Adam Kolber

The law inevitably draws lines. These lines distinguish, for example, whether certain conduct reflects ordinary recklessness constituting manslaughter or more extreme recklessness constituting murder. There is no way to meaningfully draw such lines, however, absent shared ways of representing amounts of recklessness or at least knowledge of the consequences of drawing lines in particular places. Yet legal actors frequently draw lines in the dark, establishing cutoffs along a spectrum with little or none of the information required to do so in a way that suits the law’s goals. For example, jurors must decide whether some conduct constitutes extreme recklessness without knowing prior precedent nor the sentencing consequences of drawing cutoffs in particular places. Judges and lawyers cite line drawing precedents from other jurisdictions without considering whether the lines drawn in prior cases had the same consequences as those in the case at bar. And scholars argue about how to classify conduct without making clear what consequences they believe ought to attach once the classification is made, leaving it hard to tell when scholars have substantive or simply superficial disagreements. In this Article, I discuss some line drawing problems and briefly suggest ways we can add meaning to cutoffs. More generally, I argue, we can “smooth” certain features of the law to both reduce our vulnerability to line drawing in the dark and improve the fit between the law and what our best theories of law recommend. Even when we cannot easily smooth the law, thinking about the law in a smoother fashion can help reduce the jurisprudential pathologies I describe.

Theorists treat liberty as a great equalizer. We can’t easily distribute equal welfare, but we can purport to distribute equal liberty. In fact, however, nothing about “equal liberty” is meaningfully equal. To demonstrate, I turn not to familiar cases of distributing positive goods but to the distribution of a negative good, namely carceral punishment. Many theorists believe we should impose proportional punishment by depriving offenders of liberty in proportion to their blameworthiness. In this manner, equally blameworthy offenders are said to receive equal punishment when incarcerated for the same period of time. Equal periods of incarceration do not yield equal punishments, however, because liberty cannot serve as the great equalizer theorists hope for. Pretending it can prevents us from justifying the full harms of punishment or leads to such counterintuitive results that it makes proportional punishment an unattractive goal.

Offenders vary in their sensitivity to punishment. In recent years, this observation has formed the basis of a critique of retributivism. According to the subjectivist critique, retributivists must choose between two bad options. If they ignore variation in how offenders experience punishment and are worsened by it, they will fail to justify punishment practices, such as incarceration, that inevitably inflict experiential harms and worsen offenders to varying degrees. Even if these harms do not formally constitute punishment, they reduce desert debt and must be considered to avoid overpunishment. If, however, retributivists properly consider experiential harms and other worsenings, they are led to counterintuitive results—for example, that the wealthy should generally spend less time in prison or have better conditions than the poor when they commit equally serious crimes. Hence, the subjectivist critique reveals that retributivism cannot justify common punishment practices, such as incarceration, without also leading to conclusions that most will find unappealing.

In tort and contract law, we calculate the harm a defendant caused a plaintiff by examining the plaintiff’s condition after an injury relative to his baseline condition. When we consider the severity of prison sentences, however, we usually ignore offenders’ baseline conditions. We deem inmates as receiving equal punishments when they are incarcerated for the same period of time under the same conditions, even though incarceration does not change their situations equally (unless they started out in identical circumstances). It is the amount by which we change offenders’ circumstances that determines the severity of their sentences. We calculate the severity of some punishments, like fines, comparatively. Fines specify an amount by which to change an offender’s wealth relative to his baseline. We never use fines to equalize the net worth of offenders, but we do use prison to equalize the liberties of prison inmates. When we recognize the comparative nature of punishment, we see that, by putting two equally blameworthy offenders in prison for equal durations, the offender with the better baseline condition is likely punished more severely than the offender with the worse baseline condition. We must attend to the differences in their baselines or else we will fail to justify some of the harsh treatment that we knowingly impose. If we insist on giving both of these offenders equal prison terms, we cannot justify doing so on the grounds of proportional punishment.

Emerging technologies raise the possibility that we may be able to treat trauma victims by pharmaceutically dampening factual or emotional aspects of their memories. Such technologies raise a panoply of legal and ethical issues. While many of these issues remain off in the distance, some have already arisen. In this brief commentary, I discuss a real-life case of memory erasure. The case reveals why the contours of our freedom of memory—our limited bundle of rights to control our memories and be free of outside control—already merit some attention.

Modest differences in conduct can lead to wildly different legal outcomes. A person deemed slightly negligent when harming another may owe millions of dollars. Had the person been just a bit more cautious, he would owe nothing. Similarly, when self-defense is deemed slightly negligent, a person may spend several years in prison. Had the person been just a bit more cautious, he would have no criminal liability at all. Though the law must draw difficult lines, the lines need not have such startling effects. We can adjust damage awards and the severity of prison sentences anywhere along a spectrum. A legal input and output have a “smooth” relationship when a gradual change to the input leads to a gradual change to the output. The prior examples are not smooth but “bumpy”: a gradual change to the input sometimes dramatically affects the output and sometimes has no effect at all. The law is full of these bumpy relationships that create hard-to-justify discontinuities. In this Essay, I discuss the relative advantages of smooth and bumpy legal relationships and explain how the choice of an input-output relationship differs from the choice between rules and standards. I argue that smooth relationships will often create less “rounding error” than bumpy relationships by more closely approximating our underlying moral norms.

Suppose two people commit the same crime and are sentenced to equal terms in the same prison facility. I argue that they have identical punishments in name only. One may experience incarceration as challenging but tolerable while the other is thoroughly tormented by it. Even though people vary substantially in their experiences of punishment, our sentencing laws pay little attention to such differences. I make two central claims: First, a successful justification of punishment must take account of offenders' subjective experiences when assessing punishment severity. Second, we have certain obligations to consider actual or anticipated punishment experience at sentencing, at least when we can do so in a cost-effective, administrable manner. Though it may seem impossible or prohibitively expensive to take punishment experience into account, we should not accept this excuse too quickly. In civil litigation, we often make assessments of emotional distress. Even if we cannot calibrate the punishments of individual offenders, we could enact broad policies that are better at taking punishment experience into account than those we have now. I do not argue that more sensitive offenders should receive shorter prison sentences than less sensitive offenders who commit crimes of equal blameworthiness. I do, however, argue that when they are given equal prison terms, more sensitive offenders receive harsher punishments than less sensitive offenders and that it is a mistake to believe that both kinds of offenders receive punishments proportional to their desert.

According to Robert Nozick's famous "experience machine" argument, we would not choose to spend our lives with our brains connected to a machine that could deliver any set of experiences we desire. Because most of us would decline to live any variant of life in "The Matrix," so to speak, the thought experiment purportedly demonstrates that we value aspects of life other than just subjective experiences. I argue that while most would not connect to the experience machine, many would not disconnect from it either if they were already connected. Unless we have a reason to privilege the views of those currently disconnected, Nozick fails to prove his broader point about the nature of value. This article was published when I was an undergraduate. I am posting it now to SSRN because the topic has gained renewed interest among experimental philosophers and neuroethicists.

Placebo treatments, like sugar pills and saline injections, are effective in treating pain and perhaps a host of other conditions. To use placebos most effectively, however, doctors must mislead patients into believing that they are receiving active medications. While placebo deception is surprisingly common, its legality has rarely been tested. In November 2006, the American Medical Association (AMA) adopted a new ethics provision categorically prohibiting doctors from using placebos deceptively. In so doing, the AMA shifted the legal landscape, making it almost certain that courts will decide that placebo deception violates informed consent requirements. I argue that the AMA's new policy is overbroad, insensitive to patient preferences, and likely to have unforeseen consequences. While deception is often exploitative, placebo deception can genuinely benefit patients. Absent stronger evidence to justify a ban than we currently have, deceptive placebos should be treated as scarce medical resources--used sparingly but not categorically prohibited.

We sometimes exempt people from generally applicable laws when compliance would violate their rights of conscience. In “The Significance of Conscience,” Kent Greenawalt discusses a variety of issues about the proper scope and subject matter of claims of conscience. He argues that we should generally give nonreligious claims comparable treatment to religious claims but argues further that there are special reasons to accommodate religious claims that ought to factor into our deliberations. In this brief comment, I discuss Greenawalt’s analysis and propose a method to avoid differentiating between religious and nonreligious claims, at least in many contexts. I describe “alternative burdens” that can be imposed on those who make claims of conscience that increase the likelihood that their claims are made sincerely and, if granted, are subsequently perceived as fair. The proposed approach makes it generally irrelevant whether a claim is founded on religious or nonreligious reasoning. (This comment was written for the University of San Diego School of Law Symposium, “Freedom of Conscience: Stranger in a Secular Land.”)

Neuroscientists have made significant advances in identifying drugs to dampen the intensity of traumatic memories. Such drugs hold promise for victims of terrorism, military conflict, assault, car accidents, and natural disasters who might otherwise suffer for many years from intense, painful memories. In 2003, the President's Council on Bioethics released a report entitled Beyond Therapy: Biotechnology and the Pursuit of Happiness, which analyzed memory dampening in some detail. While the Council acknowledged the potential benefits of memory dampening, some Council members were concerned that it may: (1) discourage us from authentically coping with trauma, (2) tamper with personal identity, (3) demean the genuineness of human life and experience, (4) encourage us to forget memories that we are obligated to keep, and (5) inure us to the pain of others. In this Article, I describe possible legal and ethical implications of memory dampening. For example, I note that traumatic events frequently lead to legal proceedings that rely on memories of those events. Drugs that dampen traumatic memories may someday test the boundaries between an individual's right to medically modify his memories and society's right to stop him from altering valuable evidence. More broadly, I respond to the Council by arguing that many of its concerns are founded on controversial premises that unjustifiably privilege our natural cognitive abilities. While memory dampening may eventually require thoughtful regulation, broad-brushed restrictions are unjustified: We have a deeply personal interest in controlling our own minds that entitles us to a certain freedom of memory.

Several studies suggest that memories can be pharmaceutically dampened. For example, researchers recently showed that a drug called ZIP causes cocaine-addicted rats to forget the locations where they had regularly been receiving cocaine. Other drugs, already tested in humans, may ease the emotional pain associated with memories of traumatic events. Many are alarmed by the prospect of pharmaceutical memory manipulation. In this brief comment, I argue that these fears are overblown. Thoughtful regulation may someday be appropriate, but excessive hand-wringing now over the ethics of tampering with memory could stall research into promising methods of preventing and treating post-traumatic stress.

Pain, suffering, anxiety, and other experiences are fundamentally important to civil and criminal law. Despite their importance, we have limited ability to measure experiences, even though legal proceedings turn on such measurements every day. Fortunately, technological advances in neuroscience are improving our ability to measure experiences and will do so more dramatically in what I call “the experiential future.” In this article, I describe how new technologies will improve our assessments of physical pain, emotional distress, and a variety of psychiatric disorders. I also describe more particular techniques to assess whether: (1) a patient is in a persistent vegetative state, (2) a placebo treatment relieves pain, (3) an alleged victim has been abused as a child, (4) an inmate being executed is in pain, (5) an interrogatee has been tortured, and more. I argue that as new technologies emerge to better reveal people’s experiences, virtually every area of the law should do more to take these experiences into account.

Pain is a fundamentally subjective experience. We have uniquely direct access to our own pain but can only make rough inferences about the pain of others. Nevertheless, such inferences are made all the time by doctors, insurers, judges, juries, and administrative agencies. Advances in brain imaging may someday improve our pain assessments by bolstering the claims of those genuinely experiencing pain while impugning the claims of those who are faking or exaggerating symptoms. These possibilities raise concerns about the privacy of our pain. I suggest that while the use of neuroimaging to detect pain implicates significant privacy concerns, our interests in keeping pain private are likely to be weaker than our interests in keeping private certain other subjective experiences that permit more intrusive inferences about our thoughts and character.

Thousands die each year in the United States alone due to a severe shortage of organs available for transplantation. In this article, I propose that we encourage people to register to donate organs upon death by offering them some priority to receive an organ should they need one during life. Such an incentive would save lives by encouraging many more people to donate, yet would not violate federal laws that prohibit organ donors from receiving financial compensation. In addition, I describe how priority incentives could, in theory, be structured to guarantee a distribution of organs that is pareto superior to our current one. I respond to critics who say that priority incentives would weaken the altruistic nature of our current donation scheme and would unacceptably commodify the human body. A fuller conception of our property interests in cadaver organs, I argue, reveals the error of elevating such organs to a special place of honor reserved for property that should be inalienable through market-style exchange.

The Supreme Court has held that pretrial detainees are presumed innocent and that their detention does not constitute punishment. If convicted, however, detainees usually receive credit at sentencing for the time they spent in detention. We reduce their punishment by time spent unpunished. Crediting time served conflicts with the commonly held view that punishment should be proportional to blame. Offenders who deserve to be punished by a year in prison but spend a year in pretrial detention may be released immediately at sentencing and technically receive no punishment at all. One way to solve the mystery of credit for time served is to recognize that people don’t care about proportional “punishment” in the narrow way the Supreme Court and many theorists use the term. Rather, they seek to dispense proportional “harsh treatment.” Even though pretrial detention is technically not punishment, it is harsh treatment inflicted by the state, and most believe offenders deserve credit for it. Shifting focus to proportional harsh treatment, however, solves one problem at the expense of several others. For if state-inflicted harsh treatment before conviction counts for purposes of assessing proportionality, then surely state-inflicted harsh treatment afterward should count too. While we could try to salvage proportionality by better measuring harsh treatment, I explain the sometimes absurd consequences of doing so. Even though retributivist notions of proportionality are central to sentencing systems around the world and are widely thought to undergird core notions of criminal justice, both proportional punishment and proportional harsh treatment have profoundly counterintuitive implications. When the weaknesses in retributivist proportionality are revealed, consequentialist punishment theories look correspondingly more appealing.

We like to think we own our memories: if technology someday enables us to alter our memories, we should have certain rights to do so. But our freedom of memory has limits. Some memories are simply too valuable to society to allow individuals the unfettered right to change them. Suppose a patient regains consciousness in the middle of surgery. While traumatized by the experience and incapable of speaking, he coincidentally overhears two surgeons make plans to set fire to the hospital. Assuming there is no way to erase his traumatic memories of intraoperative awareness and still prosecute the surgeons, a patient may well have a moral duty to retain the memories for the greater good. And if the patient has such a moral duty, I argue in this brief comment, then the state plausibly has the right to limit our abilities to erase memories when necessary to protect public safety or prosecute offenders.

Criminal law theorists overwhelmingly agree that for some conduct to constitute punishment, it must be imposed intentionally. Some retributivists have argued that because punishment consists only of intentional inflictions, theories of punishment can ignore the merely foreseen hardships of prison, such as the mental and emotional distress inmates experience. Though such distress is foreseen, it is not intended, and so it is technically not punishment. In this essay, I explain why theories of punishment must pay close attention to the unintentional burdens of punishment. In two very important contexts — punishment measurement and justification — we use the term “punishment” to capture not only intentional harsh treatment but certain unintentional harsh treatment as well. This means that the widely accepted view that punishment is an intentional infliction requires substantial caveats. It also means that any purported justification of punishment that addresses only the intentional infliction of punishment is woefully incomplete. [This paper has been published under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike license.].

The law typically treats great apes and other non-humans as property and not as persons. This is so, even though great apes have cognitive abilities that exceed those of some mentally-deficient humans. Nevertheless, these humans are entitled to the full range of personhood rights, while apes are entitled to none of them. Without attempting to resolve this discrepancy, I suggest more modestly that those rights we do extend to apes under the Animal Welfare Act might be more easily safeguarded if we were to extend legal standing to apes, allowing suit to be brought on their behalf by human guardians. Doing so would not require us to view apes as persons but would provide increased protections for these surprisingly intelligent creatures.

Blackjack players who “count cards” keep track of cards that have already been played and use this knowledge to turn the probability of winning in their favor. Though casinos try to eject card counters or otherwise make their task more difficult, card counting is perfectly legal. So long as card counters rely on their own memory and computational skills, they have violated no laws and can make sizable profits. By contrast, if players use a “device” to help them count cards, like a calculator or smartphone, they have committed a serious crime. I consider two potential justifications for anti-device legislation and find both lacking. The first is that, unlike natural card counting, device-assisted card counting requires cognitive enhancement. It makes card counting less natural and is unfair to casinos and should therefore be prohibited. The second potential justification relies on the privacy of our thoughts. On this view, natural card counting is a kind of cheating that warrants punishment. We do not criminalize natural card counting, however, because such laws would interfere with our thought privacy. Since concerns about thought privacy are less applicable to device-assisted counting, we can prohibit device-assisted counting without violating our rights to freedom of mind. While I do not purport to show that these justifications are hopeless, I present reasons to doubt that they will ultimately prove successful.

According to empirical desert advocates, lay moral intuitions are consistent with retributive approaches to punishment, and policymakers can increase compliance with criminal justice policies by punishing in accord with those intuitions. I offer three challenges to empirical desert intended ultimately to strengthen its theoretical underpinnings: First, advocates have cherry-picked certain moral intuitions, while ignoring others. Second, they have yet to demonstrate the weight to assign the compliance induced by empirical desert relative to the weight of other consequentialist considerations. Third, empirical desert arguably exploits laypeople by using their “mistaken” beliefs about punishment to encourage their compliance with consequentialist goals. Such exploitation may trouble defenders of the “publicity condition,” which requires that a system of morality be based on principles that can be announced publicly without thereby undermining those same principles. I do not describe precisely how empirical desert advocates should respond to these concerns, but they will make substantial headway by more carefully distinguishing the use of widely-shared moral intuitions to make predictions about people’s behavior from the use of those intuitions to justify particular policies. (This article was written for the Brooklyn Law School Symposium, “Is Morality Universal and Should the Law Care?”.)

The central debate in the field of neurolaw has focused on two claims. Joshua Greene and Jonathan Cohen argue that we do not have free will and that advances in neuroscience will eventually lead us to stop blaming people for their actions. Stephen Morse, by contrast, argues that we have free will and that the kind of advances Greene and Cohen envision will not and should not affect the law. I argue that neither side has persuasively made the case for or against a revolution in the way the law treats responsibility. There will, however, be a neurolaw revolution of a different sort. It will not necessarily arise from radical changes in our beliefs about criminal responsibility but from a wave of new brain technologies that will change society and the law in many ways, three of which I describe here: First, as new methods of brain imaging improve our ability to measure distress, the law will ease limitations on recoveries for emotional injuries. Second, as neuroimaging gives us better methods of inferring people’s thoughts, we will have more laws to protect thought privacy but less actual thought privacy. Finally, improvements in artificial intelligence will systematically change how law is written and interpreted.