In 1939, at the end of almost two decades of statewide want and despair, Oklahoma adopted the community property system “to save state residents on their federal income tax.” Between 1939 and 1947, Oklahoma and four other states openly and unabashedly exploited the Supreme Court's creation of what amounted to a tax loophole for the nation's wealthy; several more states seriously considered doing the same. In 1930, the Court had ruled that the community marital property regime of eight western states permitted their married couples to split family income between spouses, so that each spouse reported half of that income for federal income tax purposes. As a result of the federal government's progressive income tax bracket structure, in most cases this split meant that more of the family's income would be taxed in lower tax brackets. Thus, a property regime that was purely a creation of state law had the effect of reducing residents' federal tax obligations.

The basic colonial encounter involved a colonizing power and colonized locals. Some colonial situations were more complex, involving a third element: settlers of nonlocal stock originating in an ethnos, or nation, different than that with which the colonizer was identified. Two prominent examples from the annals of the British Empire are the French inhabitants of Nouvelle France after France ceded it to the British in 1763, and the Dutch inhabitants of the Cape Colony after the British conquest of 1806. The British typically permitted such settler populations to retain at least parts of the laws to which they were accustomed, which laws were often based on the laws of the settlers' jurisdiction of origin. As regards settler use of English law, the English sometimes provided for the application of parts of it to non-British settlers, while blocking such settlers' attempts to use other parts. The part of English law most commonly applied to non-British colonial subjects, both settlers and natives, was commercial law, in order to facilitate commerce between different parts of the Empire. The parts least commonly applied to such inhabitants were family law, land law, and the law of inheritance.

Shortly after the beginning of his reign in 1201, Duke Henry I the Bearded of Silesia confirmed the past acquisitions of two major Cistercian monasteries in his province—the houses of Lubiąż and Trzebnica—with three long charters in which he described and explained the past transfers of individual holdings to the abbeys, clarified doubts and controversies about them, and added endowment to the estates of each monastery. Both communities were endowed with wealthy areas of settlement and revenue that had prior to the creation of their estates been held under knightly, ducal, and ecclesiastical lordship.

Lindsay Farmer's argument that, in seeking to replace the common law with legislation, and in striving for a novel systematization of the relationship between civil and penal law, the criminal law commissioners of 1833-45 transformed the understanding of criminal law in relation to government is a powerful one. It is to some degree an inferential argument, positing that a reading of Bentham's theory of legislation allows us to understand the commissioners' work better, since Bentham “makes explicit many of the broader political assumptions that guided the commissioners and allows us to understand the precise nature of their codification project.” It is worth asking therefore how far the commissioners were informed by Benthamic ideas and what they understood their task to be.

The “who” of a lawsuit, who can sue and who can be sued, has long been a fundamental issue of process. Lengthy discussions of the issue are found in Roman law texts of eighteen centuries ago and in succeeding centuries in texts influenced by Roman law. In Roman law texts, the “who” of a lawsuit was discussed in the same context and, most importantly, with the same seeming concern as the fundamental issues of whether the court had authority over the parties and whether the court had competence over the subject matter. The same is true for many of the texts influenced by Roman law.

In February 1915, non-citizen teachers throughout California abruptly learned that they would soon lose their jobs when state officials announced that local and county governments were required to enforce a long-forgotten anti-alien public employment law. In response, one Canadian immigrant teacher, Katharine Short, launched a diplomatic, legal, political, and public relations campaign against the policy. Earning the support of powerful (Anglo-)Canadian nationalists in wartime and a favorable depiction in California news coverage as a “practically American” Canadian woman, Short’s efforts culminated in an exemption for most immigrant teachers from the state’s nativist public employment policies. This article recovers, recounts, and contextualizes the California Alien Teachers Controversy of 1915 at the center of transformations in the political development, law, and politics of American citizenship and citizenship rights from the late-nineteenth to mid-twentieth centuries. It testifies to the growing power and powers of state governments to shape immigrants' lives and livelihoods via alienage law long into the mid-twentieth century, the rhetorical strength and courtroom limits of “right to contract” arguments in the context of anti-alien hiring and licensure disputes, and the disparate impact of these nativist laws on immigrants owing to inequalities of race, gender, and class and how those inequalities shaped the less-than-inclusive aims and strategies of Katharine Short in her campaign to alter the state's nativist public employment policies.

For almost a month in 1877, the Russian public was engrossed in one of the largest nonpolitical trials in the history of Russian law. An alleged criminal organization dubbed the “Jacks of Hearts Club” (Klub chervonnykh valetov) involved 48 defendants in addition to several who had died or managed to escape, as well as more than 300 witnesses. The charges included dozens of episodes of fraud and forgery committed between 1866 and 1875, in addition to one murder and one count of sacrilege. Even more sensational was the fact that the group of defendants belonged to “respectable” society, among them wealthy merchants, landowning nobles, and even a member of the aristocratic Dolgorukov family. In the Russian popular lexicon, a “Jack of Hearts” became enduring shorthand for a personable young swindler of upper-class origins. Over the years, the story grew in the telling, with some of the legends travelling from author to author, such as the story of Pavel Speier, the alleged leader of the club who supposedly tricked a naïve English tourist into “buying” the official residence of the Moscow governor general on Tverskaia Street.

On May 11, 1938, two New Orleans policemen entered the Astoria Restaurant, marched to the kitchen, and approached Loyd D. T. Washington, a 41-year-old African American cook. They informed Washington that they would be taking him to the First Precinct station for questioning, although they assured the cook that he need not change his clothes and “should be right back” to the “Negro restaurant,” where he had worked for 3 years. Immediately after arriving at the station house, police officers “surrounded” Washington, showed him a photograph of a man, and announced that he had killed a white man in Yazoo City, Mississippi, 20 years earlier. When Washington insisted that he did not know the man in the photograph, that he had never been to (or even heard of) Yazoo City, and that he had been in the army at the time of the murder, the law enforcers confined him in a cell, although they had no warrant for his arrest and did not charge him with any crime. The following day, a detective brought him to the “show-up room” in the precinct house, where he continued the interrogation and, according to Washington, “tried to make me sign papers stating that I had killed a white man” in Mississippi. As every African American New Orleanian knew, the show-up (or line-up) room was the setting where detectives tortured suspects and extracted confessions. “You know you killed him, Nigger,” the detective roared. Washington, however, refused to confess, and the detective began punching him in the face, knocking out five of his teeth. After Washington crumbled to the floor, the detective repeatedly kicked him and broke one of his ribs. The beating continued for an hour, until other policemen restrained the detective, saying “give him a chance to confess and if he doesn't you may start again.” But Washington did not confess, and the violent interrogation began anew. A short time later, another police officer interrupted the detective, telling him “do not kill this man in here, after all he is wanted in Yazoo City.” Bloodied and writhing in pain, Washington asked to contact his family, but the request was ignored. Because he had not been formally charged with a crime, New Orleans law enforcers believed that Washington had no constitutional protection again self-incrimination or coercive interrogation and no right to an arraignment or bail, and they had no obligation to contact his relatives or to provide medical care for him.

In “Mind of a Moral Agent,” Susanna Blumenthal elegantly limns the rise and partial fall of the common sense theory of moral responsibility in American law. As Blumenthal convincingly describes it, the problem for early American jurists was nothing less than to solve the paradox of determinism and free will. How can the law declare someone morally culpable unless we are free to choose our own ends?

This article, part of the forum “The Everyday Materials of Colonial Legal Spaces,” analyzes how Spanish law intersected with longue-durée Indigenous histories to pattern performative judicial violence in disputes over boundary lands separating Indigenous communities. During the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries when population growth and expansion and commercialization of the livestock industry put pressure on Indigenous lands, Native judicial officers used their coercive power and symbols of judicial authority to physically enter boundary lands and shape the course of legal disputes. By combining legal and extralegal procedures, Native officials developed customary patterns of judicial practice and performance proper to their own jurisdiction in which objects invested with political, sacred, and quotidian meaning figured centrally. Staffs of office and whips wielded by Native authorities as emblems of Indian administrative and legal jurisdiction represented one category of the everyday materials of law. Clothing, farming implements, and livestock afforded other tools with which Indigenous farmers and authorities made legal claims. When reading land disputes alongside criminal cases of land invasions across Oaxaca’s judicial archives, it becomes clear that Native officials and farmers used these objects to struggle over territory and authority in cycles of litigation, land titling or contracts of joint-possession, and violence that often endured for decades or centuries, forming an enduring facet of agrarian custom in the region.

I am glad that the Review has provided a Forum for advancing discussion of the “rapidly evolving field of Second Amendment scholarship,” as Richard Uviller and William Merkel so aptly describe it. The field is evolving so rapidly, in fact, that I had no chance to consult their excellent book on the subject when writing this article. Having now had the luxury—and great benefit—of reading it in preparing my reply to their comments, I can only cheer them on for the way that book and their remarks in the Forum advance the common goals we seek: to replace an ahistorical quotation-hunting with a meticulous examination of “the collateral expressions of the founders and their contemporaries to find the most likely purposes and assumptions underlying the text” of the Second Amendment.

The jurists of the classical period of Roman private law (50 B.C.—250 A.D.) encountered a variety of legal problems arising from the activity of those employed in the city's building industry. This segment of the Roman economy was prosperous and busy. Yet, despite the Romans' zeal for construction, a detailed description of how building projects were organized has proved illusive. This is the result of two factors. First, the Romans, unlike the Greeks, tended not to preserve on stone details about the actual construction of their edifices. A second, more general cause is found in the nature of construction as an enterprise. Although building furnishes a basic need, the demand for it is episodic and unstable. Forces of labor and supplies of materials are procured in response to specific commissions. In addition, there are many possible ways in which these productive forces can be organized, and building is typically characterized by a high degree of diversity in regard to methods of organization. For these reasons, builders and building have not been particularly accessible topics for researchers. It is only in the juristic sources that we get a relatively full picture of the activities of builders at Rome.

In 1788, a Dutch-born minister in upstate New York named Lambertus De Ronde translated the U.S. Constitution into Dutch. Five years later, a legal scholar in the Netherlands, Gerhard Dumbar, produced another Dutch translation of the U.S. Constitution. De Ronde's translation was printed on at least two separate occasions in 1788, and scores of editorial changes between the two printings demonstrate that De Ronde was working to make the text appealing and understandable to his audience. Dumbar, however, disparaged De Ronde's translation for its amateurish character. Dumbar claimed, furthermore, that a legal education, and not experience in an American context, was essential for understanding the Constitution. In an analysis of the context and language of these two early Dutch translations of the Constitution, this article contributes new perspectives on the transnational character and influence of the U.S. Constitution. This article argues that for the Dutch in New York, debates about ratification and interpretation of the U.S. Constitution, were as much concerned with local character and transnational currents as with national politics.

One of the most important legacies of the American Civil War, not just in the re-united States of America but also in the nineteenth and twentieth century world, were the new laws of war that the conflict introduced. “Lieber's Code,” named after the man who authored it for the Lincoln administration, was a set of instructions written and issued in April 1863 to govern the conduct of “the armies of the United States in the field.” It became a template for all subsequent codes, including the Hague and Geneva conventions. Widely understood as a radical revision of the laws of war and a complete break with the Enlightenment tradition, the code, like the war that gave rise to it, reflected the new post-Napoleonic age of “people's wars.” As such, it pointed forward, if not as the expression of the first total war, then at least as an expression of the first modern one, with all the blurring of boundaries that involved.

Crucial to the implementation of the War Relocation Authority's (WRA) regulations of its detention camps for the uprooted Japanese American community of the West Coast were the WRA “project attorneys,” white lawyers stationed in the camps who gave legal advice to administrators and internees alike. These lawyers left behind a voluminous correspondence that opens a new window on the WRA's relationship with its prisoners, a relationship heretofore understood as encompassing coercion on one side and either compliance or resistance on the other. This article uses the voluminous correspondence of the project attorney at the Heart Mountain Relocation Center in Wyoming as a new lens for viewing the regulatory relationship between the WRA and the imprisoned community. It focuses on three of the many matters about which the project attorney gave advice: the design of the camp's community government, its criminal justice system, and its business enterprises. Evidence from this one law office suggests that on many key issues, the relationship between the WRA and the internees was marked not so much by coercion as by reciprocal accommodation, with each taking account of some of the preferences of the other. While the data are from just one of the ten WRA camps, they suggest a need to reconsider our understanding of how this American system of racial imprisonment operated.

A conscientious reading of the rich historical literature on the American Legal Realist movement would provide no suggestion that any of the academic writers and other commentators in that movement ever gave the slightest attention to international law.1 It is entirely understandable that the Realists should be remembered as having been concerned exclusively with the analysis and reform of domestic jurisprudence and legal process; for there was only one exception, in this regard, and this was the Stanford law professor Joseph Walter Bingham. Bingham (1878-1973) is a figure who has been almost entirely neglected by historians of legal thought.2 And yet he was one of the earliest American legal commentators to promote an iconoclastic, reformist approach to the common law and American constitutional law. His writings in the 1910s and 1920s, as will be discussed further here, were important early-day contributions to the development of what would become the central canon of Legal Realism. His uniqueness among the Realists rests in the fact that he would go on to play a prominent part in contending for a basic reform in international law during the decades that followed.

This article surveys the debate between “progressives” and “revisionists” about the Constitution and constitutional interpretation during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Contemporary revisionist scholarship assumes that its victory over progressive scholarship is complete. The article suggests otherwise. First, it summarizes the revisionists’ achievements. Second, in an attempt to improve the quality of the debate, it maintains that “revisionist” and “progressive” legal historians undermine their cases by using words like “progressive,” “Gilded Age,” and “Jacksonian,” and that “revisionist” is not an enlightening term, either. Third, it contends that revisionists have made straw men out of the progressives, whose diversity and contributions they ignore, and that they have shown a lack of empathy for the circumstances facing the progressives. At considerable risk, progressives called attention to the relevance of political calculation, economic self-interest, and biography to understanding the Constitution, constitutional interpretation, and judicial power. The article also observes that revisionists have not yet won the day and that there are still “progressive” holdouts in the legal academy and history departments. Finally, it argues that like the work of “revisionists,” the scholarship of the “progressives”—particularly if we rechristen both—still has something to teach us and that it is time to abandon the familiar dialectic of thesis and antithesis and turn to synthesis.