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4/1/08 - 5/1/08

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Free and Equal Citizenship ( The Discrimination )



Free and Equal Citizenship


Civil rights are those rights that constitute free and equal citizenship in a liberal democracy. Such citizenship has two main dimensions, both tied to the idea of autonomy. Accordingly, civil rights are essentially connected to securing the autonomy of the citizen.



Public and Private Autonomy


To be a free and equal citizen is, in part, to have those legal guarantees that are essential to fully adequate participation in public discussion and decisionmaking. A citizen has a right to an equal voice and an equal vote. In addition, she has the rights needed to protect her “moral independence,” that is, her ability to decide for herself what gives meaning and value to her life and to take responsibility for living in conformity with her values.(Dworkin, 1995: 25) Accordingly, equal citizenship has two main dimensions: “public autonomy,” i.e., the individual's freedom to participate in the formation of public opinion and society's collective decisions; and “private autonomy,” i.e., the individual's freedom to decide what way of life is most worth pursuing. (Habermas: 1996) The importance of these two dimensions of citizenship stem from what Rawls calls the “two moral powers” of personhood: the capacity for a sense of justice and the capacity for a conception of the good.(1995: 164; 2001: 18) A person stands as an equal citizen when society and its political system give equal and due weight to the interest each citizen has in the development and exercise of those capacities.


The idea of equal citizenship can be traced back to Aristotle's political philosophy and his claim that true citizens take turns ruling and being ruled. (Politics: 1252a16) In modern society, the idea has been transformed, in part by the development of representative government and its system of elections. (Manin: 1997) For modern liberal thought, by contrast, citizenship, is no longer a matter of having a direct and equal share in governance, but rather consists in a legal status that confers a certain package of rights that guarantee to an individual a voice, a vote, and a zone of private autonomy. The other crucial differences between modern liberalism and earlier political theories concern the range of human beings who are regarded as having the capacity for citizenship and the scope of private autonomy to which each citizen is entitled as a matter of basic right. Modern liberal theory is more expansive on both counts than its ancient and medieval forerunners.
It is true that racist and sexist assumptions plagued liberal theory well into the twentieth-century. However, two crucial liberal ideas have made possible an internal critique of racism, sexism, and other illegitimate forms of hierarchy. The first is that society is constructed by humans, a product of human will, and not some preordained natural or God-given order. The second is that social arrangements need to be justified before the court of reason to each individual who lives under them and who is capable of reasoning. The conjunction of these ideas made possible an egalitarianism that was not available to ancient and medieval political thought, although this liberal egalitarianism emerged slowly out of the racist and sexist presuppositions that infused much liberal thinking until recent decades.
Many contemporary theorists have argued that taking liberal egalitarianism to its logical conclusion requires the liberal state to pursue a program of deliberately reconstructing informal social norms and cultural meanings. They contend that social stigma and denigration still operate powerfully to deny equal citizenship to groups such as blacks, women, and gays. Accordingly, Kernohan has argued that “the egalitarian liberal state should play an activist role in cultural reform.” (1998: xi), and Koppelman has taken a similar position: “the antidiscrimination project seeks to reconstruct social reality to eliminate or marginalize the shared meanings, practices and institutions that unjustifiably single out certain groups of citizens for stigma and disadvantage.”(1996: 8) This position is deeply at odds with at least some of the ideas that lie behind the advocacy of third-generation civil rights. Those rights ground claims of cultural survival, whether or not a culture's meanings, practices and institutions stigmatize and disadvantage the members of some ascriptively-defined group. The egalitarian proponents of cultural reconstruction can be understood as advocating a different kind of “third-generation” for the civil rights movement: one in which the state, having attacked legal, political and economic barriers to equal citizenship, now takes on cultural obstacles.
A cultural-reconstruction phase of the civil rights movement would run contrary to Kukathas's argument that it is too dangerous to license the state to intervene against cultures that engage in social tyranny.(2001) It also raises questions about whether state-supported cultural reconstruction would violate basic liberties, such as freedom of private association. The efforts of New Jersey to apply antidiscrimination law to the Boy Scouts, a group which discriminates against gays, illustrates the potential problems. The Supreme Court invalidated those efforts on grounds of free association. (Boys Scouts v. Dale) Nonetheless, it may be necessary to reconceive the scope and limits of some basic liberties if the principle of free and equal citizenship is followed through to its logical conclusions.

DiscriminationIn liberal democracies, civil rights claims are typically conceptualized in terms of the idea of discrimination. (Brest, 1976) Persons who make such claims assert that they are the victims of discrimination. In order to gain an understanding of current discussion and debate regarding civil rights, it is important to disentangle the various descriptive and normative senses of ‘discrimination’.



In one of its central descriptive senses, ‘discrimination’ means the differential treatment of persons, however justifiable or unjustifiable the treatment may be. In a distinct but still primarily descriptive sense, it means the disadvantageous (or, less commonly, the advantageous) treatment of some persons relative to others. This sense is not purely descriptive in that an evaluative judgment is involved in determining what counts as a disadvantage. But the sense is descriptive insofar as no evaluative judgment is made regarding the justifiability of the disadvantageous treatment.
In addition to its descriptive senses, there are two normative senses of ‘discrimination’. In the first, it means any differential treatment of the individual that is morally objectionable. In the second sense, ‘discrimination’ means the wrongful denial or abridgement of the civil rights of some persons in a context where others enjoy their full set of rights. The two normative senses are distinct because there can be morally objectionable forms of differential treatment that do not involve the wrongful denial or abridgement of civil rights. If I treat one waiter rudely and another nicely, because one is a New York Yankees fan and the other is a Boston Red Sox fan, then I have acted in a morally objectionable way but have not violated anyone's civil rights.
Discrimination that does deny civil rights is a double wrong against its victims. The denial of civil rights is by itself a wrong, whether or not others have such rights. When others do have such rights, the denial of civil rights to persons who are entitled to them involves the additional wrong of unjustified differential treatment. On the other hand, if everyone is denied his civil rights, then the idea of discrimination would be misapplied to the situation. A despot who oppresses everyone equally is not guilty of discrimination in any of its senses. In contrast, discrimination is a kind of wrong that is found in systems that are liberal democratic but imperfectly so: it is the characteristic injustice of liberal democracy.
The first civil rights law, enacted in 1866, embodied the idea of discrimination as wrongful denial of civil rights to some while others enjoyed their full set of rights. It declared that “all persons” in the United States were to have “the same right…to make and enforce contracts…and to the full and equal benefit of all laws…as is enjoyed by white citizens.” (42 U.S.C.A. 1981). The premise was that whites enjoyed a fully adequate scheme of civil rights and that everyone else who was entitled to citizenship was to be legally guaranteed that same set of rights.
It is a notable feature of civil rights law that its prohibitions do not protect only citizens. Any person within a given jurisdiction, citizen or not, can claim the protection of the law, at least within certain limits. Thus, noncitizens are protected by fair housing and equal employment statutes, among other antidiscrimination laws. Noncitizens can also claim the legal protections of due process if charged with a crime. Even illegal aliens have limited due process rights if they are within the legal jurisdiction of the country. On the other hand, noncitizens cannot claim under U.S. law that the denial of political rights amounts to wrongful discrimination. Noncitizens can vote in local and regional elections in certain countries (Benhabib, 2006: 46), but the denial of equal political rights would seem to be central to the very status of noncitizen.
The application of much of civil rights law to noncitizens indicates that many of the rights in question are deeper than simply the rights that constitute citizenship. They are genuine human rights to which every person is entitled, whether she is in a location where she has a right to citizenship or not. And civil rights issues are, for that reason, regarded as broader in scope than issues regarding the treatment of citizens.



Given the principle of equal citizenship, discrimination in the sense of the denial of civil rights is an injustice that denies certain citizens the rights to which they are entitled. But it is not obvious that the principle entails that discrimination in the sense of differential treatment is unjust, even if the differential treatment disadvantages persons based on their race, sex, or another paradigmatic civil rights category. The common view is that such differential treatment is (at least prima facie) an injustice that violates the basic rights of the individual. In other words, the view is that it is a civil right to not be treated disadvantageously on account of one's race or sex.
An argument for the soundness of the common view cannot simply invoke existing laws that ban discrimination based on race, sex, and similar categories. The point of the common view is that the injustice of racial and gender discrimination explains why there ought to be those laws. What is required is an account that shows why such discrimination (staying with the two paradigm categories of race and sex for the sake of simplicity) is an injustice.
There are two main approaches to providing an account of the injustice of discrimination based on race and sex. The first is “individualistic” in that it seeks to explain the injustice in a way that abstracts from the broader social and political context in which the differential treatment occurs. The second is “systemic” in that it seeks to explain the injustice in a way that links the differential treatment to social patterns that reduce, or threaten to reduce, the members of certain groups to second-class citizenship.

Individualistic Accounts

Kahlenberg asserts the popular view that race discrimination is unjust because it treats a person on the basis of a characteristic that is immutable or beyond her control (1996: 54-55). But Boxill rejects such a view, arguing that there are many instances in which it is justifiable to treat persons based on features that are beyond their control. (1992: 12-17) Denying blind people a driver's license or persons with little athletic ability a place on the basketball team is not an injustice to such individuals. Moreover, Boxill notes that, if scientists developed a drug that could change a person's skin color, it would still be unjust to discriminate against people because of their skin color. (16)
Flew argues that racism is unjust because it treats differently persons who “are in all relevant respects the same.” (1990: 63 — emphasis in original). The defining characteristics of a race “are strictly superficial and properly irrelevant to all, or almost all, questions of social status and employability.” (63-64) But if ‘relevant’ means ‘rationally related’, then it does not appear to be a requirement of justice that a person always treat others only on the basis of relevant characteristics.(cf. Gardner, 1998: 168) The idea that it is such a requirement rests on the false premise that all morally bad treatment is a violation of justice and rights. If I give a waiter a poor tip because he is not a fan of my favorite sports team, then I have behaved badly but have not violated the waiter's rights or committed an injustice against him. And it is unclear, on Flew's account, why giving a poor tip because of a waiter's race is any different than doing so because of his preferences in sports.
Often people will insist that the injustice of racial or sex discrimination stems from the connection between those forms of discrimination and the reliance on stereotypes. It is not just that race is irrelevant but that those who act on race-based grounds are using inaccurate stereotypes instead of treating a person “as an individual,” as the phrase goes. However, if “being treated as an individual” means that others must take into account all of the potentially relevant information about the person in their behavior toward her, then there is no plausibility to the claim that anyone has a right to such treatment. Life's scarcity of time and resources undermines the idea that there is such a right.
Moreover, in some cases, stereotypical beliefs reflect reliable generalizations about a group. The term ‘statistical discrimination’ refers to the use of such reliable generalizations. Consider the case of a pregnant job applicant: as a statistical matter, there is a higher antecedent likelihood that she will take more sick days than a nonpregnant applicant during the first year of employment. Yet, an employer who relies on statistical discrimination in excluding the pregnant applicant is acting illegally under the Pregnancy Discrimination Act. The act was passed because many people quite reasonably thought that it was unjust for a pregnant applicant to be treated in that way. But if the treatment is unjust, then one cannot explain why that is so by invoking the unreliability of the generalization on which the treatment is based.
Garcia (1996) provides an account of racial discrimination that loosens the link between it and injustice, but still preserves some connection. On his account, such discrimination against others expresses a character defect, viz., the failure to care enough, or in the right way, for their interests. Accordingly, such discrimination (and, by extension, sex discrimination and other forms as well) is a matter of what is “in the heart” of the racist individual: “racially focused ill-will or disregard (including disrespect).” (10) This echoes the claim made by Gunnar Myrdal in his classic work, An American Dilemma, that “the American Negro problem is a problem in the heart of Americans.”(1944: lxxi)
Garcia's account weakens the link between racial discrimination and injustice because not every act expressing racial ill-will or disregard will be an injustice. Garcia writes that racial discrimination against a person “will often offend against justice,” but he does not argue that it always so offends. (10) He points out that discrimination against a person based on race may amount to a failure of benevolence, rather than a violation of rights. For example, racial disregard may lead a person to refuse to contribute to a charity organization that works with inner-city youth. In such a case, the person has failed to show benevolence for morally discreditable reasons, and so has behaved badly. But no injustice has been committed.
On the other hand racial ill-will is often expressed in violations of the rights of persons: hate crimes that harm the property or person of an individual on account of race; efforts to prevent members of certain racial groups from voting; charging racial minorities higher prices for the same product than the prices charged to similarly situated whites; denying persons equality of opportunity in the job and housing markets on account of their race. Such actions would count as injustices, not simply failures of benevolence. Thus, Garcia's approach preserves some link between discrimination and injustice, but it is much more attenuated than the link posited by the popular view that disadvantageous treatment on the basis of race is ipso facto an injustice (at least prima facie) to the person so treated.
3.2.2 Systemic Accounts
Many thinkers reject the idea that the injustice of discrimination stems fundamentally from what is in the mind or heart of the individual. Crespi (1945) criticized Myrdal on the ground that the latter's individualistic understanding of racial discrimination entailed that “ethical exhortation” was the remedy for racial injustice. Crespi argued that what really needed remedy were the social and economic structures that advantage whites. More recently, Steinberg (1995) and Bonilla-Silva (1997), among others, have argued that racial discrimination should not be understood as a “moral problem,” i.e., as a problem with individual attitudes or actions, but rather as a problem of persistent structural inequality. And MacKinnon has made a parallel argument when it comes to sex discrimination. For example, she contends that pornography is “not a moral problem” but rather a political one, meaning that it does not pose a problem of the virtue and vice of individuals and their behavior but rather one concerning relations of power that subordinate women to men. (1987: 146)
On the systemic account of racial and sex discrimination, the injustice of discriminatory acts lies in their connection to broader patterns in society that reduce the members of certain groups to second-class citizenship, or worse. Considered in abstraction from these broader patterns, refusing employment to someone on account of her race might be morally objectionable insofar as it treated a person arbitrarily when some important interest of hers was at stake. But the objectionable treatment amounts to an injustice because such acts are not sporadic but rather systemic and add up to a system in which persons have their entire lives substantially diminished on account of their race or sex. And such a system is what violates the right to equality — the basic civil right. Individual acts of racial or gender discrimination do so only derivatively, by reinforcing the systemic violation.
There are different ways in which a systemic account can be elaborated. For example, in MacKinnon's (1987) account of sex discrimination, the system of gender inequality revolves around the sexual subordination of women. Butler (1990), Brown (1995) and other feminists provide accounts which do not share MacKinnon's focus on sexual subordination. On the matter of racial discrimination, Cox (1948) focuses on the ways in which racial conflict is rooted in class conflict, while Omi and Winant emphasize “the specificity of race as an autonomous field of social conflict, political organization, and cultural/ideological meaning.”(1994: 48).
In whatever way the details are elaborated, all systemic accounts rest on the premise that women, racial minorities, and other groups are second-class citizens (or very vulnerable to such a status) and that they are so because of their group membership. The advocates of systemic accounts typically represent their views as incompatible with individualistic ones. They do so by insisting that discrimination is “not a moral problem” of the individual's heart or mind, but one concerning group power relations and social patterns of disadvantage. But their insistence rests on a false dichotomy. Discrimination based on race, sex and other categories can be a problem of the individual's heart and mind, as well as an issue that concerns systemic patterns of disadvantage in society. As Wasserstrom (1977) pointed out, discrimination can operate at both the individual and systemic levels. It is not necessary to deny the existence of patterns of discriminatory treatment that reduce, or threaten to reduce, some persons to second-class citizenship in order to affirm that it is an injustice to deny a person a job because of her sex. And it is not necessary to deny that, apart from social patterns of disadvantage, the individual who is denied a job for such reasons has been treated in an unjust way, in order to affirm that there are such patterns that reduce some to second-class status.
3.3 Justifying Antidiscrimination Law
Antidiscrimination laws typically pick out certain categories such as race and sex for legal protection, define certain spheres such as employment and public accommodations in which discrimination based on the protected categories is prohibited, and establish special government agencies, such as the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, to assist in the laws' enforcement. There are many questions that can be raised concerning the justifiability of such laws. Some of the central philosophical questions derive from the fact that the laws restrict freedom of association, including the liberty of employers to decide whom they will hire. Some have argued that the liberal commitment to free association requires the rejection of antidiscrimination laws, including those that ban employment discrimination such as the Civil Rights Act of 1964.(Epstein, 1992) Most liberals thinkers reject this view, but any liberal defense of antidiscrimination laws must cite considerations sufficiently strong to override the infringements on freedom of association that the laws involve.
There are two different approaches within liberal thought to the justification of antidiscrimination laws. Both approaches regard as very important the interests people have in the areas protected by the laws, such as employment and public accommodations. And both approaches agree that the disadvantageous treatment of a person in those areas on the basis of race, sex, and the other traditional civil rights categories is morally arbitrary. However, on the first approach, the key to the justification of antidiscrimination laws rests squarely on the fact that the conduct prohibited by the laws is morally arbitrary. In contrast, the second approach holds that it is not the morally arbitrary conduct as such that justifies the laws but rather the fact that conduct based on those categories has had systemic effects reducing the members of certain groups to second-class citizenship.(Karst, 1989) Thus, the difference between the two approaches tracks the distinction between the individualistic and systemic accounts of why discrimination is wrong. Although many legal theorists endorse the systemic approach to the justification of antidiscrimination law, the U.S. Supreme Court seems to have adopted the individualistic one. (Balkin, 2001)



Many debates over civil rights issues turn on assumptions about the scope and effects of existing discrimination (i.e., objectionable disadvantageous treatment) against particular groups. For example, some thinkers hold that systemic discrimination based on race and gender is largely a thing of the past in contemporary liberal democracies (at least in economically advanced ones) and that the current situation allows persons to participate in society as free and equal citizens, regardless of race or gender (Thernstom and Thernstrom, 1997 ; Sommers, 1994) Many others reject that view, arguing that white skin privilege and patriarchy persist and operate to substantially and unjustifiably diminish the life-prospects of nonwhites and women .(Bobo, 1997; Smith 1993) These differences drive debates over affirmative action, race-conscious electoral districting, and pornography, among other issues.
Questions about the scope and effects of discrimination are largely but not entirely empirical in character. Such questions concern the degree to which participation in society as a free and equal citizen is hampered by one's race or sex. And addressing that concern presupposes some normative criteria for determining what is needed to possess the status of such a citizen.
Moreover, there are subtle aspects of discrimination that are not captured by thinking strictly in terms of categories such as race, sex, religion, sexual orientation, and so on. Piper analyzes “higher-order” forms of discrimination in which certain traits, such as speaking style, come to be arbitrarily disvalued on account of their association with a disvalued race or sex. (2001) Determining the presence and effects of such forms of discrimination in society at large would be a very complicated conceptual and empirical task. Additional complications stem from the fact that different categories of discrimination might intersect in ways that produce distinctive forms of unjust disadvantage. Thus, some thinkers have asserted that the intersection of race and sex creates a form of discrimination against black women which has not been adequately recognized or addressed by judges or liberal legal theorists. (Crenshaw, 1998) And other thinkers have begun to argue that our understanding of discrimination must be expanded beyond the white-black paradigm to include the distinctive ways in which Asian-Americans and other minority groups are subjected to discriminatory attitudes and treatment. (Wu, 2002)
Among the most careful empirical studies of discrimination have been those conducted by Ayers (2001). He found evidence of “pervasive discrimination” in several types of markets, including retail car sales, bail-bonding, and kidney-transplantation. Yet, his assessment is that “we still do not know the current ambit of race and gender discrimination in America.” (425)
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Civil Rights



Civil Rights

In contemporary political thought, the term ‘civil rights’ is indissolubly linked to the struggle for equality of American blacks during the 1950s and 60s. The aim of that struggle was to secure the status of equal citizenship in a liberal democratic state. Civil rights are the basic legal rights a person must possess in order to have such a status. They are the rights that constitute free and equal citizenship and include personal, political, and economic rights. No contemporary thinker of significance holds that such rights can be legitimately denied to a person on the basis of race, color, sex, religion, national origin, or disability. Antidiscrimination principles are thus a common ground in contemporary political discussion. However, there is much disagreement in the scholarly literature over the basis and scope of these principles and the ways in which they ought to be implemented in law and policy. In addition, debate exists over the legitimacy of including sexual orientation among the other categories traditionally protected by civil rights law, and there is an emerging literature examining issues of how best to understand discrimination based on disability.
1. Rights
1.1 The Civil-Political Distinction
Until the middle of the 20th century, civil rights were usually distinguished from ‘political rights’. The former included the rights to own property, make and enforce contracts, receive due process of law, and worship one's religion. Civil rights also covered freedom of speech and the press.(Amar 1998: 216-17) But they did not include the right to hold public office, vote, or to testify in court. The latter were political rights, reserved to adult males.
The civil-political distinction was conceptually and morally unstable insofar as it was used to sort citizens into different categories. It was part of an ideology that classified women as citizens who were entitled to certain rights but not to the full panoply to which men were entitled. As that ideology broke down, the civil-political distinction began to unravel. The idea that a certain segment of the adult citizenry could legitimately possess one bundle of rights, while another segment would have to make do with an inferior bundle, became increasingly implausible. In the end, the civil-political distinction could not survive the cogency of the principle that all citizens of a liberal democracy were entitled, in Rawls's words, to “a fully adequate scheme of equal basic liberties.” (2001: 42)
It may be possible to retain the distinction strictly as one for sorting rights, rather than sorting citizens (Marshall, 1965; Waldron 1993). But it is difficult to give a convincing account of the principles by which the sorting is done. It seems neater and cleaner simply to think of civil rights as the general category of basic rights needed for free and equal citizenship. Yet, it remains a matter of contention which claims are properly conceived as belonging to the category of civil rights. (Wellman, 1999) Analysts have distinguished among “three generations” of civil rights claims and have argued over which claims ought to be treated as true matters of civil rights.

The claims for which the American civil rights movement initially fought belong to the first generation of civil rights claims. Those claims included the pre-20th century set of civil rights — such as the rights to receive due process and to make and enforce contracts — but covered political rights as well. However, many thinkers and activists argued that these first-generation claims were too narrow to define the scope of free and equal citizenship. They contended that such citizenship could be realized only by honoring an additional set of claims, including rights to food, shelter, medical care, and employment. This second generation of economic “welfare rights,” the argument went, helped to ensure that the political, economic, and legal rights belonging to the first generation could be made effective in protecting the vital interests of citizens and were not simply paper guarantees.
Yet, some scholars have argued that these second-generation rights should not be subsumed under the category of civil rights. Thus, Cranston writes, “The traditional ‘political and civil rights’ can…be readily secured by legislation. Since the rights are for the most part rights against government interference…the legislation needed had to do no more than restrain the executive's own arm. This is no longer the case when we turn to the ‘right to work’, the ‘right to social security’ and so forth.” (1967: 50-51)
However, Cranston fails to recognize that such first-generation rights as due process and the right to vote also require substantial government action and the investment of considerable public resources. Holmes and Sunstein (1999) have made the case that all of the first-generation civil rights require government to do more than simply “restrain the executive's own arm.” It seems problematic to think that a significant distinction can be drawn between first and second-generation rights on the ground that the former, but not the latter, simply require that government refrain from interfering with the actions of persons. Moreover, even if some viable distinction could be drawn along those lines, it would not follow that second-generation rights should be excluded from the category of civil rights. The reason is that the relevant standard for inclusion as a civil right is whether a claim is part of the package of rights constitutive of free and equal citizenship. There is no reason to think that only those claims that can be “readily secured by legislation” belong to that package. And the increasingly dominant view is that welfare rights are essential to adequately satisfying the conditions of free and equal citizenship. (Marshall 1965; Waldron 1993; Sunstein 2001)
In the United States, however, the law does not treat issues of economic well-being per se as civil rights matters. Only insofar as economic inequality or deprivation is linked to race, gender or some other traditional category of antidiscrimination law is it considered to be a question of civil rights. In legal terms, poverty is not a “suspect classification.” On the other hand, welfare rights are protected as a matter of constitutional principle in other democracies. For example, section 75 of the Danish Constitution provides that “any person unable to support himself or his dependents shall, where no other person is responsible for his or their maintenance, be entitled to receive public assistance.” And the International Covenant on Economic, Social, and Cultural Rights provides that the state parties to the agreement “recognize the right of everyone to an adequate standard of living for himself and his family, including adequate food, clothing and housing, and to the continuous improvement of living conditions.”
A third generation of claims has received considerable attention in recent years, what may be broadly termed “rights of cultural membership.” These include language rights for members of cultural minorities and the rights of indigenous peoples to preserve their cultural institutions and practices and to exercise some measure of political autonomy. There is some overlap with the first-generation rights, such as that of religious liberty, but rights of cultural membership are broader and more controversial.
Article 27 of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights declares that third-generation rights ought to be protected:
In those States in which ethnic, religious or linguistic minorities exist, persons belonging to such minorities shall not be denied the right, in community with the other members of their group, to enjoy their own culture, to profess and practice their own religion, or to use their own language.
Similarly, the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms protects the language rights of minorities and section 27 provides that “This Charter shall be interpreted in a manner consistent with the preservation and enhancement of the multicultural heritage of Canadians.” In the United States, there is no analogous protection of language rights or multiculturalism, although constitutional doctrine does recognize native Indian tribes as “domestic dependent nations” with some attributes of political self-rule, such as sovereign immunity. (Oklahoma Tax Commission v. Citizen Band Potawatomi Indian Tribe)
There is substantial philosophical controversy over the legitimacy and scope of rights of cultural membership. Kymlicka has argued that the liberal commitment to protect the equal rights of individuals requires society to protect such rights. (1989; 1994; 1995) He argues that “granting special representational rights, land claims, or language rights to a minority….can be seen as putting the various groups on a more equal footing, by reducing the extent to which the smaller group is vulnerable to the larger.” (1995: 36-37) Such special rights do not amount to “group rights,” in the sense of granting the group any power or priority over the individual. Rather, the rights “compensate for unequal circumstances which put the members of minority cultures at a systemic disadvantage in the cultural marketplace.” (1994: 25)
Waldron (1995) criticizes Kymlicka for exaggerating the importance for the individual of membership in her particular culture and for underestimating the mutability and interpenetration of cultures. Individual freedom requires some cultural context of choice, but it does not require the preservation of the particular context in which the individual finds herself. Liberal individuals must be free to evaluate their culture and to distance themselves from it.
Kukathas criticizes Kymlicka for implying that the liberal commitment to the protection of individual rights is insufficient to treat the interests of minorities with equal consideration. Kukathas contends that “we need to reassert the importance of individual liberty or individual rights and question the idea that cultural minorities have collective rights.” (1995: 230). But the system of uniform legal rules that he endorses would keep the state from intervening even when a minority culture inflicts significant harm on its more vulnerable members, e.g., when cultural norms strongly discourage females from seeking the same educational and career opportunities as males.
Barry (2001) asserts that “there are certain rights against oppression, exploitation, and injury, to which every single human being is entitled to lay claim, and…appeals to cultural diversity and pluralism under no circumstances trump the value of basic liberal rights.” (132-33) The legal system should protect those rights by impartially imposing the same rules on all persons, regardless of their cultural or religious membership. Barry allows for a few exceptions, such as the accommodation of a Sikh boy whose turban violated school dress regulations, but thinks that the conditions under which such exceptions will be justified “are rarely satisfied.” (2001: 62) Barry's position reflects and elaborates Gitlin's earlier condemnation of views advocating distinctive rights for cultural and ethnic minorities. Gitlin condemned such views on the ground that they represent a “swerve from civil rights, emphasizing a universal condition and universalizable rights, to cultural separatism, emphasizing difference and distinct needs.” (1995: 153)
At the other end of the spectrum, Taylor (1994) argues for a form of communitarianism that attaches intrinsic importance to the survival of cultures. In his view, differential treatment under the law for certain practices is sometimes justifiable on the ground that such treatment is important for keeping a culture alive. Taylor goes as far as to claim that cultural survival can sometimes trump basic individual rights, such as freedom of speech. Accordingly, he defends legal restrictions on the use of English in Quebec, invoking the survival of Quebec's French culture.
However, it is unclear why intrinsic value should attach to cultural survival as such. Following John Dewey (1939), Kymlicka (1995) rightly emphasizes that liberty would have little or no value to the individual apart from the life-options and meaningful choices provided by culture. But both thinkers also reasonably contend that human interests are ultimately the interests of individual human beings. In light of that contention, it would seem that a culture that could not gain the uncoerced and undeceived adherence of enough individuals to survive would have no moral claim to its continuation. Legal restrictions on basic liberties that are designed to perpetuate a given culture have the cart before the horse: persons should have their basic liberties protected first, as those protections serve the most important human interests. Only when those interests are protected can we then say that a culture should survive, not because the culture is intrinsically valuable, but rather because it has the uncoerced adherence of a sufficient number of persons.

The treatment of blacks under slavery and Jim Crow presents a history of injustice and cultural annihilation that is similar in some respects to the treatment of Native Americans. However, civil rights principles played a very different role in the struggle of Native Americans against the injustices perpetrated against them by whites.
Civil rights principles demand inclusion of the individuals from a disadvantaged group in the major institutions of society on an equal basis with the individuals who are already treated as full citizens. The principles do not require that the disadvantaged group be given a right to govern its own affairs. A right of political self-determination, in contrast, demands that a group have the freedom to order its affairs at it sees fit and, to that extent, political self-determination has a separatist aspect, even something less than complete sovereignty is involved.
The pursuit of civil rights by American blacks overshadowed the pursuit of political self-determination. The fact that American blacks lacked any territory of their own on which they could rule themselves favored the civil rights strategy. Moreover, the civil war amendments, and the civil rights laws that accompanied them, were meant to incorporate black Americans into the body politic as free and equal citizens. Although this effort was defeated by Jim Crow, the principle of citizenship for blacks had been enshrined in law. And so, in their struggle to defeat Jim Crow, blacks could and did repeatedly demand that white Americans live up to their constitutional promise of equality.
In contrast, for Native Americans, the pursuit of political-self-determination, in the form of tribal sovereignty, overshadowed the pursuit of civil rights. Even after the coerced tribal removals and federal efforts to impose regimes of individual land ownership, tribes still retained some territorial basis on which a measure of self-rule was possible. Moreover, a line of Supreme Court decisions dating to the early 1800's held that Indian tribes possessed some — albeit very limited — inherent powers of sovereignty (Ex Parte Crow Dog). Accordingly, pursuit of political self-determination rather than civil-rights protections seemed, in the eyes of many Indians, to be the most reasonable strategy for counteracting white oppression.
During the civil rights movement of the 1950's and 60's, there was some tension between Native Americans and blacks due to their different attitudes toward self-determination and civil rights. Some Native Americans looked askance at the desire of blacks for inclusion and thought the desire hopelessly naïve (Deloria, 1988: 169-70). And activists emerged from the black power movement who had a similar view of the effort at racial inclusion and who called for a form of political self-determination. Such a call was part of a tradition of black nationalism that can still be found today in the United States. (Shelby, 2006, critiquing black nationalism) Nonetheless, in the United States, unlike civil rights principles, black nationalist principles have not become part of the law.
In 1968, Congress enacted an Indian Civil Rights Act (ICRA). The act extended the reach of certain individual constitutional rights against government to intratribal affairs. Tribal governments would for the first time be bound by constitutional principles concerning free speech, due process, cruel and unusual punishment, and equal protection, among others. Freedom of religion was omitted from the law as a result of the protests of the Pueblo, whose political arrangements were theocratic, but the law was a major incursion on tribal self-determination, nonetheless. (Norgren and Shattuck, 1993: 169).
A married pueblo woman brought suit in federal court, claiming that the tribe's marriage ordinances constituted sex discrimination against her and other women of the tribe, thus violating the ICRA. (Santa Clara Pueblo v. Martinez) The ordinances excluded from tribal membership the children of a Pueblo woman who married outside of the tribe, while the children of men who married outsider were counted as members. Martinez had initially sought relief in tribal forums, to no avail, before turning to the federal courts. The Supreme Court held that federal courts did not have jurisdiction to hear the case: the substantive provisions of the ICRA did apply to the Pueblo, but the inherent sovereign powers of the tribe meant that the tribal government had exclusive jurisdiction in the case. The ruling has been both questioned and defended by feminist legal scholars. (MacKinnon, 1987; Valencia-Weber 2004)
In contrast to the United States, the Canadian Indian Act provides that men and women are to be treated equally when it comes to the band membership of their children. (Johnston, 1995: 190). This law and the Santa Clara case raise the general issue of whether and when it is justifiable for a liberal state to impose liberal principles on illiberal (or not fully liberal) political communities that had been involuntary incorporated into the larger state. Addressing this issue, Kymlicka (1995) argues that "there is relatively little scope for legitimate coercive interference" because efforts to impose liberal principles tend to be counterproductive, provoking the charge that they amount to "paternalistic colonialism." Moreover, "liberal institutions can only really work if liberal beliefs have been internalized." Kymlicka concludes, then, that liberals on the outside of an illiberal culture should support the efforts of those insiders who seek reform but should generally stop short of coercively imposing liberal principles. (1995: 167). At the same time, Kymlicka acknowledges that there are cases in which a liberal state is clearly permitted to impose its laws, citing with approval the decision in a case that involved the application of Canadian law to a tribe that had kidnapped a member and forced him to undergo an initiation ceremony. (44)
Applying Kymlicka's general line of thinking might prove contentious in many cases. Consider Santa Clara. His arguments could be used to support the decision in that case: the exercise of jurisdiction might be deemed “paternalistic colonialism.” But one might argue, instead, that jurisdiction is needed to vindicate the basic liberal right of gender equality. However, it does seem that, if a wrong akin to kidnapping or worse is required before federal courts can legitimately step in, then the Santa Clara case falls short of meeting such a requirement. The argument might then shift to whether the requirement imposes an excessively high hurdle for the exercise of federal jurisdiction. Accordingly, Kymlicka's approach might not settle the disagreement over Santa Clara, but it does provide a very reasonable normative framework in terms of which liberal thought can address the difficult issues presented by the case and, more generally, by the problem of extending liberal principles to Native American tribes.
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The Internal Structure of the Criminal Law




The Internal Structure of the Criminal Law


Once we have articulated an account of the proper aims and limits of the criminal law, we can tackle various issues about its internal structure—about the general principles and conditions of criminal liability (the so-called ‘general part’ of the criminal law), and about its definitions of specific offences (the ‘special part’). I cannot pursue these issues here, but our approach to them must clearly be based on our account of the proper purposes of the criminal law. Thus if the criminal law should aim to define, to condemn, and to call perpetrators to public account for wrongs whose character and implications are such that they properly count as ‘public’, its definitions of crimes and its principles of liability must be apt to identify such wrongs and the conditions under which agents can be justly condemned for them. In discussing such issues as whether the law should contain offences of ‘strict liability’, which can be committed by those who are not even negligent as to the harm they cause or risk; or what kind of ‘fault elements’ should be required for criminal liability, either in general or for particular crimes; or whether criminal liability should depend solely on the ‘subjective’ character of an action (on what the agent intended to do or believed herself to be doing), or also on its ‘objective’ character (its actual connection with and impact on the world); or whether and how the law should distinguish offences from defences, either substantively or procedurally; or what kinds of excuse or justification the law should recognise, and how they should be defined: we must first ask which doctrines and principles would capture the relevant kinds of wrongdoing and identify the culpable agents of such wrongs. This can only be the first stage of the discussion, since we will need to go on to ask whether those doctrines and principles can satisfy the wide range of other normative and practical constraints that must bear on a system of criminal law and justice, or how they could be adapted so as to satisfy those constraints: but it is where we must start. (For introductions to these issues see Fletcher 1978; Robinson 1997; Tadros 2005; Ashworth 2006; Dressler 2006; Simester & Sullivan 2007; Duff 2007; Gardner 2007.)
Theorists of criminal law must also attend, however, more seriously than they have often attended, to the criminal process that leads from (alleged) crime to punishment, and in particular to the criminal trial. It is through the criminal trial that criminal responsibility and liability are formally assigned, and the norms and doctrines of the substantive criminal law are articulated and applied. We therefore need an account of the proper aims and values of the criminal trial, and of the larger criminal process of which it is part—an account that can then underpin a more adequately grounded critique of our existing criminal processes. Should we, for instance, see the trial as an attempt to establish the truth (but what truth?), albeit an attempt that is constrained by a range of independent principles and rules that aim to protect us against the potentially oppressive and intrusive power of the state? Or should we see it as a process through which alleged wrongdoers are called to answer the charges that thay face and to answer for their crimes if their guilt is proved? What kinds of criminal process are appropriate to a liberal democracy that aims to treat all its members as responsible citizens? (See generally Burns 1999; Ashworth & Redmayne 2005; Duff et al 2007.)
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Crimes as Public Wrongs




Crimes as Public Wrongs



What makes simple Legal Moralism seem implausible is not just the thought that some moral wrongs are not serious enough to attract the attention of the criminal law: though that is true, the wrong I do my friend is not a trivial one—it might destroy our friendship. Nor is it simply the thought that there are very good reasons against criminalising such wrongdoing—reasons that will forcibly strike us as soon as we begin to think how a law criminalising such conduct could be drafted and enforced: Legal Moralists themselves will, as we have seen, argue that such countervailing reasons can often outweigh the reasons in favour of criminalisation; but my example was supposed to make us doubt whether the moral wrongfulness of this kind of conduct constituted any reason at all for criminalising it. The objection to Legal Moralism is naturally expressed by saying that this kind of wrongdoing is a ‘private’ matter that is simply ‘not the law's business’ (Wolfenden 1957: para. 61).
Must we then reject every species of positive Legal Moralism outright, and insist that the immorality of a kind of conduct is never in itself a good reason for criminalising it? If so, we might still be able to preserve some form of negative Legal Moralism, and hold that conduct that is not immoral cannot properly be criminalised; but we would need to look elsewhere for positive reasons for criminalisation. This, however, seems equally implausible—especially if the argument of the previous section was sound. For I argued there that the criminal law must aim to identify and condemn kinds of morally wrongful conduct, which implies that it is the very immorality of the conduct that gives us reason to criminalise it; and it would anyway be very strange if the reasons for counting such central mala in se crimes as murder and rape as criminal had nothing to do with the moral wrongfulness of such actions. There is, however, a third way between the two extremes of holding that any kind of immorality provides a good reason for criminalisation, and holding that immorality itself never provides a good reason in for criminalisation: we can hold that immorality of the right kind provides a good reason for criminalising conduct that involves it. Moral wrongdoing that could in principle be justifiably criminalised would thus form a subcategory of the larger category of moral wrongdoing.
But how could we identify that subcategory? One familiar slogan is that the criminal law is properly concerned only with ‘public’ wrongs, whereas merely ‘private’ wrongs are either not matters for the law at all, or matters for a civil rather than a criminal legal process (see s.2 above). To gain any help from this slogan, however, we need to know what ‘public’ means in this context, and how to distinguish ‘public’ from ‘private’ wrongs; in the rest of this section, I will explore some suggestions (see also Limits of Law; Lamond 2007).
A pure instrumentalist will of course argue that this is a pragmatic issue: supposing that we do have good reason to criminalise only conduct that is in some way immoral, we decide which kinds of immorality to criminalise, and which to deal with in other ways (or to ignore) by asking which techniques are likely to constitute efficient means to our preferred ends. The range of possible techniques is very wide, even if our only aim was to reduce the incidence of such conduct (which it would not be): extra-legal techniques, such as education, advertising, and situational crime prevention (on which see von Hirsch, Garland & Wakefield 2000); the taxation system (we might as efficiently reduce the incidence of a certain kind of conduct by taxing it as by criminalising it); and the threat of civil liability to pay damages for any harm that was caused. But an implication of the argument of the previous section is that the choice between these techniques should not be a purely pragmatic one: although issues of efficiency are clearly relevant and important, we must first ask which kinds of measure are intrinsically appropriate to the kind of conduct, to the kind of wrong, we are dealing with. We have to ask, that is, whether the conduct in question involves a kind of wrongdoing that merits the public calling to account and condemnation of those who engage in it that the criminal law involves: if it does, we then have at least a good reason to criminalise it; if it does not, we do not. This might be only the first stage in a long and complex deliberation about whether a given type of wrongful conduct should be criminalised, and pragmatic issues would certainly need to loom large in later stages of that process: but my suggestion here is that it is an essential first stage. (Compare the ‘filtering’ model of how we should decide questions of criminalisation offered by Schonsheck 1994. See also Ashworth 2006: chs. 2-3, on the range of ‘principles and policies’ that should bear on questions of criminalisation; and Husak 2007 for a very useful general discussion).
So what should count as a ‘public’ wrong? A first and familiar suggestion, implicit in the way I have talked throughout of criminalising ‘conduct’, is that ‘mere thought’ should not be criminalised: for thought is private; only action or conduct is public. This suggestion captures at least one central aspect of the slogan that criminal liability requires an act (or a ‘voluntary act’, as it is sometimes put), and it does seem to have some force: although mere thoughts can be morally improper (entertaining sadistic fantasies about my opponents, for instance), surely only what actually impinges on our shared social or material world can properly be of interest to the state or its criminal law; but mere thought which is not expressed or acted upon has no such impact. We must note, however, first, that this sets only extremely modest limits on the scope of the criminal law—it does not even protect speech from criminalisation, since speech certainly has an impact on the world. Second, if the ‘act requirement’ is to do any substantive work, we need an account of the concept of ‘action’ or ‘conduct’—an account which will also need to deal with such questions as that of criminal liability for omissions (see Hughes 1958; Feinberg 1984: ch. 4), or for statuses such as being drunk or an addict (see Glazebrook 1978): such an account is notoriously difficult to provide. (For contrasting views on the act requirement see Moore 1993: chs. 2-3; Husak 1998; Duff 2007: ch. 5.)
Within the realm of ‘conduct’ as distinct from thought, and leaving aside the question of omissions, how might we try to identify the subcategory of ‘public’ wrongs? Another familiar suggestion is suggested by Mill's Harm Principle—“the only purpose for which power can be rightfully exercised over any member of a civilised community against his will is to prevent harm to others” (Mill 1859, ch. 1, para. 9): could we not say that only conduct that wrongfully harms or threatens to harm others is a suitable candidate for criminalisation; that the criminal law is properly concerned only with harmful immorality? This leads us into some notoriously difficult questions: for instance, about whether the paternalist criminalisation of conduct that harms only the agent can ever be justified (see Feinberg 1986); about whether we might also have reason to criminalise conduct that, though it does not cause harm, is seriously offensive to others (see Feinberg 1985; Simester& von Hirsch 2006); about whether there are kinds of immorality so gross that, even if they cause no harm, we have reason to criminalise them (see Feinberg 1988; Dworkin 1994). We also need an account of the concept of harm itself, which raises further problems (see e.g. Kleinig 1978; Feinberg 1984; Raz 1986: ch 15, 1987). For instance, can we plausibly so define ‘harm’ as to rule out the argument that any immoral conduct is itself harmful, either to those whom it wrongs (since I am harmed by being wronged), if it does wrong anyone, or by doing moral harm to the society or culture in which it is done (see Devlin 1965; Dworkin 1994)? Can we so define ‘harm’ as to exclude purely trivial wrongdoings from the scope of the criminal law, for instance by focusing on setbacks to ‘welfare interests’ (Feinberg 1984: ch. 1)? We cannot pursue these issues here, but we should note two ways in which the Harm Principle fails to set any very tight constraints on the scope of the criminal law (see generally Holtug 2002; Duff 2007: ch. 6).
First, as I expressed the principle, it allows the criminalisation of conduct that threatens, as well as conduct that actually causes, harm. Even the more limited category of conduct that causes harm becomes problematic when we ask what counts as causing harm (see von Hirsch 1996): our existing laws criminalise not only conduct that immediately causes harm, but also kinds of conduct whose causal relationship to the harm is more remote—for instance conduct that enables or assists another's commission of a crime; so we need to ask how far we should extend the law's reach in this direction. The problems multiply when we turn to conduct that, whilst it does not actually cause harm, is criminalised because it threatens harm, or creates a danger of harm: to the broad category of ‘nonconsummate’ offenses (see Husak 1995). This category includes conduct that is intended to cause harm (attempts to commit crimes, for one obvious instance); conduct that, though not intended to cause harm, recklessly or negligently endangers others (dangerous driving, for instance, or breaches of health and safety rules); and conduct that, although it might not itself be dangerous, is of a kind that is usually dangerous (speeding, for instance). Again, we need to ask how far the criminal law should reach in this direction (see Harcourt 1999; also Dubber 2001).
Second, even if we limit our attention to conduct that obviously and directly causes what must surely count as non-trivial harm, not all such conduct seems even in principle to be apt for criminalisation. The friend whom I betray would surely count herself as seriously harmed by my betrayal; someone whose spouse betrays their marriage by committing adultery might reasonably claim to be seriously harmed by that betrayal. But we should not therefore see any good reason to criminalise betrayals of friendship; and although adultery is indeed a crime in some states, arguments about whether it is in principle apt for criminalisation do not typically depend on claims that it is, or is not, harmful to the betrayed spouse—the reality of that harm is taken for granted. Nor will it help to suggest, for instance, that the kinds of wrongful harm that are apt for criminalisation are those and only those that set back ‘welfare interests’ (see Feinberg 1984: 37-38, 61-63): if our welfare interests concern those goods that constitute the ‘basic requisites of [our] well-being’ (Rescher 1972: 6, quoted approvingly in Feinberg 1984: 37), they surely include such goods as friendship and other loving relationships.
So even if the Harm Principle can do some substantial work in limiting the proper scope of the criminal law, it does not take us far enough, since there are kinds of seriously harmful conduct that we do not think should, even in principle, be criminalised.
Perhaps, if crimes are ‘public’ wrongs, we should now distinguish within the category of wrongfully harmful conduct between public and private harms: the betrayal of a friendship or a marriage is not apt for criminalisation if and because it causes only private harm. But what is to count as a public harm, or public wrong?
On one familiar reading, a wrong or harm is ‘public’ if and because it affects, i.e. wrongs or harms, ‘the public’, rather than only an individual victim (see Blackstone 1765-9: Bk. IV, ch. 1, 5); wrongs or harms that affect only individual victims are—if they are matters for the law at all—appropriately pursued by those individual victims through the civil courts.
We can understand some crimes as harming or wronging ‘the public’—‘the public’ being understood either a set of individuals among whom we cannot identify determinate individual victims, or as a collectivity with shared goods that crime impairs. Three examples will serve to illustrate this point.
First, ‘public order’ offences involving violent, riotous conduct are injurious to the public in that they pose a threat of serious harm to any of the indeterminate number of individuals in the area, and might threaten to undermine that shared sense of assured security on which our civic life depends. (Compare Braithwaite & Pettit 1990: 60-68, on ‘dominion’ as the central civic good. There is of course enormous scope there is for the political abuse of public order laws—see Lacey et al 2003: ch. 2; but our concern here is with the issue of whether we have any in principle reason to define a category of public order crimes.) Similarly, offences of endangerment that involve no ‘disorder’ (driving offences which endanger other road users generally, for instance, and offences involving public health and safety) often threaten the public, rather than determinate individuals.
Second, some crimes attack or threaten the polity's own institutions, and thus threaten or harm ‘the public’ as a collectivity. This category includes such crimes as perjury, attempts to pervert the course of justice, the offering of bribes to, or their acceptance by, public officials, and various kinds of electoral malpractice. In some such cases a determinate individual might be wrongfully harmed—an innocent person might be wrongly convicted, or might lose a civil case, because a witness commits perjury: but whether or not we can identify any such individual victim, the crime attacks a public institution which is crucial to the public interest.
Third, other kinds of wrongful conduct are apt for criminalisation because they involve serious unfairness towards one's fellow citizens. Someone who evades their taxes might cause no identifiable consequential harm, either to any individual or to the social institutions which are funded by taxation; if asked to explain the wrong she commits, we would appeal to some version of ‘What if everyone did that?’, rather than trying to identify any consequential harm that she causes. We would appeal, that is, to the unfair advantage that she takes over all those who pay their taxes: she gains the benefits that accrue to all citizens from the taxation system, but refuses to make her appropriate contribution to that system.
So we can explain why some kinds of conduct are properly criminalised by showing how they wrong or harm ‘the public’, or ‘the public interest’: but can we explain all crimes in this way? Can we sustain the general claim that conduct should, in principle, be criminalised only if and because it wrongs or harms ‘the public’ in this sense? There are two ways in which we might try to do this—by appealing either to the idea of public order and stability, or to that of unfairness.
Consider, first, the idea of public order, and the suggestion that the criminal law's proper purpose is to protect the “smooth functioning of society and the preservation of order” (Devlin 1965: 5). We find relatives of this suggestion in Becker's argument (1974) that the criminal wrongfulness of crimes consists in their tendency to cause ‘social volatility’, and in Dimock's argument (1997) that it lies in their tendency to undermine the kinds of trust upon which civic life depends. What makes crimes—including such crimes as murder and rape—wrongful in a way that properly concerns the criminal law is, on such accounts, not the wrongful harm that they do to their immediate individual victims, but their wider effects on social stability or trust.
Consider second the idea of unfairness. According to one well-known theory of punishment (see Murphy 1973; Dagger 1993), crimes deserve punishment because the offender takes an unfair advantage over all his law-abiding fellow citizens: he accepts the benefits of their law-abiding self-restraint (the mutual security provided by an effective system of law) but refuses to make his proper contribution to that system by exercising such self-restraint himself. Might we ground a theory of criminalisation on such a theory of punishment? We should criminalise murder, rape and other central mala in se because, apart from the wrongful harm that they do to their individual victims, they wrong ‘the public’ (the generality of law-abiding citizens) by taking unfair advantage of them.
The obvious objection to such ways of explaining the idea of crimes as public wrongs or harms is that, precisely by portraying crimes as wrongs done to ‘the public’, they distort their character as wrongs that merit criminalisation. We are now to criminalise murder or rape, not because of the wrongs that they do to their individual victims, but because of their effects on social stability or trust, or the unfair advantage they take over the law-abiding; from which it follows, if the criminal law should address the citizens in terms of the reasons and values that inform its definitions of crimes (see s. 5 above), that a murderer or rapist is to be condemned and punished not for what he did to his individual victim, but for acting in a way that created social volatility, or undermined trust, or took unfair advantage over his law-abiding fellows. This is surely not how we should understand the criminal wrongfulness of such crimes.
To illustrate this point, consider the example of domestic violence and abuse. In English law intra-marital rape was recognised as a crime only in 1991 (see R [1991] 4 All ER 1981); until then, a husband who forced sexual intercourse on his wife without her consent was not guilty of rape. Similarly, although domestic violence (typically husbands violently beating up their wives) was formally speaking a crime, it was often not taken seriously as a crime by the criminal justice system: the police were often unwilling to intervene in ‘domestic disputes’ or to prosecute domestically violent men, seeing it rather as an issue for the couple to work out for themselves. No doubt part of what lay behind these practices was a view that the wrongs being done were, if wrongs at all, not that serious; but we can also discern the view that these were ‘private’ rather than ‘public’ wrongs. If we then ask what justified the change towards recognising intra-marital rape as genuine, criminal rape, and domestic violence as a genuine crime that should be prosecuted, it is not plausible to answer in terms of either of the accounts noted above. It would not be plausible to argue that domestic violence or intra-marital rape is liable to create social volatility (indeed, such crimes are often committed by men who in their lives outside the home are models of peaceful conformity); or that it undermines the kinds of trust on which social life depends (such crimes, if confined to the home, do not undermine the trust that we can have in our dealings with strangers, which is the kind of trust that is relevant here); or that it takes unfair advantage over all those law-abiding people (or men) who refrain from these or other kinds of crime—as if the law-abiding would love to commit such wrongs if only they were not restrained by the demands of fairness.
To explain why such domestic abuse should be criminal, and taken seriously as criminal, we must look not for some ‘public’ harm or wrong that it involves distinct from the wrongful harm it does to its individual victims, but at that wrongful harm itself. What matters is that we come to see the wrongs suffered by abused wives not just as their private business, but as our collective business as citizens of a polity to which we belong with them; we come to recognise that they have as strong a claim to the protection and support of their fellow citizens as do the victims of attacks by strangers—a claim grounded simply in their fellow membership of the polity, as our fellow citizens. The wrongs done to them are ‘public’ wrongs not because they wrong the ‘public’, but because they are wrongs that properly concern the public—their fellow citizens; even when they are committed in what might count, empirically, as ‘the privacy of the home’, they belong in what should count, normatively, as the ‘public’ realm. We could then also say, if we wish, that such wrongs are wrongs against, or injurious to, the public—the polity and its members: they implicitly deny the core values by which the polity defines itself, and the basic normative bonds by which we define our civic relationships with each other; they are wrongs not just against their individual victims, but against all of us insofar as we identify with those victims as our fellow citizens—they are wrongs in which we collectively share, and which we make ‘ours’ (see Marshall & Duff 1998). But to talk in this way of ‘public’ wrongs or injuries is not to try to ground the claim that such wrongs should be criminal: the appeal to the idea of a ‘public’ wrong now expresses, rather than trying to ground, the claim that it is a wrong that concerns us all, and that is therefore apt for criminalisation.
If that is right, however, we cannot look to the idea of public wrongs or harms to provide criteria or principles of criminalisation. We can say that the criminal law should be concerned with ‘public’, rather than ‘private’, wrongs, but that is because to call a wrong ‘public’ in this sense is already to class it as a kind of wrong that is apt for criminalisation—a kind of wrong which should be publicly denounced and whose perpetrators should be publicly investigated, prosecuted, condemned and punished; a kind of wrong whose perpetrators should be called to account by the polity as a whole, not just by the individual victim.
The upshot of this section is that we still lack any clear criteria or principles by appeal to which we can try to determine which kinds of conduct should be criminal. However, though this might be frustrating, we should at least by now be clearer about what kinds of claim we must be able to make about kinds of conduct that we want to show are apt for criminalisation. First, we must be able to show that and how they involve wrongdoing: for as we saw in s. 2, the criminal law focuses on wrongs that should be condemned, rather than just on harms that need to be repaired or compensated; and as we saw in s. 5, the criminal law must speak to us of wrongs that we should not commit. Second, we must be able to claim that the wrong is of such a kind that it should concern us all as citizens—we should not leave it to the individual victim to pursue, or not to pursue, a civil case against the wrongdoer. I have not suggested determinate criteria by which we can identify such wrongs, nor do I think that any determinate criteria can be provided; although theorists might yearn to find a single principle, or a single set of principles, by reference to which we could determine the (in principle) proper scope of the criminal law, such yearnings are doomed to be frustrated (for two recent examples, see Dan-Cohen 2002, Ripstein 2006; for critical discussion see Duff 2007: 138-9; Husak 2007). We can, however, identify the main kinds of consideration that should be relevant. Is the wrong one that injures ‘the public’ rather than any individual victim? Is it one that flouts or implicitly denies the core values by which we define ourselves as a polity, and which supposedly underpin our civic relationships? Is it one from which we should be able to expect the protection of our fellow citizens (which is to ask whether it is a wrong from which we should be able to expect to be categorically safe as we go about our normal lives, rather than a kind of wrong that we can be expected to risk on condition that we can seek compensation if we suffer it)? Answers to these questions will be contestable, and will properly emerge only from a collaborative attempt to understand what joins us as citizens and what we owe to each other as citizens—an attempt which will lead to different results in different political communities: but we have made progress if we have at least identified more clearly the questions that we must ask.
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The Law's Voice




The Law's Voice


On some accounts, the law is not addressed to the citizens at all: it is, rather, addressed to the courts, laying down what actions they should take (what punishments they should impose, for instance) when certain conditions are satisfied (see Hart 1994: 35-38, on Kelsen). Perhaps the law should also be made known to, or easily knowable by, the citizens on whom it is liable to impinge, as a matter of fairness to them: but they are not its direct addressees. Such a view is no doubt true for some aspects of law, including some aspects of criminal law: laws that deal, for instance, with sentencing, or that define various legal excuses, seem to be addressed to courts rather than to the citizens (on the distinction implied here between ‘rules for courts’ and ‘rules for citizens’ see Fletcher 1978: chs. 6.6-8, 7, 9; Dan-Cohen 1984; Robinson 1997). But it is not a plausible view of law as a whole, or of the central, offence-defining aspects of criminal law in particular: the law speaks to all of us, as citizens. We may hear its voice most loudly, most dramatically, if we find ourselves as defendants in a criminal court, when we are called to answer a charge of criminal wrongdoing, and to hear the law's condemnation of our conduct if we are convicted: but in defining which kinds of conduct are criminal, and which are legally permissible, the law speaks to all of us, about what we may or may not do. (Some aspects of the substantive offence-defining criminal law are not addressed to all citizens, but only to those engaged in particular activities: only drivers are addressed by most of the road traffic laws, for instance, and only those who deal in shares are directly addressed by the laws concerning insider trading.)
In what tones and terms, then, does or should the criminal law address the citizens? One view, familiar from the classical positivist theories of Austin and Bentham (see The Nature of Law, § 2), tells us that the law, as addressed to the citizens, consists in a set of commands or orders backed by threats to secure obedience from those who might otherwise disobey. The law says to us “Don't do this!” (or, less frequently, “Do this!”); and if we ask why we should obey that command, the answer will refer either to the law's authority (“Because it is the law and you ought to obey the law”) or to its power (“Because the law will make you suffer if you do not”)—though for classical positivists like Austin and Bentham the law's authority seems to reduce to its power. That simple positivist view of law is no longer widely held, but we can see a vestige of it in the very widespread view that the substantive, offence-defining criminal law consists essentially in a set of ‘prohibitions’ (rules that ‘forbid’ certain kinds of conduct), which citizens are supposed to ‘obey’—which, indeed, they supposedly have an obligation to obey.
Now this might indeed be how the law's voice sounds to those who feel no allegiance to the polity whose law it is, and it is how the law's voice should sound to those who relationship to it and to the polity is that of oppressed subject to alien sovereign: the law does speak to them in the threatening coercive tones of one who demands, and claims to have the power to exact, their obedience. But it is not how the law should speak to the citizens of a liberal polity (see further Duff 2001: 56-68). As citizens, we are members of the normative community whose values the law purports to express: if it is to address us as citizens, and as responsible agents, it must speak to us not in the peremptory, coercive voice of a sovereign who commands our obedience, but in the rational, normative voice of values which demand our allegiance as the values of our polity. The law of a liberal polity, that is to say, must aim to be a common law: a law which belongs to the citizens, as a reflection of the values they share, rather than a law which is imposed on them by an alien sovereign (compare Cotterrell 1995: ch. 11).
The law, or the legislators who create and declare the law, must claim that there are good reasons to criminalise the kinds of conduct it defines as crimes. Since to criminalise conduct is to declare that it should not be done, that claim must be that there are good reasons why the citizens should not engage in such conduct—reasons reflecting the polity's values. If the law is to address us as responsible members of the normative political community, it must address us in terms appropriate to those reasons. In the example offered in § 4, I treat my friend as a responsible agent only if the reasons I offer her for going to visit her aunt are of the right kind—the very reasons that, as I see it, make it right for her to do this. Similarly, I am now suggesting, if the law is to address us as responsible citizens, it must address us in terms that appeal to the right kind of reason for refraining from the conduct that it defines as criminal: in terms that appeal, that is, to the reasons which justified criminalising such conduct in the first place.
What kinds of reason could those be? We will return to this question in the following two sections, but should note here that it will be hard to resist the initial conclusion that they must be moral reasons, to do with the moral wrongfulness of the conduct that is criminalised. For, first, the law's voice is an insistent one. It declares that these things must not be done, even if (it implies) it might suit our individual interests to do them; it attaches significant penalties to the conduct it criminalises: how could such a voice be justified other than by claiming that it is speaking to us of moral duties that we owe to each other and to the polity? Second, the law speaks in terms that appear closely related to the extra-legal languages of morals. It speaks of guilt, of fault, of culpability and wrongdoing; it speaks of murder, rape, dishonesty, theft and the like: unless we are to say that these terms are systematically ambiguous as between their legal and their extra-legal uses (in which case the law would not be making itself accessible or readily intelligible to its citizens), we must conclude that the law's definitions of offences are meant to be legal definitions of moral wrongs—of kinds of conduct that are wrong either pre-legally, as mala in se are; or as breaches of legal regulations which, once they are created, citizens have a moral obligation to obey (see Green 1997). The criminal law's definitions of offences will not always aspire to match precisely our extra-legal understanding of the relevant moral wrongs: there will often be good reasons, to do with the practical and moral constraints of law enforcement and the criminal process, for the law's definitions to diverge from extra-legal moral understandings. But the law's definitions must be grounded in those extra-legal moral understandings. What the criminal law must say to the citizens is therefore not that they must refrain from such conduct because the law forbids it and can demand their obedience, but that they should refrain from such conduct because it is wrong.
Why should we maintain an institution that speaks to its citizens in such terms of wrongs that should not be committed? Part of the reason is obviously to dissuade the citizens (if they need dissuading) from committing such wrongs—that is the truth in the instrumentalist view. Indeed, nothing said so far rules out the familiar suggestion that a central purpose of a system of criminal law is to reduce the incidence of the relevant kinds of wrongdoing by threatening those who might commit them with punishments that will deter them—whether punishment should be justified as a deterrent is a further issue. But this is not to say that instrumentalists are wholly right, or that Moore is wholly wrong to think that the sole purpose of criminal law is to provide for the retributive punishment of those who culpably commit such wrongs. For, first, even if we are in the end justified in using punishment as a deterrent for those who will not otherwise be dissuaded from crime, the law's initial appeal to the citizens must be in the moral language of wrongdoing, not simply in the coercive language of deterrence (see Legal Punishment, s. 6): not because such a moral appeal is likely to be instrumentally effective, but because it is intrinsically appropriate to the law's dealings with the citizens of a liberal polity. Second, we can now plausibly suggest that another purpose of the criminal law is to provide a suitable response to criminal wrongs that are committed. It publicly recognises and condemns them as wrongs by defining them as crimes; it calls those who are alleged to have committed them to account, to answer for that alleged wrongdoing, through a process of criminal trials; it condemns those who are proved to have committed such wrongs by convicting them—and by punishing them, if we understand punishment as involving the communication of censure (see again Legal Punishment, s. 6). The truth in Moore's view is that such responses to crime are justified not merely as instrumentally efficient means to the reduction of harmful conduct, or to other further ends, but as intrinsically appropriate responses to the kinds of wrongdoing that properly concern the criminal law. We must take such wrongdoing seriously, if we take seriously the values against which it offends, the victim's standing as one who has suffered such a wrong, and the wrongdoer's standing as a responsible agent who has done wrong: but to take it seriously is to be prepared to declare it to be wrong it, and to call to account and to condemn those who engage in it.
I have suggested in this section the central purpose of criminal law, as a distinctive kind of law marked out from the other kinds and aspects of law by the features discussed in s. 2, is to define, and to declare the wrongfulness of, certain kinds of wrongdoing, in order not only to dissuade citizens from committing such wrongs, but also to provide appropriate responses to those who commit, or are alleged to have committed, such wrongs. In defining conduct as criminal, the law identifies it as conduct from which we have good reason to refrain, and thus also as conduct for which we will be called to public account, and condemned and punished, if we engage in it. To ask whether we should have a system of criminal law is therefore to ask whether there are kinds of wrongdoing that the state should identify and respond to in such a way—kinds of wrongdoing that the state should take seriously as wrongdoing, and expect its citizens to take similarly seriously.
But what kinds of wrongdoing could these be? We noted that the simple Legal Moralist's claim, the claim that we have good reason to criminalise any kind of immoral conduct simply in virtue of its immorality, seems implausible. My betrayal of my friend, wrong though it is, does not seem like the kind of wrong that merits public denunciation by the criminal law, or for which I should be called to account by the whole polity through its criminal process; it is, surely, a private matter between me and my friend and perhaps the circle of friends to which we both belong), not a public matter that concerns the state, or my fellow citizens as such.
This natural response to this example points us towards one common way of identifying the kinds of wrong that do properly concern the criminal law—the idea that conduct which is to be criminalised ought to constitute a ‘public’, rather than a merely ‘private’, wrong.

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Instrumental and moralistic Conceptions of Criminal Law



Instrumental and Moralistic Conceptions of Criminal Law


We can begin to tackle these two questions by distinguishing two radically different ways of conceptualising criminal law. We might decide, in the end, that a plausible account will have to draw on both kinds of conception; but we can usefully begin by contrasting simple, pure versions of each.
One conception is instrumental. The criminal law is a technique or instrument that can be used to serve various possible ends. We are justified in maintaining a system of criminal law if it is an efficient technique for achieving worthwhile ends; its structure and content should then be determined by asking how it can serve those ends most efficiently.
What worthwhile ends could a system of criminal law serve? We cannot simply say that it should prevent or reduce crime, since without the criminal law there would be no crimes—no conduct would count as criminal. However, a number of plausible goals could be posited, reflecting a range of views both about human goods and about the proper roles and functions of the state. The American Model Penal Code, for instance, declares that:
The general purposes of the provisions governing the definition of offenses are:
a) to forbid and prevent conduct that unjustifiably and inexcusably inflicts or threatens substantial harm to individual or public interests.
We begin with a set of individual and public interests that merit protection, given their role in human welfare: they can be protected by various methods, including various state activities; a system of criminal law makes its distinctive contribution to their protection by forbidding and thus preventing conduct that threatens substantial harm to them. German criminal law theory posits a similar starting point: a set of individual and collective Rechtsgüter (a Rechtsgut is a good which the law properly recognises as being necessary for social peace or for individual well-being, and as therefore meriting legal protection) which the criminal law protects against conduct that seriously threatens them (see Roxin 2006: 8-47; for critical discussion of the utility of the idea of Rechtsgüter see Wohlers et al 2003). As we will see in § 6, it is not yet clear whether or how individual as distinct from public or collective interests should figure in an account of the protective aims of the criminal law, and some accounts certainly emphasise the collective dimension. Thus on Walker's ‘pragmatic’ account, the criminal law should aim to further the “smooth functioning of society and the preservation of order” (Walker 1980: 18, quoting Devlin 1965: 5)—collective or shared goods which provide essential preconditions for individual flourishing.
Two aspects of such instrumentalist accounts are worth noting here. First, they typically limit the criminal law's concern to serious harms to the specified kinds of interest, that cannot be otherwise prevented: thus the Model Penal Code refers to “substantial harm”, and German theorists argue that criminal law should be used only as a last resort against seriously harmful conduct (see Roxin 2006: 45-7; also, more generally, Husak 2004; Jareborg 2005). This kind of limitation can itself be rationalised in instrumental terms. The criminal law is a blunt and oppressive technique, which impinges seriously on the interests of those who are subjected to its coercive attention: not just those who are convicted and punished, but also those who are caught up in police investigations, or who are tried and acquitted, A consequentialist calculus of costs and benefits is therefore unlikely to favour its use unless it is the only feasible method of preventing quite serious harm.
But, second, the Model Penal Code also limits the criminal law's concern to conduct that “unjustifiably and inexcusably inflicts or threatens substantial harm” (see lso Feinberg 1984: 31-6); and most criminal codes include similar limitations. The ‘unjustifiably’ limit might still be justified instrumentally; we should not want to prevent conduct that justifiably causes harm. Some theorists argue that we can also justify the ‘inexcusably’ limit in instrumental terms (e.g. Braithwaite & Pettit 1990): that the criminal law's goals are not efficiently served by criminalising faultless or excusable conduct. Others, however, ground this limit in a non-instrumental side-constraint on the aim of harm-prevention: a purely instrumentalist theory cannot justify criminalising only culpable conduct; we must instead appeal to a non-instrumentalist demand of justice, that those who lack fault should not be liable to criminal punishment (see Hart 1968: 17-24, 28-53).
What emerges here is a familiar difference between two types of instrumentalist theory (see Braithwaite & Pettit 1990: 26-36). A pure instrumentalist seeks to explain every aspect of a justified system of criminal law in consequentialist terms; in designing a system, we need only ask which doctrines, practices and rules will efficiently serve the goals we have posited. A side-constrained instrumentalist, by contrast, argues that our pursuit of those goals is also constrained by non-consequentialist values—for instance by requirements of justice—which might preclude some practices—for instance the criminalisation of faultless conduct—even if those practices would efficiently serve the system's goals.
For any instrumentalist theory, whether pure or side-constrained, it is an open empirical question whether we should maintain a system of criminal law at all: we should do so only if this is an efficient means to whatever goals the theory posits. For a pure instrumentalist, the proper structure and contents of a system of criminal law also depend on an empirical inquiry into how those goals can be most efficiently served, whilst side-constrained instrumentalists must also attend to whatever non-consequentialist constraints bear on these issues. We cannot pursue the debates between these two kinds of account, but should note one set of questions that must figure in them, about the relation between criminal and moral wrongs.
Some instrumentalists hold that we should criminalise only conduct that is in some way immoral, and should punish only agents who are morally culpable for such conduct: thus, for instance, Braithwaite and Pettit “assume … that only persons who are morally culpable for a prescribed [sic] encroachment upon the dominion of others should be convicted” (1990: 99), whilst the Model Penal Code declares another purpose of the criminal law to be “to safeguard conduct that is without fault from condemnation as criminal” (s. 1.02(1)(c)). Others seem less sure about this. Walker, for instance, sees reason to criminalise conduct that provokes social disorder, even if we would, speaking morally, blame that disorder on the intolerance of others rather than on the moral wrongness of the conduct (1980: 21). As for moral culpability, Hart argues that we should explain excuse doctrines not as aiming to exempt the morally faultless from criminal liability, but as aiming to protect individual freedom by subjecting to liability only those who had a fair opportunity to avoid it (1968: 17-24).
Thus an instrumentalist approach to the justification of criminal law seems to leave it as something of an open question whether the law should criminalise only immoral conduct, or should subject only morally culpable agents to criminal liability. At the other extreme of the spectrum of theories of criminal law, by contrast, we find accounts that make immorality and moral culpability central to the proper concerns of the criminal law.
Criminal law, Stephen notoriously argued, “is in the nature of a persecution of the grosser forms of vice”; conduct is properly criminalised
not only because [it is] dangerous to society, and so ought to be prevented, but also for the sake of gratifying the feeling of hatred—call it revenge, resentment or what you will—which the contemplation of such conduct excites in healthily constituted minds (1873/ 1967: 152).
One could read Stephen as offering what is still an instrumentalist account of criminal law; it is important to satisfy that “feeling of hatred and the desire of vengeance … a regular public and legal manner” (loc. cit.), because otherwise they will find more violent, uncontrolled and socially harmful expression (compare Gardner 1998: 31-32). But he clearly also believed that such feelings and desires were intrinsically appropriate responses to the grosser forms of vice, which deserved to be thus satisfied; and we find a contemporary version of this kind of view in Moore's claim that criminal law should be understood as a functional kind, whose function is to achieve retributive justice by punishing “all and only those who are morally culpable in the doing of some morally wrongful action” (Moore 1997: 35). This is, as it stands, a wholly non-instrumentalist, intrinsicalist account of the proper purpose of the criminal law: it has no purpose beyond itself, beyond the punishment of culpable agents for their immoral conduct; it does not even, apparently, aim to reduce the incidence of such conduct.
Moore offers what looks at first like an extreme and simple version of ‘Legal Moralism’, the view that “all and only moral wrongs should be criminally prohibited” (1997: 662), but in fact the implications of his account are less dramatic than this might suggest. The immorality of a given kind of conduct creates a presumption in favour of criminalising it—it ‘should be criminally prohibited’. However, that presumption can be defeated by other considerations to do with the impact of criminalisation; in particular, a proper regard for individual liberty will dissuade us from actually criminalising much wrongful conduct (see Moore 1997: ch. 18).
There are, of course, other types of Legal Moralism than Moore's. Any version of Legal Moralism claims that the immorality of a given kind of conduct is significantly relevant to the question of whether it should be criminalised. We can then distinguish positive from negative versions. Positive Legal Moralists hold that immorality is a good reason for criminalisation—not necessarily that it creates a presumption in favour of criminalisation, but that it provides a reason that should carry some weight in our deliberations (see Feinberg 1984: 27; 1988: 324). Negative Legal Moralists hold instead that immorality constitutes only a necessary condition for criminalisation: we must not criminalise conduct unless it is immoral, but its immorality does not give us any positive reason to criminalise it. Negative Legal Moralism, like negative retributivism (see Dolinko 1991: 539-43), acts as a side-constraint on our pursuit of the goals that provide our positive reasons for maintaining a system of criminal law, whereas a positive Legal Moralism helps to set those goals. We should note too that a positive Legal Moralist as defined here need not be a negative Legal Moralist: one can believe that immorality provides a good reason for criminalisation whilst also believing that there are other reasons, including reasons for criminalising conduct that is not immoral. (We will also look later at the argument that whilst immorality as such provides no reason for criminalisation, immorality of the right kind does provide a good reason.) Furthermore, even positive Legal Moralists need not think, with Moore, that the reason for criminalising immoral conduct is precisely and only to secure its retributive punishment: she could instead believe, as Feinberg's Legal Moralist does, that we should criminalise it in order to prevent it, and therefore only if criminalising it would be likely to reduce its incidence (see Feinberg 1988: 324).
It might seem that negative Legal Moralism is straightforwardly undermined by the fact that many of the offences defined by a modern criminal law constitute mala prohibita rather than mala in se. Mala in se, as normally understood, are crimes consisting in conduct that is wrong independently of the criminal law—that would have been wrong even had there been no criminal law. Mala prohibita, on the other hand, consist in conduct that is not wrongful independently of the law that prohibits it: if they are wrong, their wrongfulness depends essentially on their illegality. The distinction between mala in se and mala prohibita is neither clear nor uncontroversial, but does point to something important: malicious killing, for instance, is wrong, something that we all have very good reason not to do, independently of law of murder; by contrast, there is nothing wrong with driving from north to south down a narrow street in the absence of a regulation making it a south to north one-way street. However, Legal Moralists can easily justify a category of mala prohibita. If the legislature is justified in creating the kinds of regulation that mala prohibita involve (such as traffic regulations), to serve some aspect of the common good, breaches of such regulations might be moral wrongs (though their weongfulness will need to be shown, not just assumed); that wrongfulness provides, for the Legal Moralist, a reason to criminalise such breaches—to define them not merely as morally neutral breaches of a regulation, but as criminal (see further Green 1997; Duff 2007: chs 4.4, 7.3; and, for criticism, Husak 2005).
Were we faced by a stark choice between an instrumentalist view of the criminal law and a view like Moore's, we might think that some form of instrumentalism has to be right. Even if we think that, once we have a system of criminal law, we must justify criminal punishment in retributivist terms (which is itself controversial), it seems much less plausible to think that we should create and maintain the whole edifice of criminal law simply in order to condemn and punish immoral actions; surely at least a central part of the purpose of a modern system of criminal law must be to protect citizens against various kinds of harm, by preventing kinds of conduct that cause such harm. We must also ask whether positive Legal Moralists are right to believe that every kind of immoral conduct is, in principle, the law's business—that even if in the end the balance of reasons argues against criminalising some kind of immoral conduct, its immorality provided a good reason in favour of its criminalisation. Suppose that I betray a friend by frivolously revealing a secret that she had entrusted to me and that I knew mattered a lot to her: I have done her a grievous moral wrong, and might indeed have fatally damaged our friendship; but are we really to say that such conduct should (ceteris paribus) be criminal, or that its immorality gives us good reason to criminalise it?
We will return to Legal Moralism (in § 6 below), but should not here that there are also some serious questions for instrumentalists. A purely instrumentalist account faces the same questions, the same moral worries, as does any purely consequentialist theory of moral, social or political action: put crudely, the general worry is that any such theory will fail to do justice to individuals and their rights, since it will too easily sanction unjustly sacrificing individuals to the greater social goods that it posits as the justifying aim of our actions. Side-constrained instrumentalists avoid that kind of objection, since the side-constraints that they recognise are precisely intended to rule out such injustice, such infringements of individual rights: but there is a serious question about their conception of criminal law—whether we should see it simply as a technique whose positive justification lies solely in its beneficial effects.
For instrumentalists, whether pure or side-constrained, it is a contingent, empirical issue whether the criminal law is an appropriate institution: it is appropriate if and because it does, as a matter of contingent fact, make an efficient contribution to whatever ends we posited for the state. Now we can agree that this instrumental dimension is crucial to the justification of a system of criminal law: we must surely believe, for instance, that a system which on balance did more harm than good could not be justified. However (leaving aside the question of what is to count as ‘harm’ or ‘good’ for the moment), it does not follow from this that instrumental efficiency is the only positive justifying reason for maintaining a system of criminal law: we could still also believe that such an institution can be justified only if it can be shown to be an intrinsically appropriate way of dealing with and responding to the kinds of conduct that fall within its proper ambit.
Consider what I will argue is an apt analogy. If I believe that a friend ought (morally) to go to visit her sick aunt, I might try to persuade her to do so; and if she is initially unwilling, I will then try to work out how I can best persuade her. What counts as ‘best’ here is in part an instrumental matter: I want to find something to say, or do, that will in fact persuade her. But it is not just an instrumental matter, since I should rule out some possibly effective means of persuading her to visit her aunt—bribery, for instance, or blackmail, or deception. What rules such means out is not that they would not be effective (they might well be), nor merely that they are inconsistent with some non-consequentialist side-constraint, but rather that they are intrinsically inappropriate to the end that I should be pursuing. For if I am to show my friend the respect that is due to her as a moral agent (and as my friend), my aim must be not merely to persuade her, by whatever means will be effective, to act as I think she ought to act: it must be to bring her by a process of rational moral discussion to see for herself that that is how she ought to act; but bribery, blackmail or deception cannot count as means to that end (see Duff 1986: 47-54).
To see how this is an apt analogy to the questions we are pursuing here, about the proper aims of a system of criminal law, we must turn to a question which is not addressed as often as it should be, about the voice—the tones, and the terms—in which the criminal law should address those whom it claims to bind.
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