
tering throughout its course, has been true for the most part
to a unifying principle. On which side of the line the case
made out by the appellant has appropriate location must be
the next inquiry and the final one. Is that kind of double jeop¬
ardy to which the statute has subjected him a hardship so
acute and shocking that our policy will not endure it? Does it
violate those ‘fundamental principles of liberty and justice
which he at the base of all our civil and political institutions’?
[as stated in Hebert v. Louisiana (1926)]. The answer surely
must be ‘no.’ What the answer would have to be if the state
were permitted after a trial free from error to try the accused
over again or to bring another case against him, we have no
occasion to consider. We deal with the statute before us and
no other. The state is not attempting to wear the accused out
by a multitude of cases with accumulated trials. It asks no
more than this, that the case against him shall go on until
there shall be a trial free from the corrosion of substantial
legal error. This is not cruelty at all, nor even vexation in any
immoderate degree. If the trial had been infected with error
adverse to the accused, there might have been review at his
instance, and as often as necessary to purge the vicious taint.
A reciprocal privilege, subject at all times to the discretion of
the presiding judge, has now been granted to the state. There
is here no seismic innovation. The edifice of justice stands,
its symmetry, to many, greater than before.
The Court Expands
the Right to Counsel
Anthony Lewis
In 1962 Clarence Earl Gideon, a repeat felon, appealed his

latest conviction to the U.S. Supreme Court. He complained
that he had requested a lawyer at the time of his trial, but
the trial judge had ignored the request. In short, Gideon be¬
lieved he had been deprived of due process of law because he
could not afford to pay for a lawyer.
In 1963 the U.S. Supreme Court heard the case of Gideon
v. Wainwright. The case was remarkably like a prior case,
Betts v. Brady (1943), in which the Supreme Court had de¬
termined that the Fourteenth Amendment’s due process
clause does not guarantee an attorney in a state criminal
trial. However, Gideon’s top-notch legal team prevailed. In
an opinion authored by Justice Hugo Black (who had writ¬
ten the dissenting opinion in Betts), the prior case was over¬
ruled, and Gideon was granted a new trial. On retrial in
Florida, a court-appointed local lawyer for Gideon hammered
home the question of reasonable doubt with the jury. Gideon
was found not guilty.
Anthony Lewis, a Pulitzer prize-winning journalist, was
covering the Supreme Court at the time Gideon was decided.
In 1963 Lewis won his second Pulitzer for his coverage of the
Court. Shortly thereafter, he published the book Gideon’s
Trumpet, from which this selection is excerpted.
Lewis summarizes Justice Black’s Gideon opinion, which
eviscerated Betts. Betts had determined that the Sixth
Amendment guarantee of the right to counsel is not so fun¬
damental that it should be applied against the states by the
Fourteenth Amendment. Yet Justice Black cited Supreme
Anthony Lewis, Gideon’s Trumpet. New York: Vintage Books, 1964. Copyright © 1964 by
Anthony Lewis and renewed in 1992 by Anthony Lewis. All rights reserved. Reproduced
by permission of Random House, Inc.
36
Court case law, predating Betts, that emphasizes the impor¬

tance of counsel. Aside from the legal precedent that should
have reflected the fundamental nature of the right, Justice
Black believed that “reason and reflection” demonstrate that
a person without a lawyer cannot be assured a fair trial in
the criminal justice system.
|^%n March 18, 1963,] Gideon v. Wainwright was decided.

L\^There was no prior notice; there never is. The Court
gives out no advance press releases and tells no one what
cases will be decided on a particular Monday, much less how
they will be decided. Opinion days have a special quality. The
Supreme Court is one of the last American appellate courts
where decisions are announced orally. The justices, who di¬
vide on so many issues, disagree about this practice, too.
Some regard it as a waste of time; others value it as an occa¬
sion for descending from the ivory tower, however briefly, and
communicating with the live audience in the courtroom.
Techniques of opinion-reading vary, too. Justice [Felix]
Frankfurter never looked at his text but would expound from
memory; once Chief Justice [Earl] Warren irritatedly accused
him of saying things that were not in the opinion. Others
stick closely to the text, and some read brief summaries. Jus¬
tice [Hugo] Black’s technique seems to vary with the opinion;
he gives fuller—and more emotional—treatment to those he
regards as of particular importance.
The reading always begins with the most junior justice who
has an opinion that day. On Monday, March 18th, that was the
newest member of the Court, Justice [Arthur] Goldberg. . . .
[Eventually], in the ascending order of seniority, it was
Justice Black’s turn. He looked at his wife, who was sitting
in the box reserved for the justices’ friends and families,
and said: “I have for announcement the opinion and judg¬
ment of the Court in Number One fifty-five, Gideon against
Wainwright.”
Justice Black leaned forward and gave his words the em¬
phasis and the drama of a great occasion. Speaking very di¬
rectly to the audience in the courtroom, in an almost folksy
way, he told about Clarence Earl Gideon’s case and how it

had reached the Supreme Court of the United States.
“It raised a fundamental question,” Justice Black said,
the rightness of a case we decided twenty-one years ago,
Betts against Brady. When we granted certiorari in this case,
we asked the lawyers on both sides to argue to us whether
we should reconsider that case. We do reconsider Betts and
Brady, and we reach an opposite conclusion.”
By now the page boys were passing out the opinions.
There were four—by Justices [William] Douglas, [Tom] Clark
and [John] Harlan, in addition to the opinion of the Court.
But none of the other three was a dissent. A quick look at the
end of each showed that it concurred in the overruling of
Betts v. Brady. On that central result, then, the Court was
unanimous.
Justice Black began reading sections of his opinion. Since
1942, it said, the problem of the constitutional right to coun¬
sel in state criminal trials had been “a continuing source of
controversy in both state and federal courts.” . . . Justice
Black, quoting briefly from the transcript of Gideon’s trial,
said Gideon had “conducted his defense about as well as
could be expected from a layman.” The way the whole case
had developed, he said, was “strikingly like” what had hap¬
pened in the Betts case. “Since the facts and circumstances
of the two cases are so nearly indistinguishable, we think the
Betts v. Brady holding, if left standing, would require us to
reject Gideon’s claim that the Constitution guarantees him
the assistance of counsel.”
Changing the Law

The rest of Justice Black’s ten-page opinion was an assault
on Betts. There was no attempt to show that overruling was
required by developments in the two decades since the case
was decided. It had been wrong to start with. Justice Black
did not press his own theory that the Fourteenth Amend¬
ment incorporated the Bill of Rights verbatim. He accepted
as the law, for purposes of this case, the [Justice Benjamin]
Cardozo formulation that particular guarantees of the Bill
of Rights “implicit in the concept of ordered liberty” had been
“brought within the Fourteenth Amendment by a process

of absorption” and thus had been made applicable to state
proceedings.
“We accept,” he wrote, “Betts v. Bradys assumption,
based as it was on our prior cases, that a provision of the
Bill of Rights which is ‘fundamental and essential to a fair
trial’ is made obligatory upon the states by the Fourteenth
Amendment. We think the Court in Betts was wrong, how¬
ever, in concluding that the Sixth Amendment’s guarantee
of counsel is not one of these fundamental rights. Ten years
before Betts v. Brady, this Court [in Powell v. Alabama (1932)],
after full consideration of all the historical data examined
in Betts, had unequivocally declared that ‘the right to the
aid of counsel is of this fundamental character.’ While the
Court at the close of its Powell opinion did by its language,
as this Court frequently does, limit its holding to the par¬
ticular facts and circumstances of that case, its conclusions
about the fundamental nature of the right to counsel are
unmistakable.”
Justice Black mentioned other early cases that had em¬
phasized the importance of counsel, including his own 1938
opinion in Johnson v. Zerbst, construing the Sixth Amend¬
ment to require counsel in federal criminal trials, and con¬
cluded that Betts had made “an abrupt break” from these
precedents.
“Not only these precedents but also reason and reflec¬
tion,” he wrote, “require us to recognize that in our adver¬
sary system of criminal justice, any person haled into court,
who is too poor to hire a lawyer, cannot be assured a fair
trial unless counsel is provided for him. This seems to us to
be an obvious truth. Governments, both state and federal,
quite properly spend vast sums of money to establish ma¬
chinery to try defendants accused of crime. Lawyers to pros¬
ecute are everywhere deemed essential to protect the
public’s interest in an orderly society. Similarly, there are
few defendants charged with crime, few indeed, who fail to
hire the best lawyers they can get to prepare and present
their defenses. That government hires lawyers to prosecute
and defendants who have the money hire lawyers to defend
are the strongest indications of the widespread belief that

lawyers in criminal courts are necessities, not luxuries. The
right of one charged with crime to counsel may not be
deemed fundamental and essential to fair trials in some
countries, but it is in ours.”
The opinion came to an end without any mention of the
difficult problems of the scope of the decision: what kinds of
criminal cases it covered, if any apart from felonies; at what
stage of the proceeding counsel was required; whether the
decision applied to persons already in prison, so that those
who had not had counsel must now be given new trials. All
those questions were presumably left to be answered when
raised specifically by later cases.
“The Court in Betts v. Brady,” Justice Black concluded,
“departed from the sound wisdom upon which the Court’s
holding in Powell v. Alabama rested. Florida, supported by
two other states, has asked that Betts v. Brady be left intact.
Twenty-three states, as friends of the Court, argue that Betts
was ‘an anachronism when handed down’ and that it should
now be overruled. We agree.
“The judgment is reversed and the cause is remanded to
the Supreme Court of Florida for action not inconsistent with
this opinion.”
The Concurrences
Justice Douglas, while joining Justice Black’s opinion, was
not content to let the occasion pass without rearguing the old
proposition that the Fourteenth Amendment incorporated all
the Bill of Rights. “Unfortunately,” he wrote in his concur¬
ring opinion, “it has never commanded a Court. Yet, happily,
all constitutional questions are always open. And what we do
today does not foreclose the matter.”
Justice Clark did not accept the reasoning of Justice Black
and the majority. In his concurring opinion he rested on the
fact that the Court had already established an absolute right
to counsel in cases involving the death penalty, even under
Betts v. Brady. . . . “The Fourteenth Amendment requires due
process of law for the deprival of ‘liberty’ just as for deprival
of ‘life,’ and there cannot constitutionally be a difference in
the quality of the process based merely upon a supposed dif¬

ference in the sanction involved.”
Justice Harlan also followed a legal path of his own. “I
agree that Betts u. Brady should be overruled,” he said, “but
consider it entitled to a more respectful burial than has
been accorded, at least”—he added in a respectful gesture
to Justice Black’s consistency of position for twenty-one
years—“on the part of those of us who were not on the Court
when that case was decided.” Justice Harlan could not
agree that Betts had broken with precedents looking toward
an absolute right to counsel. Powell v. Alabama had rested
on the special circumstances of the Scottsboro trial, and
Betts had actually enlarged the right to counsel by indicat¬
ing that it could exist even in a non-capital case where there
were special circumstances. But the special-circumstance
doctrine, Justice Harlan continued, had had “a troubled
journey.” It had been abandoned altogether in death
[penalty] cases. In non-capital cases it had “continued to
exist in form while its substance has been substantially and
steadily eroded.” The Court had not found a lack of special
circumstances in any case heard and decided since Quick-
sail v. Michigan, in 1950. “The Court has come to recognize,
in other words, that the mere existence of a serious crimi¬
nal charge constituted in itself special circumstances re¬
quiring the services of counsel at trial. In truth the Betts v.
Brady rule is no longer a reality.
“This evolution, however, appears not to have been fully
recognized by many state courts, in this instance charged
with the front-line responsibility for the enforcement of con¬
stitutional rights.” . . . The opinion went on:
“To continue a rule which is honored by this Court only
with lip service is not a healthy thing and in the long run will do
disservice to the federal system. The special-circumstances
rule has been formally abandoned in capital cases, and the
time has now come when it should be similarly abandoned in
non-capital cases, at least as to offenses which, as the one in¬
volved here, carry the possibility of a substantial prison sen¬
tence. (Whether the rule should extend to all criminal cases
need not now be decided.) This indeed does no more than to
make explicit something that has long since been foreshad¬

owed in our decisions.”
The Long-Awaited End

That was the end of Clarence Earl Gideon’s case in the
Supreme Court of the United States: . . .
Justice Black, talking to a friend a few weeks after the de¬
cision, said quietly: “When Betts v. Brady was decided, I never
thought I’d live to see it overruled.”
The Court Establishes
the Miranda Rights
Earl Warren
Several U.S. Supreme Court decisions of the 1960s changed

how the role of an attorney is viewed in the context of due
process for accused criminals. First, Gideon v. Wainwright
guaranteed the right to an attorney in 1963. A year later a
case called Escobedo v. Illinois held that accused criminals
who are being interrogated must be permitted the chance to
speak to a lawyer if they so desire. In 1966 the Court consid¬
ered several cases together in which the police had obtained
statements from suspects who were in custody, cut off from
the outside world, and given no explanation of their rights.
The statements were used against the defendants at trial,
and the defendants were convicted.
The first case in the group involved Ernesto Miranda, a
poor Mexican immigrant who suffered from severe sexual
delusions. He was interrogated by two police officers for two
hours without being advised that he had the right to an at¬
torney. Miranda signed a confession, which was used against
him at trial, and was convicted of kidnapping and rape.
Chief Justice Earl Warren, a former district attorney
known for being tough on crime, authored the Court’s deci¬
sion in Miranda v. Arizona (1966). The opinion carefully ex¬
amines the typical interrogation process, including excerpts
from police instructional manuals. In view of the police pro¬
cedures used, the Court crafted a list of warnings that the
police have to give before they can start their interrogation
tactics. These warnings have come to be known as the Mi¬
randa rights. Unless these warnings are issued, any state¬
ments obtained from the suspects cannot be used at trial.
Earl Warren, opinion, Miranda v. Arizona, 384 U.S. 436, June 13, 1966.
43
Without such a process, the Court believed, Constitutional

protections against self-incrimination would be too easily
trammeled.
T he cases before us raise questions which go to the roots of

our concepts of American criminal jurisprudence: the re¬
straints society must observe consistent with the Federal
Constitution in prosecuting individuals for crime. More
specifically, we deal with the admissibility of statements ob¬
tained from an individual who is subjected to custodial police
interrogation and the necessity for procedures which assure
that the individual is accorded his privilege under the Fifth
Amendment to the Constitution not to be compelled to in¬
criminate himself. . . .
The constitutional issue we decide in each of these cases is
the admissibility of statements obtained from a defendant
questioned while in custody or otherwise deprived of his free¬
dom of action in any significant way. In each, the defendant
was questioned by police officers, detectives, or a prosecuting
attorney in a room in which he was cut off from the outside
world. In none of these cases was the defendant given a full
and effective warning of his rights at the outset of the interro¬
gation process. In all the cases, the questioning elicited oral
admissions, and in three of them, signed statements as well
which were admitted at their trials. They all thus share salient
features—incommunicado interrogation of individuals in a
police-dominated atmosphere, resulting in self-incriminating
statements without full warnings of constitutional rights.
Examining Police Procedures

An understanding of the nature and setting of this in-custody
interrogation is essential to our decisions today. The diffi¬
culty in depicting what transpires at such interrogations
stems from the fact that in this country they have largely
taken place incommunicado. . . .
A valuable source of information about present police
practices, however, may be found in various police manuals
and texts which document procedures employed with sue-
cess in the past, and which recommend various other effec¬

tive tactics. These texts are used by law enforcement agen¬
cies themselves as guides. It should be noted that these texts
professedly present the most enlightened and effective
means presently used to obtain statements through custo¬
dial interrogation. By considering these texts and other
data, it is possible to describe procedures observed and noted
around the country.
The [police] officers are told by the manuals that [in the
words of Fred E. Inbau and John E. Reid] the “principal psy¬
chological factor contributing to a successful interrogation is
privacy—being alone with the person under interrogation.” . . .
To highlight the isolation and unfamiliar surroundings,
the manuals instruct the police to display an air of confidence
in the suspect’s guilt and from outward appearance to main¬
tain only an interest in confirming certain details. The guilt
of the subject is to be posited as a fact. The interrogator
should direct his comments toward the reasons why the sub¬
ject committed the act, rather than court failure by asking
the subject whether he did it. Like other men, perhaps the
subject has had a bad family life, had an unhappy childhood,
had too much to drink, had an unrequited desire for women.
The officers are instructed to minimize the moral serious¬
ness of the offense, to cast blame on the victim or on society.
These tactics are designed to put the subject in a psychologi¬
cal state where his story is but an elaboration of what the po¬
lice purport to know already—that he is guilty. Explanations
to the contrary are dismissed and discouraged.
The texts thus stress that the major qualities an inter¬
rogator should possess are patience and perseverance. . . .
The manuals suggest that the suspect be offered legal ex¬
cuses for his actions in order to obtain an initial admission of
guilt. Where there is a suspected revenge-killing, for exam¬
ple, the interrogator may say [according to Inbau and Reid]:
Joe, you probably didn’t go out looking for this fellow

with the purpose of shooting him. My guess is, how¬
ever, that you expected something from him and that’s
why you carried a gun—for your own protection. You
knew him for what he was, no good. Then when you

met him he probably started using foul, abusive lan¬
guage and he gave some indication that he was about
to pull a gun on you, and that’s when you had to act to
save your own life. That’s about it, isn’t it, Joe?
Having then obtained the admission of shooting, the inter¬

rogator is advised to refer to circumstantial evidence which
negates the self-defense explanation. This should enable him
to secure the entire story. One [Inbau and Reid] text notes
that “Even if he fails to do so, the inconsistency between the
subject’s original denial of the shooting and his present ad¬
mission of at least doing the shooting will serve to deprive
him of a self-defense ‘out’ at the time of trial.”
Handling Uncooperative Suspects

When the techniques described above prove unavailing, the
texts recommend they be alternated with a show of some hos¬
tility. One ploy often used has been termed the “friendly-
unfriendly” or the “Mutt and Jeff” act. . . .
The interrogators sometimes are instructed to induce a
confession out of trickery. The technique here is quite effec¬
tive in crimes which require identification or which run in
series. In the identification situation, the interrogator may
take a break in his questioning to place the subject among a
group of men in a line-up. [According to Charles E. O’Hara
and Gregory L. O’Hara,] “The witness or complainant (previ¬
ously coached, if necessary) studies the line-up and confi¬
dently points out the subject as the guilty party.” Then the
questioning resumes “as though there were now no doubt
about the guilt of the subject.”. . .
The manuals also contain instructions for police on how
to handle the individual who refuses to discuss the matter
entirely, or who asks for an attorney or relatives. The exam¬
iner is to concede him the right to remain silent. [As Inbau
and Reid state,] “This usually has a very undermining effect.
First of all, he is disappointed in his expectation of an unfa¬
vorable reaction on the part of the interrogator. Secondly, a
concession of this right to remain silent impresses the sub-
ject with the apparent fairness of his interrogator.” After this

psychological conditioning, however, the officer is told to
point out the incriminating significance of the suspect’s re¬
fusal to talk:
Joe, you have a right to remain silent. That’s your priv¬

ilege and I’m the last person in the world who’ll try to
take it away from you. If that’s the way you want to
leave this, O.K. But let me ask you this. Suppose you
were in my shoes and I were in yours and you called
me in to ask me about this and I told you, “I don’t want
to answer any of your questions.” You’d think I had
something to hide, and you’d probably be right in
thinking that. That’s exactly what I’ll have to think
about you, and so will everybody else. So let’s sit here
and talk this whole thing over. [Inbau and Reid]
Few will persist in their initial refusal to talk, it is said, if

this monologue is employed correctly.
In the event that the subject wishes to speak to a relative
or an attorney, the following advice is tendered:
[T]he interrogator should respond by suggesting that

the subject first tell the truth to the interrogator him¬
self rather than get anyone else involved in the matter.
If the request is for an attorney, the interrogator may
suggest that the subject save himself or his family the
expense of any such professional service, particularly
if he is innocent of the offense under investigation. The
interrogator may also add, “Joe, I’m only looking for the
truth, and if you’re telling the truth, that’s it. You can
handle this by yourself.” [Inbau and Reid]
Protective Procedures Are Needed

From these representative samples of interrogation tech¬
niques, the setting prescribed by the manuals and observed
in practice becomes clear. In essence, it is this: To be alone
with the subject is essential to prevent distraction and to de¬
prive him of any outside support. The aura of confidence in
his guilt undermines his will to resist. He merely confirms the
preconceived story the police seek to have him describe. Pa¬

tience and persistence, at times relentless questioning, are em¬
ployed. To obtain a confession [according to Inbau and Reid],
the interrogator must “patiently maneuver himself or his
quarry into a position from which the desired objective may be
attained.” When normal procedures fail to produce the needed
result, the police may resort to deceptive stratagems such as
giving false legal advice. It is important to keep the subject off
balance, for example, by trading on his insecurity about him¬
self or his surroundings. The police then persuade, trick, or ca¬
jole him out of exercising his constitutional rights.
Even without employing brutality, the “third degree” or
the specific stratagems described above, the very fact of cus¬
todial interrogation exacts a heavy toll on individual liberty
and trades on the weakness of individuals. . . .
It is obvious that such an interrogation environment is
created for no purpose other than to subjugate the individual
to the will of his examiner. This atmosphere carries its own
badge of intimidation. To be sure, this is not physical intimi¬
dation, but it is equally destructive of human dignity. The
current practice of incommunicado interrogation is at odds
with one of our Nation’s most cherished principles—that the
individual may not be compelled to incriminate himself. Un¬
less adequate protective devices are employed to dispel the
compulsion inherent in custodial surroundings, no statement
obtained from the defendant can truly be the product of his
free choice. . . .
We have concluded that without proper safeguards the
process of in-custody interrogation of persons suspected or ac¬
cused of crime contains inherently compelling pressures which
work to undermine the individual’s will to resist and to compel
him to speak where he would not otherwise do so freely. In
order to combat these pressures and to permit a full opportu¬
nity to exercise the privilege against self-incrimination, the ac¬
cused must be adequately and effectively apprised of his rights
and the exercise of those rights must be fully honored.
It is impossible for us to foresee the potential alternatives
for protecting the privilege which might be devised by Con¬
gress or the States in the exercise of their creative rule-making
capacities. Therefore we cannot say that the Constitution nec¬

essarily requires adherence to any particular solution for the
inherent compulsions of the interrogation process as it is
presently conducted. Our decision in no way creates a consti¬
tutional straitjacket which will handicap sound efforts at re¬
form, nor is it intended to have this effect. We encourage
Congress and the States to continue their laudable search for
increasingly effective ways of protecting the rights of the indi¬
vidual while promoting efficient enforcement of our criminal
laws. However, unless we are shown other procedures which
are at least as effective in apprising accused persons of their
right of silence and in assuring a continuous opportunity to
exercise it, the following safeguards must be observed.
The Right to Remain Silent

At the outset, if a person in custody is to be subjected to in¬
terrogation, he must first be informed in clear and unequivo¬
cal terms that he has the right to remain silent. For those
unaware of the privilege, the warning is needed simply to
make them aware of it—the threshold requirement for an in¬
telligent decision as to its exercise. More important, such a
warning is an absolute prerequisite in overcoming the inher¬
ent pressures of the interrogation atmosphere. It is not just
the subnormal or woefully ignorant who succumb to an in¬
terrogator’s imprecations, whether implied or expressly
stated, that the interrogation will continue until a confession
is obtained or that silence in the face of accusation is itself
damning and will bode ill when presented to a jury. Further,
the warning will show the individual that his interrogators
are prepared to recognize his privilege should he choose to
exercise it.
The Fifth Amendment privilege is so fundamental to our
system of constitutional rule and the expedient of giving an
adequate warning as to the availability of the privilege so sim¬
ple, we will not pause to inquire in individual cases whether
the defendant was aware of his rights without a warning
being given. Assessments of the knowledge the defendant pos¬
sessed, based on information as to his age, education, intelli¬
gence, or prior contact with authorities, can never be more
than speculation; a warning is a clearcut fact. More impor¬

tant, whatever the background of the person interrogated, a
warning at the time of the interrogation is indispensable to
overcome its pressures and to insure that the individual
knows he is free to exercise the privilege at that point in time.
The warning of the right to remain silent must be accom¬
panied by the explanation that anything said can and will be
used against the individual in court. This warning is needed
in order to make him aware not only of the privilege, but also
of the consequences of forgoing it. It is only through an
awareness of these consequences that there can be any as¬
surance of real understanding and intelligent exercise of the
privilege. Moreover, this warning may serve to make the in¬
dividual more acutely aware that he is faced with a phase of
the adversary system—that he is not in the presence of per¬
sons acting solely in his interest.
The Right to Counsel

The circumstances surrounding in-custody interrogation can
operate very quickly to overbear the will of one merely made
aware of his privilege by his interrogators. Therefore, the
right to have counsel present at the interrogation is indis¬
pensable to the protection of the Fifth Amendment privilege
under the system we delineate today. Our aim is to assure
that the individual’s right to choose between silence and
speech remains unfettered throughout the interrogation
process. A once-stated warning, delivered by those who will
conduct the interrogation, cannot itself suffice to that end
among those who most require knowledge of their rights. A
mere warning given by the interrogators is not alone suffi¬
cient to accomplish that end. . . . Even preliminary advice
given to the accused by his own attorney can be swiftly over¬
come by the secret interrogation process. Thus, the need for
counsel to protect the Fifth Amendment privilege compre¬
hends not merely a right to consult with counsel prior to
questioning, but also to have counsel present during any
questioning if the defendant so desires.
The presence of counsel at the interrogation may serve
several significant subsidiary functions as well. If the ac-
cused decides to talk to his interrogators, the assistance of

counsel can mitigate the dangers of untrustworthiness. With
a lawyer present the likelihood that the police will practice
coercion is reduced, and if coercion is nevertheless exercised
the lawyer can testify to it in court. The presence of a lawyer
can also help to guarantee that the accused gives a fully ac¬
curate statement to the police and that the statement is
rightly reported by the prosecution at trial.
An individual need not make a pre-interrogation request
for a lawyer. While such request affirmatively secures his right
to have one, his failure to ask for a lawyer does not constitute
a waiver. No effective waiver of the right to counsel during in¬
terrogation can be recognized unless specifically made after
the warnings we here delineate have been given. The accused
who does not know his rights and therefore does not make a
request may be the person who most needs counsel.
Accordingly we hold that an individual held for interroga¬
tion must be clearly informed that he has the right to consult
with a lawyer and to have the lawyer with him during inter¬
rogation under the system for protecting the privilege we de¬
lineate today. As with the warnings of the right to remain
silent and that anything stated can be used in evidence
against him, this warning is an absolute prerequisite to in¬
terrogation. No amount of circumstantial evidence that the
person may have been aware of this right will suffice to stand
in its stead: Only through such a warning is there ascertain¬
able assurance that the accused was aware of this right.
If an individual indicates that he wishes the assistance of
counsel before any interrogation occurs, the authorities can¬
not rationally ignore or deny his request on the basis that the
individual does not have or cannot afford a retained attorney.
The financial ability of the individual has no relationship to
the scope of the rights involved here. The privilege against
self-incrimination secured by the Constitution applies to all
individuals. The need for counsel in order to protect the privi¬
lege exists for the indigent as well as the affluent. In fact,
were we to limit these constitutional rights to those who can
retain an attorney, our decisions today would be of little sig¬
nificance. The cases before us as well as the vast majority of
confession cases with which we have dealt in the past involve

those unable to retain counsel. While authorities are not
required to relieve the accused of his poverty, they have the
obligation not to take advantage of indigence in the adminis¬
tration of justice. Denial of counsel to the indigent at the time
of interrogation while allowing an attorney to those who can
afford one would be no more supportable by reason or logic
than the similar situation at trial and on appeal struck down
in Gideon v. Wainwright (1963). . . .
An Attorney Will Be Appointed for

a Poor Person
In order fully to apprise a person interrogated of the extent
of his rights under this system then, it is necessary to warn
him not only that he has the right to consult with an attor¬
ney, but also that if he is indigent a lawyer will be appointed
to represent him. Without this additional warning, the ad¬
monition of the right to consult with counsel would often be
understood as meaning only that he can consult with a
lawyer if he has one or has the funds to obtain one. The warn¬
ing of a right to counsel would be hollow if not couched in
terms that would convey to the indigent—the person most
often subjected to interrogation—the knowledge that he too
has a right to have counsel present. As with the warnings of
the right to remain silent and of the general right to counsel,
only by effective and express explanation to the indigent of
this right can there be assurance that he was truly in a posi¬
tion to exercise it.
Once warnings have been given, the subsequent proce¬
dure is clear. If the individual indicates in any manner, at
any time prior to or during questioning, that he wishes to re¬
main silent, the interrogation must cease. At this point he
has shown that he intends to exercise his Fifth Amendment
privilege; any statement taken after the person invokes his
privilege cannot be other than the product of compulsion,
subtle or otherwise. Without the right to cut off questioning,
the setting of in-custody interrogation operates on the indi¬
vidual to overcome free choice in producing a statement after
the privilege has been once invoked. If the individual states
that he wants an attorney, the interrogation must cease until

an attorney is present. At that time, the individual must have
an opportunity to confer with the attorney and to have him
present during any subsequent questioning. If the individual
cannot obtain an attorney and he indicates that he wants one
before speaking to police, they must respect his decision to
remain silent.
This does not mean, as some have suggested, that each
police station must have a “station house lawyer” present at
all times to advise prisoners. It does mean, however, that if
police propose to interrogate a person they must make known
to him that he is entitled to a lawyer and that if he cannot
afford one, a lawyer will be provided for him prior to any in¬
terrogation. If authorities conclude that they will not provide
counsel during a reasonable period of time in which investi¬
gation in the field is carried out, they may refrain from doing
so without violating the person’s Fifth Amendment privilege
so long as they do not question him during that time.
Waiver Is Possible
If the interrogation continues without the presence of an at¬
torney and a statement is taken, a heavy burden rests on the
government to demonstrate that the defendant knowingly and
intelligently waived his privilege against self-incrimination
and his right to retained or appointed counsel. This Court
has always set high standards of proof for the waiver of con¬
stitutional rights, and we re-assert these standards as applied
to in-custody interrogation. Since the State is responsible for
establishing the isolated circumstances under which the in¬
terrogation takes place and has the only means of making
available corroborated evidence of warnings given during in¬
communicado interrogation, the burden is rightly on its
shoulders.
An express statement that the individual is willing to
make a statement and does not want an attorney followed
closely by a statement could constitute a waiver. But a valid
waiver will not be presumed simply from the silence of the
accused after warnings are given or simply from the fact that
a confession was in fact eventually obtained. . . .
Moreover, where in-custody interrogation is involved,

there is no room for the contention that the privilege is
waived if the individual answers some questions or gives
some information on his own prior to invoking his right to re¬
main silent when interrogated.
Whatever the testimony of the authorities as to waiver of
rights by an accused, the fact of lengthy interrogation or in¬
communicado incarceration before a statement is made is
strong evidence that the accused did not validly waive his
rights. In these circumstances the fact that the individual
eventually made a statement is consistent with the conclu¬
sion that the compelling influence of the interrogation finally
forced him to do so. It is inconsistent with any notion of a vol¬
untary relinquishment of the privilege. Moreover, any evi¬
dence that the accused was threatened, tricked, or cajoled
into a waiver will, of course, show that the defendant did not
voluntarily waive his privilege. The requirement of warnings
and waiver of rights is a fundamental with respect to the
Fifth Amendment privilege and not simply a preliminary rit¬
ual to existing methods of interrogation. . . .
Proper Confessions Are Valid

Our decision is not intended to hamper the traditional func¬
tion of police officers in investigating crime. When an indi¬
vidual is in custody on probable cause, the police may, of
course, seek out evidence in the field to be used at trial
against him. Such investigation may include inquiry of per¬
sons not under restraint. General on-the-scene questioning
as to facts surrounding a crime or other general questioning
of citizens in the fact-finding process is not affected by our
holding. It is an act of responsible citizenship for individuals
to give whatever information they may have to aid in law en¬
forcement. In such situations the compelling atmosphere in¬
herent in the process of in-custody interrogation is not
necessarily present.
In dealing with statements obtained through interroga¬
tion, we do not purport to find all confessions inadmissible.
Confessions remain a proper element in law enforcement.
Any statement given freely and voluntarily without any com-
pelling influences is, of course, admissible in evidence. The

fundamental import of the privilege while an individual is in
custody is not whether he is allowed to talk to the police
without the benefit of warnings and counsel, but whether he
can be interrogated. There is no requirement that police stop
a person who enters a police station and states that he wishes
to confess to a crime, or a person who calls the police to offer
a confession or any other statement he desires to make. Vol¬
unteered statements of any kind are not barred by the Fifth
Amendment and their admissibility is not affected by our
holding today.
To summarize, we hold that when an individual is taken
into custody or otherwise deprived of his freedom by the au¬
thorities in any significant way and is subjected to question¬
ing, the privilege against self-incrimination is jeopardized.
Procedural safeguards must be employed to protect the priv¬
ilege, and unless other fully effective means are adopted to
notify the person of his right of silence and to assure that the
exercise of the right will be scrupulously honored, the follow¬
ing measures are required. He must be warned prior to any
questioning that he has the right to remain silent, that any¬
thing he says can be used against him in a court of law, that
he has the right to the presence of an attorney, and that if he
cannot afford an attorney one will be appointed for him prior
to any questioning if he so desires. Opportunity to exercise
these rights must be afforded to him throughout the interro¬
gation. After such warnings have been given, and such op¬
portunity afforded him, the individual may knowingly and
intelligently waive these rights and agree to answer ques¬
tions or make a statement. But unless and until such warn¬
ings and waiver are demonstrated by the prosecution at trial,
no evidence obtained as a result of interrogation can be used
against him.
Due Process Protects
the Rights of Juveniles
Abe Fortas
In 1964 Gerald Gault was a fifteen-year-old boy who had been

in trouble with the law before. On the morning of June 8 he
was picked up from his home by the police for allegedly mak¬
ing an obnoxious, indecent telephone call to a neighbor
woman. The police left no notice at his home that Gerald was
being held in police custody. His mother had to find out from a
friend where her son was when she returned home from work.
On June 15 the juvenile court held a fairly informal hear¬
ing to determine the charges against Gerald. He was sen¬
tenced as a juvenile delinquent to serve six years in the
Arizona State Industrial School. No appeal was available in
a juvenile case.
The Gault family had to bring a writ of habeas corpus, a
special legal proceeding by which citizens can inquire into
the legality of a person’s imprisonment, in an attempt to re¬
lease Gerald from the detention school. However, there was
no record or transcript of what had occurred at the juvenile
hearing to present later at the habeas hearing; all that ex¬
isted were the judge’s testimony of what was said in the ju¬
venile court versus the Gault family’s version.
The case eventually went to the U.S. Supreme Court. In
1967 Justice Abe Fortas authored one of the most important
decisions for juvenile rights in the history of the United
States. He noted that an adult facing the same charges as
those brought against Gault would have been subjected to a
small fine and a maximum of two months in jail. Further, an
adult would have been entitled to notice of the charges
against him, the help of an attorney, the right to confront
Abe Fortas, opinion, In re Gault et al., 387 U.S. 1, May 15, 1967.
56
witnesses testifying against him, the right to avoid self¬

incrimination, the right to a transcript of the original hearing,
and the right to an appeal—all the essentials of due process
in a criminal case. Fortas saw no reason why juveniles should
be denied the basic due process rights that were guaranteed
to adults. Gault’s conviction was therefore overturned.
A year after authoring the Gault decision, Fortas was
nominated to serve as chief justice of the Supreme Court.
However, in the face of a financial scandal, he withdrew him¬
self from consideration. In 1969, after decades of distin¬
guished service in public and private legal positions, he
resigned from the bench.
If Gerald [Gault] had been over 18, he would not have been
subject to Juvenile Court proceedings. For the particular
offense immediately involved, the maximum punishment
would have been a fine of $5 to $50, or imprisonment in jail
for not more than two months. Instead, he was committed to
custody for a maximum of six years. If he had been over 18
and had committed an offense to which such a sentence
might apply, he would have been entitled to substantial
rights under the Constitution of the United States as well
as under Arizona’s laws and constitution. The United States
Constitution would guarantee him rights and protections
with respect to arrest, search and seizure, and pretrial in¬
terrogation. It would assure him of specific notice of the
charges and adequate time to decide his course of action and
to prepare his defense. He would be entitled to clear advice
that he could be represented by counsel, and, at least if a
felony were involved, the State would be required to provide
counsel if his parents were unable to afford it. If the court
acted on the basis of his confession, careful procedures would
be required to assure its voluntariness. If the case went to
trial, confrontation and opportunity for cross-examination
would be guaranteed. So wide a gulf between the State’s
treatment of the adult and of the child requires a bridge
sturdier than mere verbiage, and reasons more persuasive
than cliche can provide. . . .
Notice of Charges
Appellants allege that the Arizona Juvenile Code is uncon¬
stitutional or alternatively that the proceedings before the
Juvenile Court were constitutionally defective because of fail¬
ure to provide adequate notice of the hearings. No notice was
given to Gerald’s parents when he was taken into custody on
Monday, June 8, [1964], On that night, when Mrs. Gault
went to the Detention Home, she was orally informed that
there would be a hearing the next afternoon and was told the
reason why Gerald was in custody. The only written notice
Gerald’s parents received at any time was a note on plain
paper from Officer Flagg [a deputy probation officer who was
superintendent of the Detention Home where Gerald was
being held] delivered on Thursday or Friday, June 11 or 12,
to the effect that the judge had set Monday, June 15, “for fur¬
ther Hearings on Gerald’s delinquency.”
A “petition” was filed with the court on June 9 by Officer
Flagg, reciting only that he was informed and believed that
“said minor is a delinquent minor and that it is necessary
that some order be made by the Honorable Court for said
minor’s welfare.” The applicable Arizona statute provides for
a petition to be filed in Juvenile Court, alleging in general
terms that the child is “neglected, dependent or delinquent.”
The statute explicitly states that such a general allegation is
sufficient, “without alleging the facts.” There is no require¬
ment that the petition be served and it was not served upon,
given to, or shown to Gerald or his parents.
The Supreme Court of Arizona rejected appellants’ claim
that due process was denied because of inadequate notice. It
stated that “Mrs. Gault knew the exact nature of the charge
against Gerald from the day he was taken to the detention
home.” The court also pointed out that the Gaults appeared
at the two hearings “without objection.” The court held that
because “the policy of the juvenile law is to hide youthful er¬
rors from the full gaze of the public and bury them in the
graveyard of the forgotten past,” advance notice of the specific
charges or basis for taking the juvenile into custody and for
the hearing is not necessary. It held that the appropriate rule
is that “the infant and his parent or guardian will receive a
petition only reciting a conclusion of delinquency. But no later

than the initial hearing by the judge, they must be advised of
the facts involved in the case. If the charges are denied, they
must be given a reasonable period of time to prepare.”
We cannot agree with the court’s conclusion that adequate
notice was given in this case. Notice, to comply with due
process requirements, must be given sufficiently in advance
of scheduled court proceedings so that reasonable opportu¬
nity to prepare will be afforded, and it must “set forth the al¬
leged misconduct with particularity” [according to the report
by the President’s Commission on Law Enforcement and Ad¬
ministration of Justice]. It is obvious . . . that no purpose of
shielding the child from the public stigma of knowledge of
his having been taken into custody and scheduled for hear¬
ing is served by the procedure approved by the court below.
The “initial hearing” in the present case was a hearing on
the merits. Notice at that time is not timely; and even if there
were a conceivable purpose served by the deferral proposed
by the court below, it would have to yield to the requirements
that the child and his parents or guardian be notified, in
writing, of the specific charge or factual allegations to be con¬
sidered at the hearing, and that such written notice be given
at the earliest practicable time, and in any event sufficiently
in advance of the hearing to permit preparation. Due process
of law requires notice of the sort we have described—that is,
notice which would be deemed constitutionally adequate in a
civil or criminal proceeding. It does not allow a hearing to be
held in which a youth’s freedom and his parents’ right to his
custody are at stake without giving them timely notice, in
advance of the hearing, of the specific issues that they must
meet. Nor, in the circumstances of this case, can it reason¬
ably be said that the requirement of notice was waived.
Right to Counsel
Appellants charge that the Juvenile Court proceedings were
fatally defective because the court did not advise Gerald or
his parents of their right to counsel, and proceeded with the
hearing, the adjudication of delinquency and the order of
commitment in the absence of counsel for the child and his
parents or an express waiver of the right thereto. The

Supreme Court of Arizona pointed out that “[tjhere is dis¬
agreement [among the various jurisdictions] as to whether
the court must advise the infant that he has a right to coun¬
sel.'’ It noted its own decision in Arizona State Dept, of Pub¬
lic Welfare v. Barlow (1956), to the effect “that the parents of
an infant in a juvenile proceeding cannot be denied repre¬
sentation by counsel of their choosing.” It referred to a pro¬
vision of the Juvenile Code which it characterized as
requiring “that the probation officer shall look after the in¬
terests of neglected, delinquent and dependent children, in¬
cluding representing their interests in court.” The court
argued that “The parent and the probation officer may be
relied upon to protect the infant’s interests.” Accordingly it
rejected the proposition that “due process requires that an
infant have a right to counsel.” It said that juvenile courts
have the discretion, but not the duty, to allow such repre¬
sentation; it referred specifically to the situation in which
the Juvenile Court discerns conflict between the child and
his parents as an instance in which this discretion might be
exercised. We do not agree. Probation officers, in the Arizona
scheme, are also arresting officers. They initiate proceed¬
ings and file petitions which they verify, as here, alleging
the delinquency of the child; and they testify, as here,
against the child. And here the probation officer was also
superintendent of the Detention Home. The probation offi¬
cer cannot act as counsel for the child. His role in the adju¬
dicatory hearing, by statute and in fact, is as arresting
officer and witness against the child. Nor can the judge rep¬
resent the child. There is no material difference in this re¬
spect between adult and juvenile proceedings of the sort
here involved. In adult proceedings, this contention has been
foreclosed by decisions of this Court. A proceeding where the
issue is whether the child will be found to be “delinquent”
and subjected to the loss of his liberty for years is compara¬
ble in seriousness to a felony prosecution. The juvenile needs
the assistance of counsel to cope with problems of law, to
make skilled inquiry into the facts, to insist upon regularity
of the proceedings, and to ascertain whether he has a de-
fense and to prepare and submit it. The child “requires the
guiding hand of counsel at every step in the proceedings
against him” [Powell v. Alabama (1932)]. Just as in Kent v.
United States, ... we indicated our agreement with the
United States Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia
Circuit that the assistance of counsel is essential for pur¬
poses of waiver proceedings, so we hold now that it is equally
essential for the determination of delinquency, carrying with
it the awesome prospect of incarceration in a state institu¬
tion until the juvenile reaches the age of 21.
During the last decade, court decisions, experts, and leg¬
islatures have demonstrated increasing recognition of this
view. In at least one-third of the States, statutes now provide
for the right of representation by retained counsel in juvenile
delinquency proceedings, notice of the right, or assignment
of counsel, or a combination of these. In other States, court
rules have similar provisions. . . .
We conclude that the Due Process Clause of the Four¬
teenth Amendment requires that in respect of proceedings to
determine delinquency which may result in commitment to
an institution in which the juvenile’s freedom is curtailed,
the child and his parents must be notified of the child’s right
to be represented by counsel retained by them, or if they are
unable to afford counsel, that counsel will be appointed to
represent the child.
At the habeas corpus proceeding, Mrs. Gault testified
that she knew that she could have appeared with counsel at
the juvenile hearing. This knowledge is not a waiver of the
right to counsel which she and her juvenile son had, as we
have defined it. They had a right expressly to be advised that
they might retain counsel and to be confronted with the need
for specific consideration of whether they did or did not
choose to waive the right. If they were unable to afford to
employ counsel, they were entitled in view of the serious¬
ness of the charge and the potential commitment, to ap¬
pointed counsel, unless they chose waiver. Mrs. Gault’s
knowledge that she could employ counsel was not an “inten¬
tional relinquishment or abandonment” of a fully known
right [Johnson v. Zerbst (1938)].
Confrontation, Self-Incrimination,
Cross-Examination
Appellants urge that the writ of habeas corpus should have
been granted because of the denial of the rights of confronta¬
tion and cross-examination in the Juvenile Court hearings,
and because the privilege against self-incrimination was not
observed. The Juvenile Court Judge testified at the habeas
corpus hearing that he had proceeded on the basis of Ger¬
ald’s admissions at the two hearings. Appellants attack this
on the ground that the admissions were obtained in disre¬
gard of the privilege against self-incrimination. If the confes¬
sion is disregarded, appellants argue that the delinquency
conclusion, since it was fundamentally based on a finding
that Gerald had made lewd remarks during the phone call to
Mrs. Cook, is fatally defective for failure to accord the rights
of confrontation and cross-examination which the Due
Process Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment of the Federal
Constitution guarantees in state proceedings generally.
Our first question, then, is whether Gerald’s admission
was improperly obtained and relied on as the basis of deci¬
sion, in conflict with the Federal Constitution. For this pur¬
pose, it is necessary briefly to recall the relevant facts.
Confessions Must Be Viewed with Caution

Mrs. Cook, the complainant, and the recipient of the alleged
telephone call, was not called as a witness. Gerald’s mother
asked the Juvenile Court Judge why Mrs. Cook was not pres¬
ent and the judge replied that “she didn’t have to be present.”
So far as appears, Mrs. Cook was spoken to only once, by Of¬
ficer Flagg, and this was by telephone. The judge did not
speak with her on any occasion. Gerald had been questioned
by the probation officer after having been taken into custody.
The exact circumstances of this questioning do not appear
but any admissions Gerald may have made at this time do
not appear in the record. Gerald was also questioned by the
Juvenile Court Judge at each of the two hearings. The judge
testified in the habeas corpus proceeding that Gerald admit¬
ted making “some of the lewd statements . . . [but not] any of
the more serious lewd statements.” There was conflict and

uncertainty among the witnesses at the habeas corpus pro¬
ceeding—the Juvenile Court Judge, Mr. and Mrs. Gault, and
the probation officer—as to what Gerald did or did not admit.
We shall assume that Gerald made admissions of the sort
described by the Juvenile Court Judge, as quoted above. Nei¬
ther Gerald nor his parents were advised that he did not have
to testify or make a statement, or that an incriminating state¬
ment might result in his commitment as a “delinquent.” . . .
This Court has emphasized that admissions and confes¬
sions of juveniles require special caution. In Haley v. Ohio,
where this Court reversed the conviction of a 15-year-old boy
for murder, Mr. Justice [William] Douglas said:
What transpired would make us pause for careful in¬

quiry if a mature man were involved. And when, as here,
a mere child—an easy victim of the law—is before us,
special care in scrutinizing the record must be used. Age
15 is a tender and difficult age for a boy of any race. He
cannot be judged by the more exacting standards of ma¬
turity. That which would leave a man cold and unim¬
pressed can overawe and overwhelm a lad in his early
teens. This is the period of great instability which the
crisis of adolescence produces. A 15-year-old lad, ques¬
tioned through the dead of night by relays of police, is a
ready victim of the inquisition. Mature men possibly
might stand the ordeal from midnight to 5 A.M. But we
cannot believe that a lad of tender years is a match for
the police in such a contest. He needs counsel and sup¬
port if he is not to become the victim first of fear, then of
panic. He needs someone on whom to lean lest the over¬
powering presence of the law, as he knows it, crush him.
No friend stood at the side of this 15-year-old boy as the
police, working in relays, questioned him hour after
hour, from midnight until dawn. No lawyer stood guard
to make sure that the police went so far and no farther,
to see to it that they stopped short of the point where he
became the victim of coercion. No counsel or friend was
called during the critical hours of questioning. . . .
The privilege against self-incrimination is, of course, re¬

lated to the question of the safeguards necessary to assure
that admissions or confessions are reasonably trustworthy,
that they are not the mere fruits of fear or coercion, but are
reliable expressions of the truth. . . .
It would indeed be surprising if the privilege against self¬
incrimination were available to hardened criminals but not
to children. The language of the Fifth Amendment, applica¬
ble to the States by operation of the Fourteenth Amendment,
is unequivocal and without exception. . . .
“Delinquency” Is “Criminal”
Against the application to juveniles of the right to silence, it
is argued that juvenile proceedings are “civil” and not “crimi¬
nal,” and therefore the privilege should not apply. It is true
that the statement of the privilege in the Fifth Amendment,
which is applicable to the States by reason of the Fourteenth
Amendment, is that no person “shall be compelled in any
criminal case to be a witness against himself.” However, it is
also clear that the availability of the privilege does not turn
upon the type of proceeding in which its protection is in¬
voked, but upon the nature of the statement or admission
and the exposure which it invites. The privilege may, for ex¬
ample, be claimed in a civil or administrative proceeding, if
the statement is or may be inculpatory.
It would be entirely unrealistic to carve out of the Fifth
Amendment all statements by juveniles on the ground that
these cannot lead to “criminal” involvement. In the first
place, juvenile proceedings to determine “delinquency,” which
may lead to commitment to a state institution, must be re¬
garded as “criminal” for purposes of the privilege against self¬
incrimination. To hold otherwise would be to disregard
substance because of the feeble enticement of the “civil” label-
of-convenience which has been attached to juvenile proceed¬
ings. Indeed, in over half of the States, there is not even
assurance that the juvenile will be kept in separate institu¬
tions, apart from adult “criminals.” In those States juveniles
may be placed in or transferred to adult penal institutions
after having been found “delinquent” by a juvenile court. For
this purpose, at least, commitment is a deprivation of liberty.

It is incarceration against one’s will, whether it is called
“criminal” or “civil.” And our Constitution guarantees that no
person shall be “compelled” to be a witness against himself
when he is threatened with deprivation of his liberty—a com¬
mand which this Court has broadly applied and generously
implemented in accordance with the teaching of the history
of the privilege and its great office in mankind’s battle for
freedom. . . .
Privilege Against Self-Incrimination Applies to

Juveniles
We conclude that the constitutional privilege against self¬
incrimination is applicable in the case of juveniles as it is
with respect to adults. We appreciate that special problems
may arise with respect to waiver of the privilege by or on be¬
half of children, and that there may well be some differences
in technique—but not in principle—depending upon the age
of the child and the presence and competence of parents. The
participation of counsel will, of course, assist the police, Ju¬
venile Courts and appellate tribunals in administering the
privilege. If counsel was not present for some permissible
reason when an admission was obtained, the greatest care
must be taken to assure that the admission was voluntary, in
the sense not only that it was not coerced or suggested, but
also that it was not the product of ignorance of rights or of
adolescent fantasy, fright or despair.
The “confession” of Gerald Gault was first obtained by
Officer Flagg, out of the presence of Gerald’s parents, with¬
out counsel and without advising him of his right to silence,
as far as appears. The judgment of the Juvenile Court was
stated by the judge to be based on Gerald’s admissions in
court. Neither “admission” was reduced to writing and, to
say the least, the process by which the “admissions” were
obtained and received must be characterized as lacking the
certainty and order which are required of proceedings of
such formidable consequences. Apart from the “admissions,”
there was nothing upon which a judgment or finding might
be based. There was no sworn testimony. Mrs. Cook, the
complainant, was not present. The Arizona Supreme Court

held that “sworn testimony must be required of all witnesses
including police officers, probation officers and others who
are part of or officially related to the juvenile court struc¬
ture.” We hold that this is not enough. No reason is sug¬
gested or appears for a different .rule in respect of sworn
testimony in juvenile courts than in adult tribunals. Absent
a valid confession adequate to support the determination of
the Juvenile Court, confrontation and sworn testimony by
witnesses available for cross-examination were essential for
a finding of “delinquency” and an order committing Gerald
to a state institution for a maximum of six years.
Due Process
and Civil Liberties
The Bill of Rights m

Due Process Protects
the Liberty of Contract
Rufus Peckham
In 1897 New York State passed a labor law that limited the
number of hours a baker could work per week to sixty hours.
A bakery in Utica, a small city in upstate New York, violated
the law. In 1905 the matter reached the Supreme Court of
the United States in the case of Lochner u. New York. Rufus
Peckham, who served as an associate justice from 1896 to
1909, authored the opinion—an opinion that eventually
made him infamous in the realm of constitutional jurispru¬
dence. Peckham and his colleagues on the high court found
the New York statute to be unconstitutional and struck it
down. They reasoned that liberty of contract is part of an in¬
dividual’s liberty that is protected by the due process clause
of the Fourteenth Amendment. The labor law violated this
freedom by depriving employers and employees of the right
to purchase and sell labor as they wished. Supporters of the
labor law argued that it was essentially a health law meant
to protect both bakers and consumers. However, Peckham’s
opinion indicated that the law was passed for “other mo¬
tives.” He concluded that supposed concern for the health of
bakers was not a valid reason for the state to take paternal¬
ism to the point of interfering with a person’s liberty. The
Lochner ruling is an example of the Court’s application of
substantive due process, since it upheld a specific individual
right against infringement by government legislation.
For the next thirty years the Supreme Court used the
Lochner rationale to strike down various state statutes. The
stricken statutes typically attempted to improve labor condi¬
tions or protect consumers, and the Court became known for
Rufus Peckham, opinion, Lochner v. New York, 198 U.S. 45, April 17, 1905.
68
Due Process and Civil Liberties 69
promoting the theory of laissez-faire economics. However, in

the 1930s the Court started to defer to the choices of the state
legislatures with respect to economic matters. By 1955 the
Court had abandoned Lochner and no longer used the sub¬
stantive due process rationale to review economic regulations.
However, in the 1960s the Court began to use substantive
due process as the basis for protecting personal rights, such
as the right to privacy.
T he indictment, it will be seen, charges that the plaintiff in

error violated the 110th section of article 8, chapter 415,
of the Laws of 1897, known as the labor law of the state of
New York, in that he wrongfully and unlawfully required and
permitted an employee working for him to work more than
sixty hours in one week. . . . The mandate of the statute, that
‘no employee shall be required or permitted to work,’ is the
substantial equivalent of an enactment that ‘no employee
shall contract or agree to work,’ more than ten hours per day;
and, as there is no provision for special emergencies, the
statute is mandatory in all cases. It is not an act merely fix¬
ing the number of hours which shall constitute a legal day’s
work, but an absolute prohibition upon the employer permit¬
ting, under any circumstances, more than ten hours’ work to
be done in his establishment. The employee may desire to
earn the extra money which would arise from his working
more than the prescribed time, but this statute forbids the
employer from permitting the employee to earn it.
The Fourteenth Amendment Protects

Liberty of Contract
The statute necessarily interferes with the right of contract
between the employer and employees, concerning the num¬
ber of hours in which the latter may labor in the bakery of
the employer. The general right to make a contract in rela¬
tion to his business is part of the liberty of the individual pro¬
tected by the 14th Amendment of the Federal Constitution.
Under that provision no state can deprive any person of life,
liberty, or property without due process of law. The right to
purchase or to sell labor is part of the liberty protected by

this amendment, unless there are circumstances which ex¬
clude the right. There are, however, certain powers, existing
in the sovereignty of each state in the Union, somewhat
vaguely termed police powers, the exact description and limi¬
tation of which have not been attempted by the courts. Those
powers, broadly stated, and without, at present, any attempt
at a more specific limitation, relate to the safety, health,
morals, and general welfare of the public. Both property and
liberty are held on such reasonable conditions as may be im¬
posed by the governing power of the state in the exercise of
those powers, and with such conditions the 14th Amendment
was not designed to interfere.
The state, therefore, has power to prevent the individual
from making certain kinds of contracts, and in regard to them
the Federal Constitution offers no protection. If the contract
be one which the state, in the legitimate exercise of its police
power, has the right to prohibit, it is not prevented from pro¬
hibiting it by the 14th Amendment. Contracts in violation of a
statute, either of the Federal or state government, or a con¬
tract to let one’s property for immoral purposes, or to do any
other unlawful act, could obtain no protection from the Fed¬
eral Constitution, as coming under the liberty of person or of
free contract. Therefore, when the state, by its legislature, in
the assumed exercise of its police powers, has passed an act
which seriously limits the right to labor or the right of con¬
tract in regard to their means of livelihood between . . . em¬
ployer and employee, it becomes of great importance to
determine which shall prevail—the right of the individual to
labor for such time as he may choose, or the right of the state
to prevent the individual from laboring, or from entering into
any contract to labor, beyond a certain time prescribed by the
state. .. .
A Balance of Power
It must, of course, be conceded that there is a limit to the
valid exercise of the police power by the state. There is no
dispute concerning this general proposition. Otherwise the
14th Amendment would have no efficacy and the legislatures
of the states would have unbounded power, and it would be

enough to say that any piece of legislation was enacted to
conserve the morals, the health, or the safety of the people;
such legislation would be valid, no matter how absolutely
without foundation the claim might be. The claim of the po¬
lice power would be a mere pretext, become another and delu¬
sive name for the supreme sovereignty of the state to be
exercised free from constitutional restraint. This is not con¬
tended for. In every case that comes before this court, there¬
fore, where legislation of this character is concerned, and
where the protection of the Federal Constitution is sought,
the question necessarily arises: Is this a fair, reasonable, and
appropriate exercise of the police power of the state, or is it
an unreasonable, unnecessary, and arbitrary interference
with the right of the individual to his personal liberty, or to
enter into those contracts in relation to labor which may
seem to him appropriate or necessary for the support of him¬
self and his family? Of course the liberty of contract relating
to labor includes both parties to it. The one has as much right
to purchase as the other to sell labor.
This is not a question of substituting the judgment of the
court for that of the legislature. If the act be within the power
of the state it is valid, although the judgment of the court
might be totally opposed to the enactment of such a law. But
the question would still remain: Is it within the police power
of the state? and that question must be answered by the
court.
The question whether this act is valid as a labor law, pure
and simple, may be dismissed in a few words. There is no rea¬
sonable ground for interfering with the liberty of person or
the right of free contract, by determining the hours of labor,
in the occupation of a baker. There is no contention that bak¬
ers as a class are not equal in intelligence and capacity to
men in other trades or manual occupations, or that they are
not able to assert their rights and care for themselves with¬
out the protecting arm of the state, interfering with their in¬
dependence of judgment and of action. They are in no sense
wards of the state. Viewed in the light of a purely labor law,
with no reference whatever to the question of health, we
think that a law like the one before us involves neither the
safety, the morals, nor the welfare, of the public, and that the
interest of the public is not in the slightest degree affected by
such an act. The law must be upheld, if at all, as a law per¬
taining to the health of the individual engaged in the occupa¬
tion of a baker. It does not affect any other portion of the
public than those who are engaged in that occupation. Clean
and wholesome bread does not depend upon whether the
baker works but ten hours per day or only sixty hours a week.
The limitation of the hours of labor does not come within the
police power on that ground.
It is a question of which of two powers or rights shall pre¬
vail—the power of the state to legislate or the right of the in¬
dividual to liberty of person and freedom of contract. The
mere assertion that the subject relates, though but in a re¬
mote degree, to the public health, does not necessarily ren¬
der the enactment valid. The act must have a more direct
relation, as a means to an end, and the end itself must be ap¬
propriate and legitimate, before an act can he held to be valid
which interferes with the general right of an individual to be
free in his person and in his power to contract in relation to
his own labor. . . .
An Improper Regulation
We think the limit of the police power has been reached and
passed in this case. There is, in our judgment, no reasonable
foundation for holding this to be necessary or appropriate as
a health law to safeguard the public health, or the health of
the individuals who are following the trade of a baker. If this
statute be valid, and if, therefore, a proper case is made out
in which to deny the right of an individual, as employer or
employee, to make contracts for the labor of the latter under
the protection of the provisions of the Federal Constitution,
there would seem to be no length to which legislation of this
nature might not go. . . . We think that there can be no fair
doubt that the trade of a baker, in and of itself, is not an un¬
healthy one to that degree which would authorize the legisla¬
ture to interfere with the right to labor, and with the right of
free contract on the part of the individual, either as employer
or employee. In looking through statistics regarding all trades

and occupations, it may be true that the trade of a baker does
not appear to be as healthy as some other trades, and is also
vastly more healthy than still others. To the common under¬
standing the trade of a baker has never been regarded as an
unhealthy one. Very likely physicians would not recommend
the exercise of that or of any other trade as a remedy for ill
health. Some occupations are more healthy than others, but
we think there are none which might not come under the
power of the legislature to supervise and control the hours of
working therein, if the mere fact that the occupation is not
absolutely and perfectly healthy is to confer that right upon
the legislative department of the government.
It might be safely affirmed that almost all occupations
more or less affect the health. There must be more than the
mere fact of the possible existence of some small amount of
unhealthiness to warrant legislative interference with lib¬
erty. It is unfortunately true that labor, even in any depart¬
ment, may possibly carry with it the seeds of unhealthiness.
But are we all, on that account, at the mercy of legislative
majorities? A printer, a tinsmith, a locksmith, a carpenter, a
cabinetmaker, a dry goods clerk, a bank’s, a lawyer’s, or a
physician’s clerk, or a clerk in almost any kind of business,
would all come under the power of the legislature, on this as¬
sumption. No trade, no occupation, no mode of earning one’s
living, could escape this all-pervading power, and the acts of
the legislature in limiting the hours of labor in all employ¬
ments would be valid, although such limitation might seri¬
ously cripple the ability of the laborer to support himself and
his family. In our large cities there are many buildings into
which the sun penetrates for but a short time in each day,
and these buildings are occupied by people carrying on the
business of bankers, brokers, lawyers, real estate, and many
other kinds of business, aided by many clerks, messengers,
and other employees. Upon the assumption of the validity of
this act under review, it is not possible to say that an act, pro¬
hibiting lawyers’ or bank clerks, or others, from contracting
to labor for their employers more than eight hours a day
would be invalid. It might be said that it is unhealthy to work
more than that number of hours in an apartment lighted by

artificial light during the working hours of the day; that the
occupation of the bank clerk, the lawyer’s clerk, the
realestate clerk, or the broker’s clerk, in such offices is there¬
fore unhealthy, and the legislature, in its paternal wisdom,
must, therefore, have the right to legislate on the subject of,
and to limit, the hours for such labor; and, if it exercises that
power, and its validity be questioned, it is sufficient to say, it
has reference to the public health; it has reference to the
health of the employees condemned to labor day after day in
buildings where the sun never shines; it is a health law, and
therefore it is valid, and cannot be questioned by the courts.
Not Just a Health Law

It is also urged, pursuing the same line of argument, that it
is to the interest of the state that its population should be
strong and robust, and therefore any legislation which may
be said to tend to make people healthy must be valid as
health laws, enacted under the police power. If this be a valid
argument and a justification for this kind of legislation, it
follows that the protection of the Federal Constitution from
undue interference with liberty of person and freedom of con¬
tract is visionary, wherever the law is sought to be justified
as a valid exercise of the police power. Scarcely any law but
might find shelter under such assumptions, and conduct,
properly so called, as well as contract, would come under the
restrictive sway of the legislature. Not only the hours of em¬
ployees, but the hours of employers, could be regulated, and
doctors, lawyers, scientists, all professional men, as well as
athletes and artisans, could be forbidden to fatigue their
brains and bodies by prolonged hours of exercise, lest the
fighting strength of the state be impaired. We mention these
extreme cases because the contention is extreme. We do not
believe in the soundness of the views which uphold this law.
On the contrary, we think that such a law as this, al¬
though passed in the assumed exercise of the police power,
and as relating to the public health, or the health of the em¬
ployees named, is not within that power, and is invalid. The
act is not, within any fair meaning of the term, a health law,
but is an illegal interference with the rights of individuals,

both employers and employees, to make contracts regarding
labor upon such terms as they may think best, or which they
may agree upon with the other parties to such contracts.
Statutes of the nature of that under review, limiting the
hours in which grown and intelligent men may labor to earn
their living, are mere meddlesome interferences with the
rights of the individual, and they are not saved from condem¬
nation by the claim that they are passed in the exercise of
the police power and upon the subject of the health of the in¬
dividual whose rights are interfered with, unless there be
some fair ground, reasonable in and of itself, to say that there
is material danger to the public health, or to the health of
the employees, if the hours of labor are not curtailed. If this
be not clearly the case, the individuals whose rights are thus
made the subject of legislative interference are under the pro¬
tection of the Federal Constitution regarding their liberty of
contract as well as of person; and the legislature of the state
has no power to limit their right as proposed in this statute.
All that it could properly do has been done by it with regard
to the conduct of bakeries, as provided for in the other sec¬
tions of the act. These several sections provide for the inspec¬
tion of the premises where the bakery is carried on, with
regard to furnishing proper wash rooms and waterclosets,
apart from the bake room, also with regard to providing
proper drainage, plumbing, and painting; the sections, in ad¬
dition, provide for the height of the ceiling, the cementing or
tiling of floors, where necessary in the opinion of the factory
inspector, and for other things of that nature; alterations are
also provided for, and are to be made where necessary in the
opinion of the inspector, in order to comply with the provi¬
sions of the statute. These various sections may be wise and
valid regulations, and they certainly go to the full extent of
providing for the cleanliness and the healthiness, so far as
possible, of the quarters in which bakeries are to be con¬
ducted. Adding to all these requirements a prohibition to
enter into any contract of labor in a bakery for more than a
certain number of hours a week is, in our judgment, so wholly
beside the matter of a proper, reasonable, and fair provision
as to run counter to that liberty of person and of free contract

provided for in the Federal Constitution.
Not Just a Consumer Protection Law

It was further urged on the argument that restricting the
hours of labor in the case of bakers was valid because it
tended to cleanliness on the part of the workers, as a man
was more apt to be cleanly when not overworked, and if
cleanly then his ‘output’ was also more likely to be so. What
has already been said applies with equal force to this con¬
tention. We do not admit the reasoning to be sufficient to jus¬
tify the claimed right of such interference. The state in that
case would assume the position of a supervisor . . . , over
every act of the individual, and its right of governmental in¬
terference with his hours of labor, his hours of exercise, the
character thereof, and the extent to which it shall be carried
would be recognized and upheld. In our judgment it is not
possible in fact to discover the connection between the num¬
ber of hours a baker may work in the bakery and the health¬
ful quality of the bread made by the workman. The
connection, if any exist, is too shadowy and thin to build any
argument for the interference of the legislature. If the man
works ten hours a day it is all right, but if ten and a half or
eleven his health is in danger and his bread may be un¬
healthy, and, therefore, he shall not be permitted to do it.
This, we think, is unreasonable and entirely arbitrary. When
assertions such as we have adverted to become necessary in
order to give, if possible, a plausible foundation for the con¬
tention that the law is a ‘health law,’ it gives rise to at least a
suspicion that there was some other motive dominating the
legislature than the purpose to subserve the public health or
welfare. . . .
An Attempt at Control
It is impossible for us to shut our eyes to the fact that many
of the laws of this character, while passed under what is
claimed to be the police power for the purpose of protecting
the public health or welfare, are, in reality, passed from other
motives. We are justified in saying so when, from the charac-
ter of the law and the subject upon which it legislates, it is

apparent that the public health or welfare bears but the most
remote relation to the law. The purpose of a statute must be
determined from the natural and legal effect of the language
employed; and whether it is or is not repugnant to the Con¬
stitution of the United States must be determined from the
natural effect of such statutes when put into operation, and
not from their proclaimed purpose. The court looks beyond
the mere letter of the law in such cases.
It is manifest to us that the limitation of the hours of labor
as provided for in this section of the statute under which the
indictment was found, and the plaintiff in error convicted,
has no such direct relation to, and no such substantial effect
upon, the health of the employee, as to justify us in regard¬
ing the section as really a health law. It seems to us that the
real object and purpose were simply to regulate the hours of
labor between the master and his employees . . . , in a pri¬
vate business, not dangerous in any degree to morals, or in
any real and substantial degree to the health of the employ¬
ees. Under such circumstances the freedom of master and
employee to contract with each other in relation to their em¬
ployment, and in defining the same, cannot be prohibited or
interfered with, without violating the Federal Constitution.
Due Process Prohibits Racial
Segregation in Schools
Earl Warren
In 1896 the U.S. Supreme Court heard a case titled Plessy v.

Ferguson. Plessy involved a Louisiana statute that required
separate railroad cars for white and black passengers. One
of the arguments against this practice was that the Four¬
teenth Amendment restricted the states from permitting
such a law. The amendment in fact had been passed in the
post—Civil War era to secure the rights of former slaves. De¬
spite these arguments, the Court found that creating sepa¬
rate facilities for different races was an acceptable practice.
As an example, the Court cited the fact that separate schools
had been established for white and black children in many
states. Without using the exact phrase, the Court authored
the notion that “separate but equal” facilities—that is, sepa¬
rate facilities of equal quality—were constitutional.
Nearly sixty years later, the validity of segregated public
schools became a direct question before the Court. In Brown
v. Board of Education (1954), the Court declared that sepa¬
rate public educational facilities were inherently unequal.
As a result, school segregation in various states violated the
Fourteenth Amendment’s guarantee of “equal protection.”
In Bolling v. Sharpe (1954), a companion case to Brown v.
Board of Education, the Court also considered a claim that
segregated schools violated the Fifth Amendment’s guaran¬
tee of due process. Because the schools in question in Bolling
were situated in Washington, D.C., rather than in a state, the
Fourteenth Amendment did not apply. However, the Fifth
Amendment certainly applied to the federal district, and the
Court struck down school segregation there as well.
Earl Warren, opinion, Bolling u. Sharpe, 347 U.S. 497, May 17, 1954.
78
Brown and Bolling were among the first cases that Earl
Warren addressed as chief justice of the U.S. Supreme Court.
His role as head of the Court came during a difficult time in
America’s history and at a point when the justices were
deeply divided over how “activist” the Court should be. Yet
Warren managed to write the Brown and Bolling opinions for
a unanimous Court. In doing so he significantly changed race
relations and the role of the Supreme Court in America. The
decisions were a sign of events to come. The Warren Court
went on to actively champion the rights of the individual in
both the civil and criminal realms.
T his case challenges the validity of segregation in the pub¬

lic schools of the District of Columbia. The petitioners,
minors of the Negro race, allege that such segregation de¬
prives them of due process of law under the Fifth Amend¬
ment. They were refused admission to a public school
attended by white children solely because of their race. They
sought the aid of the District Court for the District of Colum¬
bia in obtaining admission. That court dismissed their com¬
plaint. The Court granted a writ of certiorari before judgment
in the Court of Appeals because of the importance of the con¬
stitutional question presented.
We have this day held that the Equal Protection Clause of
the Fourteenth Amendment prohibits the states from main¬
taining racially segregated public schools. The legal problem
in the District of Columbia is somewhat different, however.
The Fifth Amendment, which is applicable in the District of
Columbia, does not contain an equal protection clause as does
the Fourteenth Amendment, which applies only to the states.
But the concepts of equal protection and due process, both
stemming from our American ideal of fairness, are not mutu¬
ally exclusive. The “equal protection of the laws” is a more
explicit safeguard of prohibited unfairness than “due process
of law,” and, therefore, we do not imply that the two are al¬
ways interchangeable phrases. But, as this Court has recog¬
nized, discrimination may be so unjustifiable as to be violative
of due process.
An Arbitrary Deprivation of Liberty

Classifications based solely upon race must be scrutinized
with particular care, since they are contrary to our traditions
and hence constitutionally suspect. As long ago as 1896, this
Court declared [in Gibson v. Mississippi (1896)] the principle
that the Constitution of the United States, in its present
form, forbids, so far as civil and political rights are concerned,
discrimination by the General Government, or by the States,
against any citizen because of his race.” And in Buchanan v.
Warley, the Court held that a statute which limited the right
of a property owner to convey his property to a person of an¬
other race was, as an unreasonable discrimination, a denial
of due process of law.
Although the Court has not assumed to define “liberty”
with any great precision, that term is not confined to mere
freedom from bodily restraint. Liberty under law extends to
the full range of conduct which the individual is free to pur¬
sue, and it cannot be restricted except for a proper govern¬
mental objective. Segregation in public education is not
reasonably related to any proper governmental objective, and
thus it imposes on Negro children of the District of Columbia
a burden that constitutes an arbitrary deprivation of their
liberty in violation of the Due Process Clause.
In view of our decision that the Constitution prohibits the
states from maintaining racially segregated public schools, it
would be unthinkable that the same Constitution would im¬
pose a lesser duty on the Federal Government. We hold that
racial segregation in the public schools of the District of Co¬
lumbia is a denial of the due process of law guaranteed by
the Fifth Amendment to the Constitution.
The Court Infers a Right
to Privacy in the Fourteenth
Amendment
Jerry Goldman
In 1973 the U.S. Supreme Court handed down one of the

most controversial decisions in the nation’s history, Roe v.
Wade. Authored by Justice Harry Blackmun, the lengthy
opinion considered medical evidence, constitutional argu¬
ments, and two impassioned oral presentations. In the end,
the Court proclaimed that the right to privacy permitted a
woman to obtain an abortion during the early stages of a
pregnancy. Neither the right to privacy nor the issue of abor¬
tion are discussed anywhere in the Constitution. Rather, to
reach the decision the Court used the doctrine of substantive
due process under the Fourteenth Amendment to expand
privacy rights.
The decision polarized the nation. Since 1973 Supreme
Court justices essentially have been selected based on the
“litmus test” of whether they would support Roe. Supporters
of the decision have cited it to further expand the right to
privacy. Critics of the decision have derided it on various
grounds, ranging from its alleged lack of a constitutional
basis to its moral implications.
Jerry Goldman is a political science professor at North¬
western University. He is also an author and the creator of
the OYEZ Project, an online resource covering the Supreme
Court, its various justices, and its constitutional decisions.
In this article he summarizes the Roe case and its lingering
controversy.
Jerry Goldman, “A Case of Privacy: How the U.S. Supreme Court Reached the Decision
That Sparked a Quarter Century of Controversy,” CNN Interactive, 1998. Copyright ©
1998 by Jerry Goldman. Reproduced by permission.
81
A merica’s concerns over abortion—whether and under

what circumstances it should be allowed—was cata¬
pulted into controversy on January 22, 1973. On that day,
the U.S. Supreme Court declared unconstitutional, by a vote
of 7-2, a Texas law prohibiting an abortion except for the pur¬
pose of saving a woman’s life.
The decision—reached after two presentations before the
court invalidated abortion laws in 46 states. Few rulings
have generated as much sustained criticism or fervent sup¬
port as Roe vs. Wade.
The court declared:
• In the first three months of pregnancy, the abortion

decision must be left to the woman and her physician.
• In the interest of protecting a woman’s health, states

may restrict but not prohibit abortions in the second
three months, or trimester, of pregnancy.
• In the last three months of pregnancy, states may

regulate—or even prohibit—abortions to protect the
life of the fetus, except when medical judgment de¬
termines that an abortion is necessary to save the life
of the mother.
A Shaky Start
“Jane Roe,” later identified as Norma N. McCorvey, had
sought an abortion in Texas, but since her life was not at risk,
she was unable to obtain a legal one in that state. She even¬
tually opted to have the child, and gave it up for adoption.
Newly minted lawyers Sarah Weddington and Linda Cof¬
fee decided to challenge the constitutionality of the Texas law,
aiming to establish a new constitutional right allowing women
to control their own bodies. Roe became the lead plaintiff in
their class-action lawsuit, and they represented her.
The U.S. District Court for the Northern District of
Texas declared Texas’s abortion law unconstitutional but
declined to grant injunctive relief to the plaintiffs. Roe et al
appealed the court’s injunctive ruling, while Wade cross-
appealed, challenging the lower court’s ruling that the law
was unconstitutional.
First Argument at the Supreme Court

Weddington argued Roe’s case before the Supreme Court. She
faced seven, rather than nine, justices because two of them had
recently retired. In fashioning her argument to justify strik¬
ing down the Texas law, Weddington advanced many reasons,
but none revealed the precise constitutional issues at stake.
When Justice Potter Stewart asked her to formulate her
constitutional argument, Weddington reached into a grab
bag of provisions. Although poised in delivery, Weddington
seemed at a loss as to where in the U.S. Constitution she
could peg her argument.
Weddington’s opponent, Jay Floyd, started off on the
wrong foot, and appeared to go downhill from there. He
began, “It’s an old joke, but when a man argues against two
beautiful ladies like this, they are going to have the last
word.” None of the justices seemed amused.
The justices initially voted to strike down the Texas law,
and Justice Harry A. Blackmun was chosen as the spokesman
for the majority. His opinion, however, failed to persuade his
colleagues on the court.
Moreover, some of the justices were miffed by the choice
of Blackmun as spokesman.
Given the uncertainty among the justices, the testiness of
their egos and the appointment of two new members—William
H. Rehnquist and Lewis F. Power Jr.—the court decided to
hear a second argument on Roe vs. Wade, and scheduled it for
October 11, 1972.
Attorneys Argue the Case a Second Time

By then, Weddington had sharpened her argument. But so
did her new opponent, Robert C. Flowers.
Weddington faced tough questions from the justices on the
constitutional status of the unborn fetus. Flowers came
under strong questioning from justices Stewart and Thur-
good Marshall as to when life begins.
Once again, the majority-opinion assignment went to
Blackmun.
His carefully crafted opinion failed to identify a specific U.S.
constitutional guarantee to justify the court’s ruling. Instead,
he based the decision on the right to privacy protected by the

due process clause of the Constitution’s 14th Amendment. In
effect, the court was enforcing a right that the Constitution
did not specifically articulate.
A Wave of Criticism
Critics voiced their objections immediately. The dissenters—
justices Rehnquist and Byron R. White—asserted what other
people have frequently repeated since the decision: The
court’s judgment was directed by its own dislikes, not by any
constitutional compass.
In the absence of any guiding principles, the critics de¬
clared, the justices in the majority simply substituted their
views for the views of the state legislatures, whose abortion
regulations they invalidated.
Academic critics also pounded the opinion, noting that the
court had struck down legislation in the absence of any ex¬
pressed constitutional provision or history.
A Key Question
Abortion-rights proponents had pegged their claims on a
prominent Supreme Court decision, Griswold v. Connecticut
(1965).
In Griswold, a seven-member court majority fashioned a
right to marital privacy from several constitutional provi¬
sions, then used this privacy right to strike down a seldom-
enforced state law that made the use of birth control devices
a crime.
The abortion issue surfaced in the oral argument in the
Griswold case.
Near the end of the second day of debate, Justice Hugo L.
Black asked Professor Thomas Emerson, who sought to in¬
validate the Connecticut law, a question that foreshadowed
the abortion maelstrom eight years later.
“With reference to all these things we’ve been talking
about—privacy and so forth—would we invalidate all laws
punishing people for bringing about abortions?”
Emerson responded that one issue (contraception) had
nothing to do with the other (abortion).
Over a Quarter-Century Later

In the 25 years [plus] since the Roe us. Wade decision, a bare
majority of the Court continues to reaffirm the initial decision.
It did so most recently in 1992 in Planned Parenthood vs.
Casey. At the same time, the justices have tolerated addi¬
tional government restrictions on abortion procedures. It ap¬
pears that divisions on the court still run deep.
Blackmun retired from the Court in 1994. In a rare televi¬
sion interview with ABC News, Blackmun insisted that uRoe
versus Wade was decided ... on constitutional grounds.”
It was as if Blackmun were trying, by sheer force of will,
to turn back 25 years’ worth of stinging objections to the opin¬
ion he crafted.
Due Process Guarantees
Fair Procedures, Not
Substantive Rights
John Hart Ely
John Hart Ely was a constitutional scholar and Ivy League

law school professor and dean. Among other notable accom¬
plishments, he wrote a first draft of the brief for Clarence
Earl Gideon, the accused felon in Gideon v. Wainwright, the
case which established the right to counsel. He also served on
the Warren Commission, which investigated the assassina¬
tion of President John F. Kennedy, and later clerked for Chief
Justice Earl Warren at the U.S. Supreme Court. He is most
well known for his book Democracy and Distrust: A Theory of
Judicial Review, which examines two conflicting theories of
judicial review: “interpretivism” and “noninterpretivism”
(also known as “activism”). Interpretivism holds that judges
should apply a literal interpretation of the Constitution and
the Bill of Rights. Noninterpretivism allows justices to go be¬
yond the letter of the Constitution, even to the point of infer¬
ring rights that are not explicitly stated.
In the following excerpt from Democracy and Distrust, Ely
explains that the due process clause of the Fourteenth
Amendment lends itself to a noninterpretivist reading. How¬
ever, he argues, such a reading has led to the emergence of
the doctrine of substantive due process, the view that the
amendment allows the Court to invalidate state laws based
on their substance rather than the procedures they estab¬
lish. Ely contends that this approach is flawed. Although he
does not insist on a strictly interpretivist reading of the
Fourteenth Amendment, he maintains that the amendment
John Hart Ely, Democracy and Distrust: A Theory of Judicial Review. Cambridge, MA:
Harvard University Press, 1980. Copyright © 1980 by the President and Fellows of Har¬
vard College. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission.
86
is intended to apply to criminal and civil procedures, not the

substance of laws.
C onstitutional provisions exist on a spectrum ranging from

the relatively specific to the extremely open-textured. At
one extreme—for example the requirement that the President
“have attained to the Age of thirty five years”—-the language
is so clear that a conscious reference to purpose seems unnec¬
essary. Other provisions, such as the one requiring that the
President be a “natural born Citizen,” may need a reference
to historical usage so as to exclude certain alternative con¬
structions—conceivably if improbably here, a requirement of
legitimacy (or illegitimacy!) or non-Caesarian birth —but once
that “dictionary function” is served, the provision becomes rel¬
atively easy to apply. Others, such as the First Amendment’s
prohibition of congressional laws “abridging the freedom of
speech,” seem to need more. For one thing, a phrase as terse
as the others I have mentioned is here expected to govern a
broader and more important range of problems. For another,
and this may have something to do with the first, we some¬
how sense that a line of growth was intended, that the lan¬
guage was not intended to be restricted to its 1791 meaning.
This realization would not faze Justice [Hugo] Black or most
other interpretivists: the job of the person interpreting the
provision, they would respond, is to identify the sorts of evils
against which the provision was directed and to move against
their contemporary counterparts. Obviously this will be diffi¬
cult, but it will remain interpretivism. . . .
Interpretivism and the Eighth Amendment

Still other provisions, such as the Eighth Amendment’s pro¬
hibition of “cruel and unusual punishments,” seem even more
insistently to call for a reference to sources beyond the docu¬
ment itself and a “framers’ dictionary.” It is possible to con¬
strue this prohibition as covering only those punishments
that would have been regarded as “cruel and unusual” in
1791, but that construction seems untrue to the open-ended
quality of the language. The interpretivist can respond as he
did to the First Amendment, that even though it is true that

the clause shouldn’t be restricted to its 1791 meaning, it
should be restricted to the general categories of evils at which
the provision was aimed. If you pursue this mode of “inter¬
pretation” with regard to the Eighth Amendment, however—-
and the First Amendment case will come down to much the
same thing—you’ll soon find yourself, at worst, begging a lot
of questions or, at best, attributing to the framers a theory
that may be consistent with what they said but is hardly dis¬
coverable in their discussions or their dictionaries. But even
admitting this, the disaster for the interpretivist remains
less than complete. The Cruel and Unusual Punishment
Clause does invite the person interpreting it to freelance to a
degree, but the freelancing is bounded. The subject is pun¬
ishments, not the entire range of government action, and
even in that limited area the delegation to the interpreter is
not entirely unguided: only those punishments that are in
some way serious (“cruel”) and susceptible to sporadic impo¬
sition (“unusual”) are to be disallowed.
The Eighth Amendment does not mark the end of the
spectrum, however. The Fourteenth Amendment. . . contains
provisions that are difficult to read responsibly as anything
other than quite broad invitations to import into the consti¬
tutional decision process considerations that will not be
found in the language of the amendment or the debates that
led up to it.
The Fourteenth Amendment Refers

to Procedures
The provision most often cited in this connection is the Four¬
teenth Amendment’s Due Process Clause, which provides
that no state shall “deprive any person of life, liberty, or prop¬
erty, without due process of law. This is the clause to which
the Court has tended to refer to “support” its sporadic ven¬
tures into across-the-board substantive review of legislative
action. Its frequent invalidations of various sorts of worker
protection provisions during the first third of this century
cited the Due Process Clause as the basis of the Court’s re¬
view authority. These cases are conventionally referred to
under the head of Lochner v. New York, one of the earlier

ones, and are now universally acknowledged to have been
constitutionally improper—for obvious reasons by interpre-
tivists, for somewhat less obvious ones by noninterpretivists.
The Court’s 1973 invalidation of the antiabortion laws of all
fifty states in Roe v. Wade also relied on this clause. This “sub¬
stantive due process” notion is widely accepted by commen¬
tators. For example Archibald Cox, who rejects Roe on other
grounds, is not troubled by the interpretivist critique that
nothing in the Constitution seems to address itself even re¬
motely to the question of abortion. “I find sufficient connec¬
tion in the Due Process Clause . . . The Court’s persistent
resort to notions of substantive due process for almost a cen¬
tury attests the strength of our natural law inheritance in
constitutional adjudication, and I think it unwise as well as
hopeless to resist it.”
In fact this interpretation of the clause—as incorporating
a general mandate to review the substantive merits of leg¬
islative and other governmental action—not only was not
inevitable, it was probably wrong. The Fourteenth Amend¬
ment’s Due Process Clause was taken from the identical pro¬
vision, save that the earlier one applied to the federal
government, of the Fifth Amendment. There is general agree¬
ment that the earlier clause had been understood at the time
of its inclusion to refer only to lawful procedures. What
recorded comment there was at the time of replication in the
Fourteenth Amendment is devoid of any reference that gives
the provision more than a procedural connotation. So far it
all sounds quite straight forward, and more than a few com¬
mentators have concluded that it is crystal clear that the
framers of the Fourteenth Amendment intended their Due
Process Clause to reach only procedural questions. . . .
An Occasional Substantive Interpretation

Intended?
Things are seldom so simple, however, particularly where
the intent of the framers of the Fourteenth Amendment is
concerned. Despite the procedural intendment of the original
Due Process Clause, a couple of pre-Civil War decisions had
construed the concept more broadly, as precluding certain

substantive outcomes. One was Wynehamer v. People (1856),
in which the New York Court of Appeals invalidated a prohi¬
bition law under a state due process guarantee identical in
wording to that of the Fifth Amendment. Probably more no¬
torious was Dred Scott v. Sandford, decided a year later, in
which the Supreme Court voided the Missouri Compromise,
Chief Justice [Roger] Taney delivering an “Opinion of the
Court” (in whose theory only two of his brethren actually seem
to have concurred) indicating in a passing reference that
slaveholders had been denied due process. I am by no means
suggesting that with these decisions the path of the law had
been altered, that by the time of the Fourteenth Amendment
due process had come generally to be understood as possess¬
ing a substantive component. Quite the contrary: Wynehamer
and the Dred Scott reference were aberrations, neither prece-
dented nor destined to become precedents themselves. (Other
courts on which they were urged were quite acid in the judg¬
ment that they had misused the constitutional language by
giving it a substantive reading.) I am suggesting that given
these decisions—of at least one of which the framers of the
Fourteenth Amendment were certainly well aware1—one
cannot absolutely exclude the possibility that some of them,
had the question been put, would have agreed that the Due
Process Clause they were including could be given an occa¬
sional substantive interpretation.
The Language Itself Is Key

To put the question thus, however, is to lose the forest in the
trees. It would be a mistake—albeit an understandable one in
light of the excesses one witnesses at the other extreme—to
dismiss “the intent of the framers” as beside any relevant
point. Something that wasn’t ratified can’t be part of our Con¬
stitution, and sometimes in order to know what was ratified
we need to know what was intended. (Unless we know
whether “natural born” meant born to American parents on
the one hand or born to married parents on the other, we don’t
1. The Fourteenth Amendment was written in part to overrule Dred Scott.

know what the ratifiers thought they were ratifying and thus
what we should recognize as the constitutional command.)
Neither am I endorsing for an instant the nihilist view that it
is impossible ever responsibly to infer from a past act and its
surrounding circumstances the intentions of those who per¬
formed it. To frame the issue thus, however, is to bring to the
fore what seems invariably to get lost in excursions into the
intent of the framers, namely that the most important datum
bearing on what was intended is the constitutional language it¬
self. This is especially true where the legislative history is in
unusual disarray—as is certainly the case with the Four¬
teenth Amendment—but the validity of the point extends fur¬
ther. In the first place, and this is also true of statutes and
other group products, not everyone will feel called upon to
place in the “legislative history” his precise understanding,
assuming he has one, of the meaning of the provision for
which he is voting or to rise to correct every interpretation
that does not agree with his. One of the reasons the debate
culminates in a vote on an authoritative text is to generate a
record of just what there was sufficient agreement on to gain
majority consent. Beyond that, however, the constitutional
situation is special in a way that makes poring over the state¬
ments of members of Congress in an effort to amend or qual¬
ify the constitutional language doubly ill-advised. Congress’s
role in the process of constitutional amendment is solely, to
use the Constitution’s word, one of “proposing” provisions to
the states: to become law such a provision must be ratified by
three-quarters of the state legislatures. Now obviously there
is no principled basis on which the intent of those voting to
ratify can be counted less crucial in determining the “true
meaning” of a constitutional provision than the intent of those
in Congress who proposed it. That gets to include so many dif¬
ferent people in so many different circumstances, however,
that one cannot hope to gather a reliable picture of their in¬
tentions from any perusal of the legislative history. To compli¬
cate matters further, many of the records of the Fourteenth
Amendment’s ratification debates have not survived. Thus
the only reliable evidence of what “the ratifiers” thought they
were ratifying is the language of the provision they approved.
The debates (or other contemporary sources) can serve the

“dictionary function” of resolving ambiguities, as in the natu¬
ral born citizen case, but that function fulfilled, the critical
record of what was meant to be proposed and ratified is what
was proposed and ratified. . . .
Let us then turn, surely we are long overdue, to the lan¬
guage of the Due Process Clause. . . . There is simply no
avoiding the fact that the word that follows “due” is “process.”
No evidence exists that “process” meant something different
a century ago from what it does now—in fact . . . the histori¬
cal record runs somewhat the other way—and it should take
more than occasional aberrational use to establish that those
who ratified the Fourteenth Amendment had an eccentric
definition in mind. Familiarity breeds inattention, and we
apparently need periodic reminding that “substantive due
process” is a contradiction in terms—sort of like “green pas¬
tel redness.”2
Due Process Has Been Constructed

One might assume that this doesn’t matter, that it is revi¬
sionism for the sheer hell of it, since I’ve advertised that the
Fourteenth Amendment does contain provisions—notably the
Privileges or Immunities Clause—that contain the sort of in¬
vitation to substantive oversight that the Due Process Clause
turns out to lack. Why should we care whether such over¬
sight is called “substantive due process” or something else?
The question is a fair one, but it turns out it may matter, be¬
cause of the negative feedback effect the notion of substan¬
tive due process seems to be having on the proper function of
the Due Process Clause, that of guaranteeing fair procedures.
Until recently, the general outlines of the law of procedural
due process were pretty clear and uncontroversial. The
phrase “life, liberty or property” was read as a unit and given
an open-ended, functional interpretation, which meant that
the government couldn’t seriously hurt you without due
process of law. What process was “due” varied, naturally
enough, with context, in particular with how seriously you
2. By the same token, “procedural due process” is redundant [author’s comment].

were being hurt and what procedures would be useful and

feasible under the circumstances. But if you were seriously
hurt by the state you were entitled to due process. Over the
past few years, however, the Court has changed all that,
holding that henceforth, before it can be determined that you
are entitled to “due process” at all, and thus necessarily be¬
fore it can be decided what process is “due,” you must show
that what you have been deprived of amounts to a “liberty
interest” or perhaps a “property interest.” What has ensued
has been a disaster, in both practical and theoretical terms.
Not only has the number of occasions on which one is enti¬
tled to any procedural protection at all been steadily con¬
stricted, but the Court has made itself look quite silly in the
process—drawing distinctions it is flattering to call attenu¬
ated and engaging in ill-disguised premature judgments on
the merits of the case before it. (It turns out, you see, that
whether it’s a property interest is a function of whether
you’re entitled to it, which means the Court has to decide
whether you’re entitled to it before it can decide whether you
get a hearing on the question whether you’re entitled to it.)
The line of decisions has been subjected to widespread schol¬
arly condemnation, which suggests that sometime within the
next thirty years we may be rid of it.
It is interesting to speculate on how it got started, though.
As I indicated, the law of procedural due process was not in se¬
rious disarray, and the proposition that the government should
be able seriously to hurt you without due process of law is
hardly one that cries out for affirmation. Part of the explana¬
tion may lie in the recent resurrection of substantive due
process. So long as Lochner lay in disrepute, and substantive
due process was therefore as good as dead —that is, nonexist¬
ent or reduced to an essentially meaningless requirement that
the government behave “rationally”—there was little risk in
the premise that any serious governmental hurt should pro¬
ceed by due process of law. That just meant people were typi¬
cally entitled to fair procedures. But once “due process” is
reinvested with serious substantive content, things get pretty
scary and judges will naturally begin to look for ways to nar¬
row the scope of their authority. The reaction is one that might
have suggested that the error was in resurrecting substantive

due process, but instead it seems to have meant that due
process, properly so called, has been constricted.
Avoiding Shifting Standards

Even if the Due Process Clause were restricted to its proper
role of guaranteeing fair procedures, that would not make it
unimportant. For even if it lacks authority to second-guess
the substantive policy being pursued, the Court can still ren¬
der the implementation of that policy difficult by making the
procedural requirements comparatively stringent. What’s
more, its judgment here is also somewhat untethered: asking
what process is due will get the Court into some questions to
which the Constitution does not begin to provide answers.
This bothered Justice Black, perhaps most conspicuously in
his 1970 dissent in In re Winship, where he refused to go
along with the majority’s holding that the Constitution re¬
quired proof “beyond a reasonable doubt” in state criminal
cases. The reasonable doubt standard does not appear any¬
where in the Bill of Rights, so Justice Black, pursuing his
“incorporation” theory,3 refused to read it into the Fourteenth
Amendment.
The Bill of Rights, which in my view is made fully appli¬

cable to the States by the Fourteenth Amendment . . .
does by express language provide for, among other
things, a right to counsel in criminal trials, a right to in¬
dictment, and the right of a defendant to be informed of
the nature of the charges against him. And in two places
the Constitution provides for trial by jury, but nowhere
in that document is there any statement that conviction
of crime requires proof of guilt beyond a reasonable
doubt. The Constitution thus goes into some detail to
spell out what kind of trial a defendant charged with
crime should have, and I believe that Court has no
power to add to or subtract from the procedures set forth
by the Founders. I realize that it is far easier to substi-
3. the theory that in light of the Fourteenth Amendment, the Bill of Rights
applies to state governments as well as the federal government
tute individual judges’ ideas of “fairness” for the fairness

prescribed by the Constitution, but I shall not at any
time surrender my belief that that document itself
should be our guide, not our own concept of what is fair,
decent, and right... As I have said time and time again,
I prefer to put my faith in the words of the written Con¬
stitution itself rather than to rely on the shifting, day-
to-day standards of fairness of individual judges.
Indeed he had said it “time and time again,” and it is a valu¬

able speech, but it rings less true in a procedural context. It is
true that in deciding what process is due the Court will have
to take into account various costs, principally in money and
time, that the Constitution will not help us assess. But that is
hardly unique to due process. And the questions that are rele¬
vant here—how seriously the complainant is being hurt and
how much it will cost to give him a more effective hearing—
are importantly different from the question the Court makes
relevant in “substantive due process” decisions like Lochner
and Roe, namely how desirable or important the substantive
policy the legislature has decided to follow is. Moreover, and
here the parallel to the Cruel and Unusual Punishment Clause
is extended, the decisions here are made in limited compass.
The question is what procedures are required to treat the
complainant this way, not whether the complainant can be
treated this way at all: it’s an important and difficult ques¬
tion, but a more limited one. Finally, what procedures are
needed fairly to make what decisions are the sorts of ques¬
tions lawyers and judges are good at. (Observe a lawyer on a
committee with nonlawyers and see what role he or she ends
up playing.) Thus the delegation, though assuredly it is that,
is a limited and not terribly frightening one.
Due Process Prohibits
Government Control of
Personal Relationships
Anthony Kennedy
In 1986 the U.S. Supreme Court heard a case called Bowers

v. Hardwick. Police had entered the bedroom of Michael
Hardwick with a search warrant, which was unrelated to the
case that later developed. They found Hardwick engaged in
consensual homosexual relations with another adult male
and arrested him under a Georgia sodomy law. Hardwick
challenged the constitutionality of the law. However, the
Court was hesitant to extend the right to privacy that was
discussed in Roe v. Wade and declared that there was no “fun¬
damental right to engage in homosexual sodomy.”
Subsequently, several states took their sodomy laws off
the books. In the remaining states, it appeared that sodomy
laws, which were written to cover heterosexual and homosex¬
ual sodomy, were only being enforced against homosexuals.
Seventeen years after Bowers, the Supreme Court heard
Lawrence v. Texas. The facts of the case were nearly identical
to those of Bowers. Nevertheless, in an opinion authored by
Justice Anthony Kennedy, the Court specifically overruled
Bowers. Justice Kennedy noted that cases had evolved to pro¬
tect heterosexuals’ personal decisions relating to marriage,
procreation, contraception, family relationships, child rear¬
ing, and education. The Court reasoned that the ability to
make decisions regarding such intimate matters should not
be denied to people in homosexual relationships. Such deci¬
sions are a form of liberty protected by the due process clause
of the Fourteenth Amendment.
Anthony Kennedy, opinion, Lawrence v. Texas, 539 U.S. 558, June 26, 2003.
96
Justice Kennedy was President Ronald Reagan’s third

choice to fill a single vacancy on the Supreme Court—after
Robert Bork’s conservative ideology and Douglas Ginsburg’s
admission of marijuana use ended their hopes of confirmation.
Yet the selection of Kennedy proved a pivotal one. Kennedy is
often able to craft a consensus between the Court’s conserva¬
tive and liberal coalitions.
T he question before the Court is the validity of a Texas

statute making it a crime for two persons of the same sex
to engage in certain intimate sexual conduct.
In Houston, Texas, officers of the Harris County Police De¬
partment were dispatched to a private residence in response
to a reported weapons disturbance. They entered an apart¬
ment where one of the petitioners, John Geddes Lawrence,
resided. The right of the police to enter does not seem to have
been questioned. The officers observed Lawrence and an¬
other man, Tyron Garner, engaging in a sexual act. The two
petitioners were arrested, held in custody over night, and
charged and convicted before a Justice of the Peace. . . .
The applicable state law is Tex. Penal Code Ann. sect.
21.06(a) (2003). It provides: “A person commits an offense if
he engages in deviate sexual intercourse with another indi¬
vidual of the same sex.” . . .
The petitioners were adults at the time of the alleged of¬
fense. Their conduct was in private and consensual.
Comparisons with Bowers

We conclude the case should be resolved by determining
whether the petitioners were free as adults to engage in the
private conduct in the exercise of their liberty under the Due
Process Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment to the Consti¬
tution. For this inquiry we deem it necessary to reconsider
the Court’s holding in Bowers [u. Hardwick].
The facts in Bowers had some similarities to the instant
case. A police officer, whose right to enter seems not to have
been in question, observed Hardwick, in his own bedroom,
engaging in intimate sexual conduct with another adult
male. The conduct was in violation of a Georgia statute mak¬

ing it a criminal offense to engage in sodomy. One difference
between the two cases is that the Georgia statute prohibited
the conduct whether or not the participants were of the same
sex, while the Texas statute, as we have seen, applies only to
participants of the same sex. Hardwick was not prosecuted,
but he brought an action in federal court to declare the state
statute invalid. He alleged he was a practicing homosexual
and that the criminal prohibition violated rights guaranteed
to him by the Constitution. The Court. . . sustained the Geor¬
gia law. . . .
Government Should Not Control

Personal Relationships
The Court began its substantive discussion in Bowers as fol¬
lows: “The issue presented is whether the Federal Constitu¬
tion confers a fundamental right upon homosexuals to
engage in sodomy and hence invalidates the laws of the many
States that still make such conduct illegal and have done so
for a very long time.” That statement, we now conclude, dis¬
closes the Court’s own failure to appreciate the extent of the
liberty at stake. To say that the issue in Bowers was simply
the right to engage in certain sexual conduct demeans the
claim the individual put forward, just as it would demean a
married couple were it to be said marriage is simply about
the right to have sexual intercourse. The laws involved in
Bowers and here are, to be sure, statutes that purport to do
no more than prohibit a particular sexual act. Their penal¬
ties and purposes, though, have more far-reaching conse¬
quences, touching upon the most private human conduct,
sexual behavior, and in the most private of places, the home.
The statutes do seek to control a personal relationship that,
whether or not entitled to formal recognition in the law, is
within the liberty of persons to choose without being pun¬
ished as criminals.
This, as a general rule, should counsel against attempts by
the State, or a court, to define the meaning of the relationship
or to set its boundaries absent injury to a person or abuse of
an institution the law protects. It suffices for us to acknowl-
edge that adults may choose to enter upon this relationship

in the confines of their homes and their own private lives and
still retain their dignity as free persons. When sexuality finds
overt expression in intimate conduct with another person, the
conduct can be but one element in a personal bond that is
more enduring. The liberty protected by the Constitution al¬
lows homosexual persons the right to make this choice. . . .
It must be acknowledged, of course, that the Court in Bow¬
ers was making the broader point that for centuries there
have been powerful voices to condemn homosexual conduct
as immoral. The condemnation has been shaped by religious
beliefs, conceptions of right and acceptable behavior, and re¬
spect for the traditional family. For many persons these are
not trivial concerns but profound and deep convictions ac¬
cepted as ethical and moral principles to which they aspire
and which thus determine the course of their lives. These
considerations do not answer the question before us, how¬
ever. The issue is whether the majority may use the power of
the State to enforce these views on the whole society through
operation of the criminal law. “Our obligation is to define the
liberty of all, not to mandate our own moral code.” Planned
Parenthood of Southeastern Pa. v. Casey, (1992). . . .
The Right to Make Personal Choices

Two principal cases decided after Bowers cast its holding into
. . . doubt. In Planned Parenthood of Southeastern Pa. v. Casey
(1992), the Court reaffirmed the substantive force of the lib¬
erty protected by the Due Process Clause. The Casey decision
again confirmed that our laws and tradition afford constitu¬
tional protection to personal decisions relating to marriage,
procreation, contraception, family relationships, child rear¬
ing, and education. In explaining the respect the Constitu¬
tion demands for the autonomy of the person in making these
choices, we stated as follows:
These matters, involving the most intimate and per¬

sonal choices a person may make in a lifetime, choices
central to personal dignity and autonomy, are central
to the liberty protected by the Fourteenth Amendment.
At the heart of liberty is the right to define one’s own

concept of existence, of meaning, of the universe, and
of the mystery of human life. Beliefs about these mat¬
ters could not define the attributes of personhood were
they formed under compulsion of the State.
Persons in a homosexual relationship may seek autonomy

for these purposes, just as heterosexual persons do. The deci¬
sion in Bowers would deny them this right.
The second post-Bomers case of principal relevance is
Romer v. Evans (1996). There the Court struck down class-
based legislation directed at homosexuals as a violation of
the Equal Protection Clause. . . .
Equality of treatment and the due process right to de¬
mand respect for conduct protected by the substantive guar¬
antee of liberty are linked in important respects, and a
decision on the latter point advances both interests. . . . When
homosexual conduct is made criminal by the law of the State,
that declaration in and of itself is an invitation to subject ho¬
mosexual persons to discrimination both in the public and in
the private spheres. The central holding of Bowers has been
brought in question by this case, and it should be addressed.
Its continuance as precedent demeans the lives of homosex¬
ual persons. . . .
Bowers Should Be Overruled

The foundations of Bowers have sustained serious erosion
from our recent decisions in Casey and Romer. When our
precedent has been thus weakened, criticism from other
sources is of greater significance. In the United States, criti¬
cism of Bowers has been substantial and continuing, disap¬
proving of its reasoning in all respects. . . . The courts of five
different States have declined to follow it in interpreting pro¬
visions in their own state constitutions parallel to the Due
Process Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment. . . .
To the extent Bowers relied on values we share with a
wider civilization, it should be noted that the reasoning and
holding in Bowers have been rejected elsewhere. The Euro¬
pean Court of Human Rights has [not] followed Bowers. . . .
Other nations, too, have taken action consistent with an

affirmation of the protected right of homosexual adults to en¬
gage in intimate, consensual conduct. The right the petition¬
ers seek in this case has been accepted as an integral part of
human freedom in many other countries. There has been no
showing that in this country the governmental interest in
circumscribing personal choice is somehow more legitimate
or urgent. . . .
In Casey we noted that when a Court is asked to overrule
a precedent recognizing a constitutional liberty interest, in¬
dividual or societal reliance on the existence of that liberty
cautions with particular strength against reversing course.
The holding in Bowers, however, has not induced detrimental
reliance comparable to some instances where recognized in¬
dividual rights are involved. Indeed, there has been no indi¬
vidual or societal reliance on Bowers of the sort that could
counsel against overturning its holding once there are com¬
pelling reasons to do so. Bowers itself causes uncertainty, for
the precedents before and after its issuance contradict its
central holding.
The rationale of Bowers does not withstand careful analy¬
sis. In his dissenting opinion in Bowers Justice [John Paul]
Stevens came to these conclusions:
Our prior cases make two propositions abundantly

clear. First, the fact that the governing majority in a
State has traditionally viewed a particular practice as
immoral is not a sufficient reason for upholding a law
prohibiting the practice; neither history nor tradition
could save a law prohibiting miscegenation [interracial
marriage] from constitutional attack. Second, individ¬
ual decisions by married persons, concerning the inti¬
macies of their physical relationship, even when not
intended to produce offspring, are a form of “liberty”
protected by the Due Process Clause of the Fourteenth
Amendment. Moreover, this protection extends to inti¬
mate choices by unmarried as well as married persons.
Justice Stevens’ analysis, in our view, should have been con¬

trolling in Bowers and should control here.
Bowers was not correct when it was decided, and it is not

correct today. It ought not to remain binding precedent. Bow¬
ers v. Hardwick should be and now is overruled.
Government Cannot Control Private

Consensual Sexual Conduct »
The present case does not involve minors. It does not involve
persons who might be injured or coerced or who are situated
in relationships where consent might not easily be refused.
It does not involve public conduct or prostitution. It does not
involve whether the government must give formal recogni¬
tion to any relationship that homosexual persons seek to
enter. The case does involve two adults who, with full and
mutual consent from each other, engaged in sexual practices
common to a homosexual lifestyle. The petitioners are enti¬
tled to respect for their private lives. The State cannot de¬
mean their existence or control their destiny by making their
private sexual conduct a crime. Their right to liberty under
the Due Process Clause gives them the full right to engage in
their conduct without intervention of the government. [As
the Court stated in Casey,] “It is a promise of the Constitu¬
tion that there is a realm of personal liberty which the gov¬
ernment may not enter.” The Texas statute furthers no
legitimate state interest which can justify its intrusion into
the personal and private life of the individual.
Had those who drew and ratified the Due Process Clauses
of the Fifth Amendment or the Fourteenth Amendment known
the components of liberty in its manifold possibilities, they
might have been more specific. They did not presume to have
this insight. They knew times can blind us to certain truths
and later generations can see that laws once thought neces¬
sary and proper in fact serve only to oppress. As the Consti¬
tution endures, persons in every generation can invoke its
principles in their own search for greater freedom.
CHAPTER FOUR ■
Current Issues
and Perspectives
The Bill of Rights fjjfj;

“Enemy Combatants”
Are Entitled to Due
Process Protections
Sandra Day O’Connor
Shortly after the terrorist attacks against the United States

on September 11, 2001, President George W. Bush sent U.S.
armed forces into Afghanistan to quash the Taliban regime,
which had supported the group believed to be responsible for
the attacks. During the fighting, an American citizen named
Yaser Esam Hamdi was apprehended in Afghanistan by
members of the Northern Alliance, a native coalition fight¬
ing the Taliban. Hamdi allegedly was affiliated with a Tal¬
iban military unit. The Northern Alliance subsequently
turned Hamdi over to the U.S. military. The military inter¬
rogated him in Afghanistan, transferred him to the U.S.
Naval Base in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, and eventually
transferred him to a naval brig in the United States.
The United States government held Hamdi as an “enemy
combatant” without formal charges or proceedings and with¬
out an attorney. In June 2002 Hamdi’s father filed a petition
for a writ of habeas corpus. The petition sought, among other
things, Hamdi’s release and a declaration that Hamdi was
being held in violation of his Fifth and Fourteenth Amend¬
ment due process rights.
In June 2004 the U.S. Supreme Court issued a decision
in the Hamdi u. Rumsfeld case. The case resulted in a plural¬
ity opinion—an opinion that does not carry a majority on all
the issues—authored by Justice Sandra Day O’Connor. Jus¬
tice O’Connor and three other justices held that Hamdi’s ini¬
tial detention was legal but that due process requires a
meaningful opportunity for Hamdi to contest his “enemy
Sandra Day O’Connor, opinion, Hamdi v. Rumsfeld, No. 03-6696, June 28, 2004.
104
Current Issues and Perspectives 105
combatant” status. Two other justices found that the deten¬

tion was not authorized to start with but joined with part of
the O’Connor opinion solely to indicate that Hamdi deserved
a meaningful opportunity to contest his status.
Part of O’Connor’s plurality opinion applies a test from the
Court’s 1976 Mathews v. Eldridge case. The test determines
the procedures necessary to ensure that a citizen is not de¬
prived of life, liberty, or property without due process of law
when there are serious competing interests at stake. First,
the Court must weigh the private interest against the govern¬
ment’s interest. In doing so the Court takes into consideration
the governmental function at issue and the burden the gov¬
ernment would face to provide any greater process. Then, a
“judicious balancing” of the interests is done by weighing the
risk of an improper result if less process is used against the
“probable value, if any” of using more procedural safeguards.
The private interest in Hamdi was “the fundamental na¬
ture of a citizen’s right to be free from involuntary confine¬
ment by his own government without due process of law.”
The government’s interest was the “weighty and sensitive
governmental interests in ensuring that those who have in
fact fought with the enemy during a war do not return to bat¬
tle against the United States.” The weighing and balancing
of these interests is discussed in the excerpt that follows.
S triking the proper constitutional balance here is of great

importance to the Nation during this period of ongoing
combat. But it is equally vital that our calculus not give short
shrift to the values that this country holds dear or to the priv¬
ilege that is American citizenship. It is during our most chal¬
lenging and uncertain moments that our Nation’s
commitment to due process is most severely tested; and it is
in those times that we must preserve our commitment at
home to the principles for which we fight abroad. . . .
Finding a Balance
With due recognition of these competing concerns, we believe
that neither the process proposed by the Government nor the
process apparently envisioned by the District Court below

strikes the proper constitutional balance when a United
States citizen is detained in the United States as an enemy
combatant. That is [quoting the Court’s ruling in Mathews v.
Eldridge (1976)], “the risk of erroneous deprivation” of a de¬
tainee’s liberty interest is unacceptably high under the Gov¬
ernment’s proposed rule, while some of the “additional or
substitute procedural safeguards” suggested by the District
Court are unwarranted in light of their limited “probable
value” and the burdens they may impose on the military in
such cases.
We therefore hold that a citizen-detainee seeking to chal¬
lenge his classification as an enemy combatant must receive
notice of the factual basis for his classification, and a fair op¬
portunity to rebut the Government’s factual assertions be¬
fore a neutral decisionmaker. . . . “For more than a century
the central meaning of procedural due process has been clear:
‘Parties whose rights are to be affected are entitled to be
heard; and in order that they may enjoy that right they must
first be notified.’ It is equally fundamental that the right to
notice and an opportunity to be heard ‘must be granted at a
meaningful time and in a meaningful manner.’” Fuentes v.
Sheuin, (1972) (quoting Baldwin v. Hale, (1864) [et al.]). These
essential constitutional promises may not be eroded.
At the same time, the exigencies of the circumstances may
demand that, aside from these core elements, enemy combat¬
ant proceedings may be tailored to alleviate their uncommon
potential to burden the Executive at a time of ongoing mili¬
tary conflict. Hearsay, for example, may need to be accepted
as the most reliable available evidence from the Government
in such a proceeding. Likewise, the Constitution would not be
offended by a presumption in favor of the Government’s evi¬
dence, so long as that presumption remained a rebuttable one
and fair opportunity for rebuttal were provided. Thus, once
the Government puts forth credible evidence that the habeas
petitioner meets the enemy-combatant criteria, the onus
could shift to the petitioner to rebut that evidence with more
persuasive evidence that he falls outside the criteria. A burden-
shifting scheme of this sort would meet the goal of ensuring
that the errant tourist, embedded journalist, or local aid

worker has a chance to prove military error while giving due
regard to the Executive once it has put forth meaningful sup¬
port for its conclusion that the detainee is in fact an enemy
combatant. In the words of Mathews, process of this sort
would sufficiently address the “risk of erroneous deprivation”
of a detainee’s liberty interest while eliminating certain pro¬
cedures that have questionable additional value in light of
the burden on the Government.
Warmaking Powers Are Left Intact

We think it unlikely that this basic process will have the dire
impact on the central functions of warmaking that the Gov¬
ernment forecasts. The parties agree that initial captures on
the battlefield need not receive the process we have discussed
here; that process is due only when the determination is made
to continue to hold those who have been seized. The Govern¬
ment has made clear in its briefing that documentation re¬
garding battlefield detainees already is kept in the ordinary
course of military affairs. Any factfinding imposition created
by requiring a knowledgeable affiant to summarize these
records to an independent tribunal is a minimal one. Like¬
wise, arguments that military officers ought not have to wage
war under the threat of litigation lose much of their steam
when factual disputes at enemy-combatant hearings are lim¬
ited to the alleged combatant’s acts. This focus meddles little,
if at all, in the strategy or conduct of war, inquiring only into
the appropriateness of continuing to detain an individual
claimed to have taken up arms against the United States.
While we accord the greatest respect and consideration to the
judgments of military authorities in matters relating to the
actual prosecution of a war, and recognize that the scope of
that discretion necessarily is wide, it does not infringe on the
core role of the military for the courts to exercise their own
time-honored and constitutionally mandated roles of review¬
ing and resolving claims like those presented here. . . .
In sum, while the full protections that accompany chal¬
lenges to detentions in other settings may prove unworkable
and inappropriate in the enemy-combatant setting, the threats
to military operations posed by a basic system of independ¬

ent review are not so weighty as to trump a citizen’s core
rights to challenge meaningfully the Government’s case and
to be heard by an impartial adjudicator.
The Courts as a Check Against

the Executive Branch
In so holding, we necessarily reject the Government’s asser¬
tion that separation of powers principles mandate a heavily
circumscribed role for the courts in such circumstances. In¬
deed, the position that the courts must forgo any examination
of the individual case and focus exclusively on the legality of
the broader detention scheme cannot be mandated by any rea¬
sonable view of separation of powers, as this approach serves
only to condense power into a single branch of government.
We have long since made clear that a state of war is not a
blank check for the President when it comes to the rights of
the Nation’s citizens. Whatever power the United States Con¬
stitution envisions for the Executive in its exchanges with
other nations or with enemy organizations in times of con¬
flict, it most assuredly envisions a role for all three branches
when individual liberties are at stake. . . . Likewise, we have
made clear that, unless Congress acts to suspend it, the Great
Writ of habeas corpus allows the Judicial Branch to play a
necessary role in maintaining this delicate balance of gover¬
nance, serving as an important judicial check on the Execu¬
tive’s discretion in the realm of detentions. . . . Thus, while we
do not question that our due process assessment must pay
keen attention to the particular burdens faced by the Execu¬
tive in the context of military action, it would turn our system
of checks and balances on its head to suggest that a citizen
could not make his way to court with a challenge to the fac¬
tual basis for his detention by his government simply because
the Executive opposes making available such a challenge. Ab¬
sent suspension of the writ by Congress, a citizen detained as
an enemy combatant is entitled to this process.
Because we conclude that due process demands some sys¬
tem for a citizen detainee to refute his classification, the
[Government’s] proposed “some evidence” standard is made-
quate. Any process in which the Executive’s factual asser¬

tions go wholly unchallenged or are simply presumed correct
without any opportunity for the alleged combatant to demon¬
strate otherwise falls constitutionally short. As the Govern¬
ment itself has recognized, we have utilized the “some
evidence” standard in the past as a standard of review, not
as a standard of proof. That is, it primarily has been em¬
ployed by courts in examining an administrative record de¬
veloped after an adversarial proceeding—one with process at
least of the sort that we today hold is constitutionally man¬
dated in the citizen enemy-combatant setting. This standard
therefore is ill suited to the situation in which a habeas peti¬
tioner has received no prior proceedings before any tribunal
and had no prior opportunity to rebut the Executive’s factual
assertions before a neutral decisionmaker.
Hamdi Received No Process

Today we are faced only with such a case. Aside from un¬
specified “screening” processes and military interrogations
in which the Government suggests Hamdi could have con¬
tested his classification, Hamdi has received no process. An
interrogation by one’s captor, however effective an intelligence¬
gathering tool, hardly constitutes a constitutionally ade¬
quate factfinding before a neutral decisionmaker. . . . That
even purportedly fair adjudicators “are disqualified by their
interest in the controversy to be decided is, of course, the
general rule.” Turney v. Ohio, (1927). Plainly, the “process”
Hamdi has received is not that to which he is entitled under
the Due Process Clause.
There remains the possibility that the standards we have
articulated could be met by an appropriately authorized and
properly constituted military tribunal. Indeed, it is notable that
military regulations already provide for such process in re¬
lated instances, dictating that tribunals be made available to
determine the status of enemy detainees who assert prisoner-
of-war status under the Geneva Convention. In the absence
of such process, however, a court that receives a petition for
a writ of habeas corpus from an alleged enemy combatant
must itself ensure that the minimum requirements of due
process are achieved. Both courts below recognized as much,

focusing their energies on the question of whether Hamdi
was due an opportunity to rebut the Government’s case
against him. The Government, too, proceeded on this as¬
sumption, presenting its affidavit and then seeking that it be
evaluated under a deferential standard of review based on
burdens that it alleged would accompany any greater
process. As we have discussed, a habeas court in a case such
as this may accept affidavit evidence like that contained in
the Mobbs Declaration [the Government’s document contain¬
ing statements about Hamdi’s affiliation with the Taliban] so
long as it also permits the alleged combatant to present his
own factual case to rebut the Government’s return. We antic¬
ipate that a District Court would proceed with the caution
that we have indicated is necessary in this setting, engaging
in a factfinding process that is both prudent and incremen¬
tal. We have no reason to doubt that courts faced with these
sensitive matters will pay proper heed both to the matters of
national security that might arise in an individual case and
to the constitutional limitations safeguarding essential liber¬
ties that remain vibrant even in times of security concerns.
Ensuring Due Process for
Detained Terror Suspects
Thomas F. Powers
In the spring of 2004 images of Iraqi prisoners being brutal¬

ized by American troops flooded the media at the same time
that cases regarding detained terror suspects were heading
for the Supreme Court. Concern arose that the nation that
values freedom above all other values may fail to afford due
process protections to its prisoners and detainees.
Thomas F. Powers, a political science professor at the Uni¬
versity of Minnesota, Duluth, has written extensively about
due process and justice issues in the aftermath of the attacks
of September 11, 2001. In the following selection he argues
that a new policy of preventive detention is necessary in the
aftermath of the Supreme Court’s decisions in Hamdi v.
Rumsfeld, Rasul v. Bush, and Rumsfeld v. Padilla. The cre¬
ation of new procedures would allow the U.S. government to
detain people without sufficient evidence to prove they com¬
mitted a crime. However, a certain amount of due process
would be provided to insure that people—citizens and nonci¬
tizens alike—are not held unreasonably or improperly.
A forthright policy of preventive detention is an idea whose

time has come. This is the most important implication of
the historic rulings issued by the Supreme Court in the
enemy combatant cases of Hamdi v. Rumsfeld, Rasul v. Bush,
and Rumsfeld v. Padilla. In Hamdi, five justices agreed that
the president has the authority to detain terrorists, even
when they are not charged under the criminal law and are
not held as either POWs [prisoners of war] or war criminals
Thomas F. Powers, “When to Hold ’Em,” Legal Affairs Magazine, September/October

2004. Copyright © 2004 by Legal Affairs Magazine. Reproduced by permission.
Ill
under international law. But the court ruled that detainees

who are United States citizens must be afforded greater due
process protections than the Bush Administration has been
willing to grant them. But the procedures called for by the
court are themselves sketchy, and they relate only to the ini¬
tial determination of a detainee’s status.
The Administration, first burdened by [reports of abuse of
Iraqi prisoners at] Abu Ghraib and now chastened by the
Supreme Court, is reconsidering its policies. It has created
an office charged with reviewing annually the detention of
enemy combatants. Its proposed procedures, supplemented
by more ambitious guidelines from the court, are a good start,
but what’s needed is a more comprehensive framework, au¬
thorized by Congress. America needs a USA Patriot Act for
preventive detention. To get there responsibly, we should look
to other countries, especially England and Israel, which have
crafted preventive detention policies with meaningful safe¬
guards for due process.
Preventive Detention Even Without

Sufficient Guidance
Preventive detention means the holding of American citizens
against their will, precisely because authorities do not have
sufficient evidence to prove in a court of law that the citizens
have committed a crime. Or when aliens detained outside the
United States are involved, it means the holding of individu¬
als neither as POWs nor as war criminals, the two categories
of wartime detention recognized under international law. The
last time the United States tried something like preventive
detention was during World War II, with the notorious in¬
ternment of some 120,000 innocent Japanese-American civil¬
ians. Doesn’t the shame of Korematsu still burn?1 How can
that sort of detention be the take-home message of the re¬
cent Supreme Court rulings, which have been widely hailed
as civil libertarian victories?
1. In Korematsu v. United States (1944) the Supreme Court declared the evacua
tion of Japanese Americans from the West Coast constitutional.
Preventive detention is understandably unsettling to

Americans. The view favored by many civil libertarians—
that the country could adopt a “criminal law purist” approach
of adhering to the norms of criminal due process—has been
put forth most prominently by Justice Antonin Scalia in his
dissent in Hamdi. “If Hamdi is being imprisoned in violation
of the Constitution (because without due process of law), then
his habeas petition should be granted,” Scalia wrote; “the ex¬
ecutive may then hand him over to the criminal authorities,
whose detention for the purpose of prosecution will be law¬
ful, or else must release him.”
The Italian Model

The purists can point to at least one modern liberal demo¬
cratic country, Italy, that has used this approach successfully.
The Italian government combated the Red Brigades and
other terrorist groups while making only modest alterations
to its system of criminal justice, mainly by enhancing police
investigative powers and criminal penalties. Though the Red
Brigades did not successfully advance revolutionary Marxism-
Leninism in Italy and eventually faded into oblivion, terror¬
ism in Italy during the 1970s and early 1980s was a serious
matter, involving thousands of bombings, hundreds of civil¬
ian deaths, and the kidnapping and assassination of promi¬
nent businessmen and government officials, including former
Prime Minister Aldo Moro.
Italy had no special interrogation policy for terrorists, de¬
veloped no special courts or procedures to try them, and used
no preventive detention system to get around safeguards of
the criminal justice system. The police patiently gathered ev¬
idence of crimes in order to incapacitate those who commit¬
ted them. If officials did not gather evidence sufficient for a
criminal conviction, the terrorism suspects were released.
U.S. Needs Are Unique

But the Italian model cannot serve our needs. On September
11, the United States suffered roughly ten times the number
of terrorism fatalities that Italy suffered over the span of the
15 years of attacks from the Red Brigades. Like terrorists
in Northern Ireland, Spain, and West Germany, the Red

Brigades used terror to effect political ends. These groups
sometimes targeted civilians, but they did not seek to inflict
mass civilian casualties in the manner of the current al
Qaeda campaign.
The sheer lethality of the September 11 attacks, and the
threat of similar attacks in the future, means that the United
States needs a different sort of approach. A number of promi¬
nent legal scholars and government officials, ranging from
the liberal constitutional expert Laurence Tribe to the con¬
servative federal judge Michael Chertoff, have begun to give
serious consideration to the idea of preventive detention.
Even Justice John Paul Stevens, who supports civil libertar¬
ian positions, admitted in the Padilla case that “[ejxecutive
detention of subversive citizens, like detention of enemy sol¬
diers to keep them off the battlefield, may sometimes be jus¬
tified to prevent persons from launching or becoming missiles
of destruction.”
What about international law? The point is not that the
United States should defy international law. It must not. But
under the Geneva Conventions terrorists do not fit into the
only two categories provided, POW or war criminal. Preven¬
tive detention responsibly addresses the question of what to
do with fighters who do not wear uniforms or otherwise dis¬
tinguish themselves from civilians in combat.
The government’s critics explain the Administration’s cur¬
rent policy either in terms of some institutional perversity
(executive overreach) or by reference to some pathological
“authoritarianism.” But the failure thus far to devise a com¬
prehensive policy reflects, at least in part, a liberal demo¬
cratic hesitation in the face of a practice that appears to be
fundamentally illiberal. The time has come to face terrorism
squarely, and to craft a legal response that reflects our con¬
stitutional principles.
Learning from Other Countries

Existing U.S. Department of Defense Policies extend some lim¬
ited procedural rights to detainees. Most notable is the annual
status review of every individual detained by the recently ere-
ated Office for the Administrative Review of the Detention of

Enemy Combatants. This, together with Justice Sandra Day
O’Connor’s insistence in Hamdi that all detainees be granted
a hearing before a “neutral decisionmaker,” and with the aid
of legal counsel, provides a starting point.
How we proceed from there should be decided in light of
the experience of other countries that have struggled to com¬
bat terrorism. If preventive detention is justified in large
measure by the scope and intensity of the actual threat of
terrorism, then England and Israel both surely qualify. More
than 3,000 terrorism deaths are associated with the conflict
in Northern Ireland, and more than 1,200 people have been
killed by terrorists in Israel in the past decade alone.
Great Britain’s indefinite internment policy, formalized in
1973 following the recommendations of a famous report au¬
thored by Lord Diplock on the situation in Northern Ireland,
was allowed to lapse in 1980. Lord Diplock was reacting to a
legally murky use of police power, one he termed “imprison¬
ment at the arbitrary Diktat of the Executive Government.”
Though his reform proposal, incorporated in the 1973 North¬
ern Ireland (Emergency Provisions) Act, made preventive de¬
tention a matter of administrative, not judicial, oversight,
the new policy reasserted civilian control and included due
process safeguards. No less a figure than the secretary of
state for Northern Ireland made initial detention determina¬
tions. Within a period of 28 days, an administrative official
would then review each case with the option to extend the
detention. Those detained also had a right to be informed of
their status hearing in advance, and they were granted the
right to an attorney paid for by the government. After Sep¬
tember 11, in the 2001 Anti-terrorism, Crime and Security
Act, a limited version of the internment policy, applying only
to non-citizens, was reintroduced in Britain.
In 1948 Israel inherited from the British an unofficial de¬
tention policy that was formally articulated in the 1979 Ad¬
ministrative Detention Law. Partly in response to provisions
of international law, administrative detention is justified, as
it is in England, only under a state of emergency—a status
Israel has invoked and lived under continuously since 1948.
The minister of defense must authorize each case. Detention

orders are issued for six months at a time and may be re¬
newed at the end of that period. In Israel the civilian courts
provide oversight, first by “confirming” the initial detention
order and then by reviewing the status of each detainee every
three months, overlapping with the review, every six months,
by the minister of defense. Detainees have the right to an at¬
torney, and the right to be present at their confirmation hear¬
ing and at all subsequent judicial proceedings.
A Parallel Legal System

The Policies of Britain and Israel each moved in the same di¬
rection: toward greater legal clarity and toward more exten¬
sive due process protections. The United States should take
advantage of those countries’ experiences to find ways to build
due process into preventive detention. Current U.S. policy re¬
flects a reactive and piecemeal approach. Designing a preven¬
tive detention policy means, in effect, creating a separate legal
system that applies only to a small class of persons, a system
running parallel to criminal law on the one hand, and to the
laws governing POWs and war criminals on the other.
A comprehensive policy must specify standards and pro¬
cedures in six key areas: 1) preliminary screening and deter¬
mination of status; 2) a hearing at which detainees may
challenge their status; 3) the right of appeal; 4) periodic re¬
consideration and renewal of status, or release; 5) general
legal support, including notification and access to attorneys,
evidence, and witnesses; and 6) clear standards of treatment
for detainees. Some of this is already in place in Defense De¬
partment practices, but it needs to be pulled together, clari¬
fied, and made explicit for anyone who wants to know about
the country’s policy.
The decision as to whether individuals should be held in
preventive detention can be made rigorous in a number of
ways. The involvement of high government officials—the sec¬
retary of the navy in the new Department of Defense plan or
the secretary of defense and even the president himself (who
now designates enemy combatants)—would signal the seri¬
ousness of the process, and fixes accountability in a useful way.
Enemy combatants cannot be granted a “trial,” since they

haven’t been charged with anything, but they should have
the closest thing to it: a hearing at which they may challenge
the government’s claims and present a different account of
the facts. As Justice O’Connor indicated in Hamdi, the ap¬
propriate body to oversee such a hearing might be within the
executive branch, but it could also be within the federal judi¬
ciary. The hearing must be held, as O’Connor insisted, before
a “neutral decisionmaker.”
The right of appeal is critical to any preventive detention
policy, especially for U.S. citizen detainees. Detaining Yaser
Hamdi and Jose Padilla without charging them with any
crime creates a greater, not lesser, obligation to justify their
detention. Appeal could be made to another administrative
body, or to the federal court system; a special court could
serve a useful role here. In some cases, appeal or review of
detention could be made automatic.
Basic Procedural Considerations

Whether it occurs every three months (as in Israel), every six
months (as in Britain), or once a year (as in U.S. policy as it
stands now), some formalized process for re-examining each
individual case for status renewal (or release) is essential,
especially in an open-ended effort like the current war on ter¬
ror. Having primary responsibility for this policy, the execu¬
tive branch could provide for the review process internally.
Another option is a policy of external review by the courts, as
is the case in Israel.
Several basic procedural rights accompany many of the
steps in this process. The right to know both one’s status and
any procedure to challenge it, now mandated by Hamdi,
seems elementary. A related practice, present in the current
Department of Defense plan, is the notification of both the
family and home country of any detained individual. Also
basic is the right to be present during status hearings. The
right to an attorney paid for by the government is already
granted, in some instances, in U.S. policy (though not in the
Defense Department plan, which grants instead the assis¬
tance of an officer who is not an attorney). Finally, if the
rights to a hearing and to some sort of appeal are to be mean¬

ingful, access to evidence and witnesses, where practicable,
must also be granted.
Under certain circumstances, some of these protections
might need to be suspended in the name of security. But to
ensure that such exceptions do not undermine the legitimacy
of the preventive detention system, any decision to make
such an exception to the agreed-upon procedural safeguards
must itself be governed by clear standards and authorized by
the highest officials. It might also be subject to automatic ju¬
dicial review. The exemption process would likely need to be
carried out in secret, at least in the short run. But such a pro¬
cedure should go as far as possible to provide safeguards
against abuses of authority for those detained.
Finally, the standards of treatment of those held in pre¬
ventive detention should be laid out in detail. Rules about
the limits of interrogation must be made clear to American
soldiers and civilian contract workers. Similarly, how to treat
prisoners held under the non-POW status should be detailed,
with reference to which provisions of the Geneva Conven¬
tions do and do not apply. Israel, for example, grants better
living conditions and greater privileges to administrative de¬
tainees then it does to criminal prisoners, since the former
are held under a preventive, and not a punitive, regime.
Congress Should Act Now

The most important available check is Congressional involve¬
ment, through legislation and oversight. The imprimatur of
Congress is all the more important now that four of the nine
justices of the Supreme Court have stated, in Hamdi, that
the current enemy combatant policy is essentially unconsti¬
tutional. Congress’s silence to date on the issue has been
deafening. With the exception of an effort by a handful of De¬
mocrats in the House, led by Adam Schiff of California and
Barney Frank of Massachusetts, to introduce a Detention of
Enemy Combatants Act, Congress seems to be happy to allow
the executive branch to struggle with the problem. Congress
needs to do its job, and it should write a detailed law, one to
be reauthorized every five years or so.
But there’s no getting around that this is a troubling area

of policy. In England and Israel, preventive detention has
been highly controversial. Though Lord Diplock was essen¬
tially a reformer, and though his report on Northern Ireland
brought legal clarity and constraint to what he and others
perceived to be runaway executive power, his name is often
associated with authoritarian excess. Fashioning a preven¬
tive detention policy is likely to be a thankless task here as
well. The name of the architect of America’s preventive de¬
tention policy may well become associated with an innova¬
tion that will be loved by none and hated by many. But the
benefit would be to bring the rule of law to bear even here,
where the Bush Administration has made clear that it is only
so willing to check its own power.
Even a Tyrant Is Entitled
to Due Process
Robert Scheer
America’s attempts to defeat the suspected September 11,

2001, terrorists and those who aided them has led to wars in
Afghanistan and Iraq and to the controversial military occu¬
pation of Iraq. In December 2003, as part of this military ef¬
fort, U.S. soldiers captured Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein
at a farmhouse hideout in Iraq. On June 28, 2004, political
control in Iraq, as well as custody of Saddam Hussein, was
transferred from the United States to the new Iraqi govern¬
ment. The new Iraqi justice system prepared to prosecute
Saddam for various crimes, most of which were perpetrated
against Iraqi citizens.
In the following selection, Robert Scheer describes the
charges against the Iraqi dictator and the legal processes in
place to prosecute him. Scheer describes the situation as a
“travesty.” He asserts that the United States, not the Iraqi
government, is the de facto power behind the whole process.
He believes treatment of Saddam has fallen far short of the
international standards of due process that the United
States, Great Britain, France, and Russia applied to Nazi
war criminals who were tried for crimes against humanity
in Nuremberg, Germany, in 1945.
Robert Scheer has been a journalist for more than thirty
years and has taught media-related courses at several Cali¬
fornia colleges. He writes for the Los Angeles Times and the
Nation magazine and is a coauthor of the book The Five
Biggest Lies Bush Told Us About Iraq.
Robert Scheer, “Even a Tyrant Is Entitled to Due Process,” The Nation, July 6, 2004.
Copyright © 2004 by The Nation Magazine/The Nation Company, Inc. Reproduced by
permission.
120
H as anyone noticed that the charges leveled last week [in

late June 2004] against Saddam Hussein bore no rela¬
tion to the reasons offered by President Bush for his pre¬
emptive invasion of Iraq? Not a word about Hussein being
linked to terrorist attacks on the United States or having
weapons of mass destruction that posed an imminent threat
to our nations security.
That is because after seven months of interrogation, the
United States appears to have learned nothing from Hussein
or any other source in the world that supports the President’s
decision to go to war. Washington turned Hussein over to the
Iraqis without charging its infamous prisoner of war with
any of these crimes. And even the Iraqis did not charge him
with being behind the insurgency that almost daily claims
American lives.
It’s a travesty, if you think about it. The fact is that the
United States, which holds itself up as the exemplar of
democracy for the entire Middle East, held Hussein in cap¬
tivity for seven months, virtually incommunicado, without
access to lawyers of his choosing and without charging him
with a crime or releasing him at the end of the occupation, as
required by the Geneva Convention. If the United States be¬
lieves, as most of the world does, that Hussein committed
crimes against humanity, then he is entitled to the same in¬
ternational standards of due process that the United States
and its allies applied to top Nazi war criminals at Nurem¬
berg. It is well established in such cases that justice will not
be served by turning Hussein over to be tried by his former
political rivals or his victims.
America’s Role in Hussein’s Trial

No one will be fooled by the claim that we are merely acced¬
ing to the demands of the new Iraqi government, since its
leader, interim Prime Minister Iyad Allawi, has long been on
the CIA payroll and was essentially appointed to his post by
the United States.
Similarly, Salem Chalabi, nephew of Pentagon protege
and discredited Iraqi National Congress leader Ahmad Chal¬
abi, was put in charge of the trial by the United States, creating
what looks so far like nothing more than a show trial.1 The
younger Chalabi is also a member of the INC, the exile or¬
ganization bankrolled by US taxpayers that provided much
of the now disproven “intelligence” Bush used in speech after
speech to convince Americans of the urgency of the Iraqi
weapons-of-mass-destruction and terrorism “threat.”
Salem Chalabi was picked by Bush’s national security ad¬
visor, Condoleezza Rice. In a secret directive issued in Janu¬
ary and leaked to the public in March, Rice authorized a
delegation of fifty lawyers, prosecutors and investigators to be
sent to Iraq to prepare for Hussein’s trial. Chalabi is not only
the prosecutor but chose the judge, whose identity is a secret.
It is thus a huge stretch to call the proceedings a fair trial
or an Iraqi-run affair. Men long on the US payroll are run¬
ning the country and the trial; US troops are still guarding
Hussein. And the United States even chose what images
could be broadcast and told pool reporters they could not
record Hussein’s voice. An unauthorized audiotape was, how¬
ever, leaked to the media.
The Nuremberg Principle

We have already grossly violated the standard of Nuremberg
laid down by US Supreme Court Justice Robert H. Jackson:
“That four great nations, flushed with victory and stung with
injury, stay the hand of vengeance and voluntarily submit
their captive enemies to the judgment of the law is one of the
most significant tributes that power has ever paid to reason.”
But the four great nations Jackson was referring to, led by
our own, were not guilty of committing aggression but rather
of stopping it. The first principle of the Nuremberg trials was
to hold nations accountable for crimes against peace.
It is therefore fitting that the preliminary indictment
holds Hussein responsible for his aggression against Kuwait,
which precipitated the 1991 Gulf War. How disturbing that
in the current war it was the United States that committed
aggression by invading Iraq based on false premises, thereby
violating the Nuremberg principle.
1. Chalabi was removed from his post as overseer of the trial in September 2004.
APPENDIX
The Origins of the American Bill of Rights

The U.S. Constitution as it was originally created and sub¬
mitted to the colonies for ratification in 1787 did not include
what we now call the Bill of Rights. This omission was the
cause of much controversy as Americans debated whether to
accept the new Constitution and the new federal government
it created. One of the main concerns voiced by opponents of
the document was that it lacked a detailed listing of guaran¬
tees of certain fundamental individual rights. These critics
did not succeed in preventing the Constitution’s ratification,
but were in large part responsible for the existence of the
Bill of Rights.
In 1787 the United States consisted of thirteen former
British colonies that had been loosely bound since 1781 by
the Articles of Confederation. Since declaring their inde¬
pendence from Great Britain in 1776, the former colonies
had established their own colonial governments and consti¬
tutions, eight of which had bills of rights written into them.
One of the most influential was Virginia’s Declaration of
Rights. Drafted largely by planter and legislator George
Mason in 1776, the seventeen-point document combined
philosophical declarations of natural rights with specific lim¬
itations on the powers of government. It served as a model
for other state constitutions.
The sources for these declarations of rights included En¬
glish law traditions dating back to the 1215 Magna Carta
and the 1689 English Bill of Rights—two historic documents
that provided specific legal guarantees of the “true, ancient,
and indubitable rights and liberties of the people” of Eng¬
land. Other legal sources included the colonies’ original char¬
ters, which declared that colonists should have the same
“privileges, franchises, and immunities” that they would if
they lived in England. The ideas concerning natural rights
123
developed by John Locke and other English philosophers

were also influential. Some of these concepts of rights had
been cited in the Declaration of Independence to justify the
American Revolution.
Unlike the state constitutions, the Articles of Confedera¬
tion, which served as the national constitution from 1781 to
1788, lacked a bill of rights. Because the national govern¬
ment under the Articles of Confederation had little authority
by design, most people believed it posed little threat to civil
liberties, rendering a bill of rights unnecessary. However,
many influential leaders criticized the very weakness of the
national government for creating its own problems; it did not
create an effective system for conducting a coherent foreign
policy, settling disputes between states, printing money, and
coping with internal unrest.
It was against this backdrop that American political lead¬
ers convened in Philadelphia in May 1787 with the stated in¬
tent to amend the Articles of Confederation. Four months
later the Philadelphia Convention, going beyond its original
mandate, created a whole new Constitution with a stronger
national government. But while the new Constitution in¬
cluded a few provisions protecting certain civil liberties, it
did not include any language similar to Virginia’s Declara¬
tion of Rights. Mason, one of the delegates in Philadelphia,
refused to sign the document. He listed his objections in an
essay that began:
There is no Declaration of Rights, and the Laws of the

general government being paramount to the laws and
constitution of the several States, the Declaration of
Rights in the separate States are no security.
Mason’s essay was one of hundreds of pamphlets and other

writings produced as the colonists debated whether to ratify
the new Constitution (nine of the thirteen colonies had to offi¬
cially ratify the Constitution for it to go into effect). The sup¬
porters of the newly drafted Constitution became known as
Federalists, while the loosely organized group of opponents
were called Antifederalists. Antifederalists opposed the new
Constitution for several reasons. They believed the presidency
Appendix 125
would create a monarchy, Congress would not be truly repre¬

sentative of the people, and state governments would be en¬
dangered. However, the argument that proved most effective
was that the new document lacked a bill of rights and thereby
threatened Americans with the loss of cherished individual
liberties. Federalists realized that to gain the support of key
states such as New York and Virginia, they needed to pledge
to offer amendments to the Constitution that would be added
immediately after its ratification. Indeed, it was not until this
promise was made that the requisite number of colonies rati¬
fied the document. Massachusetts, Virginia, South Carolina,
New Hampshire, and New York all included amendment rec¬
ommendations as part of their decisions to ratify.
One of the leading Federalists, James Madison of Vir¬
ginia, who was elected to the first Congress to convene under
the new Constitution, took the lead in drafting the promised
amendments. Under the process provided for in the Consti¬
tution, amendments needed to be passed by both the Senate
and House of Representatives and then ratified by three-
fourths of the states. Madison sifted through the suggestions
provided by the states and drew upon the Virginia Declara¬
tion of Rights and other state documents in composing twelve
amendments, which he introduced to Congress in September
1789. “If they are incorporated into the constitution,” he ar¬
gued in a speech introducing his proposed amendments,
Independent tribunals of justice will consider them¬

selves in a peculiar manner the guardians of those
rights; they will be an impenetrable bulwark against
every assumption of power in the legislative or execu¬
tive; they will be naturally led to resist every encroach¬
ment upon rights expressly stipulated for in the
constitution by the declaration of rights.
After debate and some changes to Madison’s original pro¬

posals, Congress approved the twelve amendments and sent
them to the states for ratification. Two amendments were not
ratified; the remaining ten became known as the Bill of
Rights. Their ratification by the states was completed on De¬
cember 15, 1791.
Supreme Court Cases Involving
the Right to Due Process
1833
Barron v. Baltimore
The Supreme Court declares that the Fifth Amendment’s
due process clause applies only to the federal government,
not state governments.
1855
Murray’s Lessee v. Hoboken Land & Improvement Co.
The Court develops a two-pronged test to help define the
meaning of the Fifth Amendment’s due process clause. A pro¬
cedure is considered constitutional if it is not in conflict with
the Constitution and is consistent with procedures used
under English common law.
1884
Hurtado v. California
The Court reduces the Murray’s Lessee two-pronged test to a
single standard. A legal proceeding is considered to be due
process if the proceeding protects liberty and justice.
1897
Allgeyer v. Louisiana
The Court examines the substance of a state law regarding a
restriction on entering into insurance contracts. This case is
one of the first to establish a link between the Fourteenth
Amendment’s due process clause and the liberty of contract.
Interpreting the due process clause to define a particular
right that does not otherwise appear in the Constitution be¬
comes known as the theory of “substantive due process.”
126
Appendix 127
1905
Lochner v. New York
The Court cites a substantive due process right under the
Fourteenth Amendment to strike down a state labor law in
order to protect the liberty of contract, despite the fact that
the law is alleged to protect public health.
1927
Buck v. Bell
The Court finds that a Virginia law provides adequate due
process, including a hearing and extensive observation, to
allow sterilization of an inmate in a mental health institution.
1934
Nebbia v. New York
The Court upholds the state regulation of milk prices because
the regulation is linked to protection of the public health,
thus signaling an end to the Lochner era.
1937
Palko v. Connecticut
The Court refuses to find that the Fourteenth Amendment
applies the entire Bill of Rights to state government actions.
Instead, the Court asks whether the state action in question
(in this case, a second trial) violates “fundamental principles
of liberty and justice which lie at the base of all our civil and
political institutions.” The Court says that protection from
double jeopardy is not such a fundamental right, and a sec¬
ond trial is permitted.
1938
U.S. v. Carotene Products
The Court promises to uphold economics-related state legis¬
lation if there is a reasonable inference that the facts sup¬
port the legislature’s judgment.
1942
Skinner v. Oklahoma
The Court invalidates a state statute that calls for the steril¬
ization of certain repeat felons.
1947
Adamson v. California
Justice Hugo Black’s dissent makes an argument for “total
incorporation”—the theory that, under the Fourteenth
Amendment, state governments, not just the federal govern¬
ment, are prohibited from violating all of the rights set forth
in the Bill of Rights.
1954
Bolling v. Sharpe
The Court finds that due process prohibits racial segregation
in public schools.
1961
Mapp v. Ohio
Through “selective incorporation,” the Court begins to apply
the protections of the Bill of Rights to the states, one right at
a time. In this case, the exclusionary rule is found to prohibit
the use of improperly obtained evidence against a defendant.
1963
Gideon v. Wainwright
The Court finds that the right to counsel is guaranteed even
to a defendant who cannot afford to pay for an attorney.
1965
Griswold v. Connecticut
The Court states that a married couple’s decision regarding
the purchase and use of contraceptives is a private matter
that is beyond the proper reach of the government.
Appendix 129
1966
Miranda v. Arizona
In a group of similar cases, the Court states that evidence ob¬
tained in violation of the privilege against self-incrimination
must be excluded. Any convictions based on such improperly
obtained evidence must be reversed.
1967
In re Gault
The Court finds that juveniles are entitled to the same due
process protections as adults.
1970
Goldberg v. Kelly
The Court finds that “property” for purposes of due process
protections may include benefits from the state or other in¬
stitutions, but only if the relationship creates a legal entitle¬
ment. Thus, a tenured employee is entitled to a hearing upon
being fired, but a probationary employee is not.
1972
Eisenstadt u. Baird
The Griswold privacy right is extended to all individuals, re¬
gardless of marital status.
1973
Frontiero v. Richardson
The Court hears a gender discrimination case and states
that “dissimilar treatment for men and women who are sim¬
ilarly situated” violates the due process clause of the Fifth
Amendment.
Roe v. Wade
In the case that legalized abortion, the Court finds that a
right to privacy is protected by the Fourteenth Amendment-
even though the right is only implied and not directly men¬
tioned in the Constitution.
1976
Mathews v. Eldridge
The Court formulates a test for analyzing how much process
is due in a case where competing government and personal
interests are at stake.
1980
Harris v. McRae
The Court upholds limitations on federal funding of abor¬
tions, which is interpreted by some people to limit the scope
of Roe v. Wade.
1986
Bowers v. Hardwick
The Court finds there is no right to privacy in the context of
a consensual homosexual relationship.
1989
DeShaney v. Winnebago County Department of Social Services
The Court finds that states are not accountable for a govern¬
ment program’s failure to intervene to stop domestic violence
among family members.
Webster v. Reproductive Health Services

A plurality opinion authored by Chief Justice William Rehn-
quist indicates that the Court is prepared to revisit Roe v.
Wade in the context of the appropriate case.
1990
Cruzan v. Missouri Department of Health
The Court finds that individuals have a right to refuse med¬
ical treatment, including life support (being kept alive by ar¬
tificial means), under the due process clause. However, if a
person is comatose, the Court requires clear and convincing
evidence of the comatose person’s desire to terminate life
support.
Appendix 131
James v. Illinois
The Court examines the boundaries of the exclusionary rule
and finds that illegally obtained evidence can be used to im¬
peach a defendant’s testimony, but not the testimony of other
defense witnesses.
1997
Washington u. Glucksberg
The Court finds a right to refuse medical treatment, but not
a right to assisted suicide.
2003
Lawrence v. Texas
The Court overturns Bowers and finds a right to privacy in
the context of a consensual homosexual relationship.
2004
Hamdi v. Rumsfeld
A plurality of the Court finds that people detained as “enemy
combatants” have the due process right to contest their de¬
tention before a “neutral decisionmaker.”
FOR FURTHER RESEARCH
Books
Robert H. Bork, The Tempting of America: The Political Se¬
duction of the Law. New York: Touchstone, 1991.
Benjamin N. Cardozo, The Nature of the Judicial Process:
The Storrs Lectures Delivered at Yale University. New
Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1921.
Archibald Cox, The Court and the Constitution. Boston:
Houghton Mifflin, 1987.
John Hart Ely, Democracy and Distrust: A Theory of Judi¬
cial Review. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press,
1980.
Barbara Silberdick Feinberg, Constitutional Amendments.
New York: Twenty-First Century, 1996.
D.J. Galligan, Due Process and Fair Procedures: A Study of
Administrative Procedures. Oxford, UK: Oxford Univer¬
sity Press, 1997.
Susan Dudley Gold, In re Gault (1967): Juvenile Justice.
New York: Twenty-First Century, 1995.
Edward Keynes, Liberty, Property and Privacy: Toward a Ju¬
risprudence of Substantive Due Process. University Park:
Pennsylvania State University Press, 1996.
Anthony Lewis, Gideons Trumpet. New York: Vintage, 1964.
John V. Orth, Due Process of Law: A Brief History. Lawrence:
University Press of Kansas, 2003.
Lucas A. Powe Jr., The Warren Court and American Politics.
Cambridge, MA: Belknap, 2000.
Jamin B. Raskin, We the Students: Supreme Court Decisions
for and About Students. Washington, DC: CQ Press, 2003.
132
For Further Research 133
Kent Roach, Due Process and Victims’ Rights: The New Law
and Politics of Criminal Justice. Toronto: University of
Toronto Press, 1999.
Sarah Weddington, A Question of Choice. New York: Penguin,
1993.
Howard Zinn, Declarations of Independence. New York:
HarperCollins, 1990.
-, The Zinn Reader: Writings on Disobedience and
Democracy. New York: Seven Stories, 1997.
Web Sites
FindLaw, www.findlaw.com. The site provides a search en¬
gine to assist with finding lawyers, court opinions, legal
analysis, and other law-related materials.
The OYEZ Project: U.S. Supreme Court Multimedia, www.
oyez.org. The project provides information about Supreme
Court justices and summaries of important Supreme
Court cases.
Supreme Court of the United States, www.supremecourtus.
gov. The Court Web site provides information about the
Supreme Court, cases on the current docket, and prior
opinions.
INDEX
abortion rights, 81 Constitution, literal interpre¬

Allawi, Iyad, 121 tation of, 87-88
Arizona State Dept, of Public Cox, Archibald, 89
Welfare v. Barlowe (1956), 60 Curtis, Benjamin R., 14
attorneys. See right to counsel
Davidson v. New Orleans
Betts u. Brady (1943), 36, (1878), 24
38-39, 41, 42 Department of Defense, U.S.,
Black, Hugo L., 84 114-15
“incorporation” theory of, Detention of Enemy Combat¬
94-95 ants Act, 118
right to counsel and, 36, double jeopardy
37-39, 42 Fifth and Fourteenth
Blackmun, Harry A., 83—84, 85 amendments and, 31—32
Bolling v. Sharpe (1954), limits of, in federal prosecu¬
78-79 tion, 32
Bowers v. Hardwick (1986), 17, protection against, is not a
100-102 fundamental right, 32-35
Brown v. Board of Education Douglas, Justice, 40, 63
(1954), 78-79 Dred Scott v. Sandford (1857),
Buchanan v. War ley, 80 90
Buck v. Bell (1927), 15, 17 Due Process Clause. See Four¬
teenth Amendment
Cardozo, Benjamin N., 14, 16, due process of law,
30, 31 requirements of, 21-22
Chalabi, Salem, 121—22
Clark, Tom, 38, 40 Eighth Amendment, 87-88
Coffee, Linda, 82 Ely, John Hart, 86
Cole, Edward, 22-23 Emerson, Thomas, 84
colonial law, 27-28 employers/employees. See
confessions, by defendant, liberty of contract
54-55 enemy combatants,
juvenile rights and, 62, 65-66 detainment of, 105-10
134
Index 135
English constitutionalism, due process and, 34-35

22-23 Palko v. Connecticut and, 31
Escobedo u. Illinois (1964), 43 right to counsel and, 39-40
Fifth Amendment, 14, 21-22 Garner, Tyron, 97

Fourteenth Amendment Gault, Gerald, 56-57, 62-63,
and, 31-33 65-66
juvenile rights and, 64 General Assembly of
racial segregation and, 78—79 Maryland, 27
reference to procedures in, 89 Geneva Conventions, 114
right to counsel and, 50 Gibson v. Mississippi (1896),
right to remain silent and, 80
49, 52 Gideon, Clarence Earl, 36
Flowers, Robert C., 83 Gideon v. Wainwright (1963),
Floyd, Jay, 83 36, 37
Fortas, Abe, 56 Goldberg, Arthur, 37
Fourteenth Amendment, 14, Goldman, Jerry, 81
21-22 Great Britain
double jeopardy and, 30 internment policy of, 115
juveniles’ right to counsel law of the land and, 22-23
and, 61 substantive due process and,
language of, 90-93 24
procedural connotations in, Griswold v. Connecticut (1965),
88-89 84
protects liberty of contract, Guantanamo Bay (Cuba),
69-70 detainees in, 17-18
racial segregation and, 79
right to counsel and, 39, Haley v. Ohio, 63
40-41 Hamdi, Yaser Esam, 104,
state government actions 109-10, 117
and, 31 Hamdi v. Rumsfeld (2004), 18,
substantive interpretation 104-105
of, 89-90 Hardwick, Michael, 96, 97-98,
flaws in, 93-95 Holmes, Oliver Wendell, 15
Frank, Barney, 118 homosexual relationships
Frankfurter, Felix, 37 government should not con¬
fundamental rights trol, 98-99, 102
are protected from state right to make personal
infringement, 32-34 choices and, 100
sodomy laws and, 97-98 waiver of Miranda rights

support for rights of homo¬ and, 53-54
sexuals and, 100-101 Lawrence, John Geddes, 97
Hurtado v. California (1884), 15 Lawrence v. Texas (2003),
Hussein, Saddam, 120-22 97-98
Lewis, Anthony, 36
Inbau, Fred E., 45-47, 48 liberty
interpretivism, 86, 87-88 evolution of, due process
Israel, 115-16 and, 16-18
Italy, 113 racial segregation and, 80
substantive due process
Jackson, Robert H., 122 and, 16
Japanese American liberty of contract
internment camps, 112 Fourteenth Amendment
Johnson u. Zerbst (1938), 39 protection of, 69-70
juvenile rights government interference
adult rights vs., 56—57 and, 76-77
confessions by defendants individual rights vs. state
and, 62-64 rights and, 70—72
parents/guardians receiving validity of health concerns
notice of charges and, 58-59 and, 72—76
protection against self¬ Lochner v. New York (1905),
incrimination and, 62, 68-69, 88-89
64-66
right to counsel and, 59—61 Magna Carta, 22
marital privacy, 84
Kennedy, Anthony, 96 Mathews v. Eldridge (1976),
Kepner u. United States (1904), 106, 107
32 McCorvey, Norma N., 82
mental health patients, sterili¬
labor laws, 69 zation of, 15
see also liberty of contract military tribunals, 109
land law, 25 Miller, Samuel, 24
law enforcement Miranda, Ernesto, 43
confessions to, 54-55 Miranda rights, 43-44
interrogation methods of, defendant’s response to
44-48 warnings and, 52-53
powers of, liberty of contract interrogation methods prior
and, 70, 71 to, 44—47
Index 137
right to remain silent and, Israeli policy and, 115-16

49-50 Italian model of, 113
Supreme Court on need for, procedural considerations
47-49 for, 117-18
warnings on right to counsel September 11 attacks and,
and, 50-52 113-14
Miranda v. Arizona (1966), 43 Supreme Court decision on,
111-12
Nuremberg Principle, 122 U.S. policy on, 114-15
reaction to, 119
O’Connor, Sandra Day, 104, war-making functions and,
115 107-108
Orth, John V., 21 prisoners. See preventative
detainment
Padilla, Jose, 117 privacy rights
Palko v. Connecticut (1937), 15, abortion and, 82—83
30 government control over
Peckham, Rufus, 68 personal relationships
Planned Parenthood v. Casey and, 98-99
(1992), 85, 99-100, 101 right to make personal
Plessy v. Ferguson (1896), 78 choices and, 99-100
police officers. See law enforce¬ same-sex relationships and,
ment 17
Powell v. Alabama (1932), 39, sodomy laws and, 98
41 probation officers, 60
Power, Lewis F., Jr., 83 procedural due process, 14-15
Powers, Thomas F., Ill language of Fourteenth
preventative detainment Amendment and, 92-93
British policy and, 115 Supreme Court’s focus on, 17
civil libertarian view on, 113
congressional involvement racial segregation, 78-80
for, 117-18 Rehnquist, William H., 83, 84
constitutional balance for, Reid, John E., 45-47, 48
105-107 Rice, Condoleezza, 122
entitlement to due process right to counsel
and, 109-10, 116-17 expansion of, 40-42
examples of, 112 financial abilities and, 51-52
government checks and bal¬ during interrogation of
ances for, 108—109 defendant, 50-52
is a fundamental right, 39—40 privacy rights and, 81

for juveniles, 59-61 problems with, 93-95
Miranda warnings and, 52—53
Supreme Court opinion on, terror suspects. See preventa¬
37-39 tive detainment
waiver of, 53-54 Tribe, Laurence, 114
right to trial by jury, 33
Roe v. Wade (1973), 81, 82-84, U.S. Supreme Court
89 on abortion rights, 82-85
Romer v. Evans (1996), 100 on detainment of citizens,
rule of law, 23 104-10, 111-12
on double jeopardy, 31—35
same-sex couples, privacy on government control over
rights for, 17 personal relationships,
see also homosexual 97-102
relationships on Guantanamo Bay
Scheer, Robert, 120 detainees, 17-18
September 11 terrorist attacks, on juvenile rights, 57—66
113-14 on liberty, 17
Seventh Amendment, 33 on liberty of contract, 68—69
Sixth Amendment, 33 on need for Miranda rights,
see also right to counsel 47-49
sodomy laws, 96, 97-98 on police interrogation meth¬
state powers ods, 44-47
liberty of contract and, procedural due process and,
69-72 14-15
protection of fundamental on racial segregation, 78-80
rights and, 32—34 on right to counsel, 37-42
substantive due process and, substantive interpretation of
24 Fourteenth Amendment
Stevens, John Paul, 101, 114 by, 89-90, 93-95
Stewart, Potter, 83
Schiff, Adam, 118 Warren, Earl, 37, 43, 78
substantive due process, Weddington, Sarah, 82, 83
15-16, 17, 69 White, Byron R., 84
history of, 23-26 writ of habeas corpus, 62,
interpretation of Fourteenth 109-10
Amendment and, 89—90, 92 Wynehamer v. People (1856), 90
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The Right to

Bruce Glassman, Vice President

© 2005 by Greenhaven Press, a part of The Thomson Corporation.

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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

The right to due process / Kimberly Troisi-Paton, book editor.

Printed in the United States of America

Chapter 1: The History of the Right

2. A Colonial Law Guaranteeing Due Process

Chapter 2: Due Process and the Rights

2. The Court Expands the Right to Counsel

3. The Court Establishes the Miranda Rights

In Miranda v. Arizona (1966) the Supreme Court

4. Due Process Protects the Rights of

Chapter 3: Due Process and Civil

In Lochner u. New York (1905) the Supreme

2. Due Process Prohibits Racial Segregation

3. The Court Infers a Right to Privacy in the

4. Due Process Guarantees Fair Procedures,

A law professor criticizes the Supreme Court’s

5. Due Process Prohibits Government Control

Lawrence v. Texas (2003) specifically overturned

Chapter 4: Current Issues and

In Hamdi v. Rumsfeld (2004) the Supreme Court

2. Ensuring Due Process for Detained

A political science professor proposes a policy of

3. Even a Tyrant Is Entitled to Due Process

A journalist opines that even Saddam Hussein is

The Origins of the American Bill of Rights 123

Supreme Court Cases Involving the Right

For Further Research 132

“I cannot agree with those who think of the Bill of Rights

T he Bill of Rights codifies the freedoms most essential to

the legal meaning of the rights contained in the Bill of

process of incorporation laid the legal foundation for the civil

N o person shall be deprived “of life, liberty, or property,

Procedural Due Process

the comparison to English law. In Hurtado v. California

Substantive Due Process

Liberty is not defined. Its limits are not mapped and

Cardozo’s questions strike at the heart of the due process

The Evolution of Liberty and Due Process

own precedent. For example, in the 1986 case Bowers u.

Had those who drew and ratified the Due Process

Given the consistent expansion of the privacy interest in the

In what is possibly the most significant of these cases,

The Right Balance

2. Benjamin R. Curtis, Murray’s Lessee v. Hoboken Land & Improvement Co.,

The History of the

The Bill of Rights gfjj|

John V. Orth is a professor of law at the University of North

O ne of the most frequently asked questions in American

adopted almost one hundred years later in the aftermath of

The Law of the Land