The dependence of colonization on police was a core feature both of settler colonies and of colonial dependencies, from the middle of the nineteenth century to the post–World War I decline of the British Empire. During this long century the functions and structures of colonial police were many and varied. We now know a good deal of their history and of their contribution to Empire. Much remains to be told of the slow processes of policing reform and especially of the politics of key events that shaped—and impeded—emerging models of accountability. In that process we see the influence of key episodes in which singular events are escalated into major political conflicts, of national and international dimension. In this article we examine one such event, the death in 1933 of an Aboriginal woman in the Gulf Country of Australia's Northern Territory, and the subsequent prosecution of a policeman over her death. Such a rare event as prosecution of police for violence against indigenous people demands contextual explanation as well as estimation of the limits on legal accountability for such actions.

On June 27, 1940, Vera Tiscenko, a Polish actress formerly with the Moscow Arts Theatre, “of her own free will and after due deliberation” embraced the Islamic faith at the Nakoda Mosque at 19 Chowringee Road, Calcutta. Vera Tiscenko's journey from Moscow to colonial Calcutta was a long and tortuous one. Fleeing the country after the revolution, Vera settled in Berlin where she married a Russian émigré, Eugene Tiscenko. Over the next few years they moved across Europe from Nazi Berlin to civil war Spain and finally settled in Mussolini's Rome, where Vera gave birth to a son, Oleg. In 1938, Eugene Tiscenko went to Edinburgh to qualify for a British medical degree, while Vera and her son left Rome for Calcutta after being invited by Professor Shahid Suhrawardy, her former director at the Moscow Arts Theatre. The reason for the separation between the couple remains unclear. Chief Justice Derbyshire was to speculate that Eugene Tiscenko might have intended to settle somewhere in British India after qualifying, but Vera herself admitted that the marriage had been unhappy. Finding “relief and solace in the teachings of Islam,” she cabled her husband the news of her conversion and requested that he accept the Islamic faith. Eugene Tiscenko replied that his religious convictions were unshakable and “refused absolutely” to change his faith.

The Philadelphia convention of 1787 looms enormous in many accounts of U.S. constitutional history, serving as the set piece in which various and muddled worldviews, theories, interests, and allegiances gelled into a coherent science and structure of politics. The Convention thus becomes time zero in the chronology of U.S. political and constitutional development, a finite and forward-looking first moment defining, for good or ill, the terms according which subsequent debates regarding the nature of U S. government would be conducted.

In 1789 James Madison and Thomas Jefferson engaged in one of their many exchanges on constitutionalism. As with other Jeffersonian flights of philosophy, the younger Madison had to rein in the excesses of his senior partner and collaborator. The issue at hand was Jefferson's famous opinion “that the earth belongs in usufruct to the living.” So confident was Jefferson in the truth of this idea that he called it “self-evident.” Their exchange has received insightful and comprehensive analysis, which needs no revisiting here. Adrienne Koch, whose treatment of this “intellectual reciprocity” is among our most careful, sees it as revealing the essence of the two men, pitting the “more speculative and more daring” Jefferson against “the more astute politician” Madison.

Postcolonial perspectives on India's past have tended to focus on representations, which served the purpose of colonial domination. The view, for instance, that Indian society is fundamentally constituted by caste or religion legitimated the supposedly secular or neutral system of governance introduced by the British. Building upon Edward Said's Orientalism (1978), scholars have suggested that some of our most widely held assumptions about Indian society were more rooted in an imperial worldview than in real social experiences of Indians. The attempt of colonial administrators to understand and govern India through the study of ancient texts formed the basis of an Indian variety of Orientalism. How colonial courts deployed this text-based knowledge in relation to the actual practices of religious “communities” is the central focus of this essay.

World War I was a pivotal event for U.S. political and economic development, particularly in the realm of public finance. For it was during the war that the federal government ended its traditional reliance on regressive import duties and excise taxes as principal sources of revenue and began a modern era of fiscal governance, one based primarily on the direct and progressive taxation of personal and corporate income. The wartime tax regime, as the historian David M. Kennedy has observed, “occasioned a fiscal revolution in the United States.”

It was a time of greenbacks, goldbugs, and grangers; milquetoast mugwumps; single-taxers, socialists, standpatters, and the Sugar Trust. Calls for more taxes filled the air. Populist Mary Lease urged Americans to “raise less corn and more hell,” and even Andrew Carnegie piously endorsed an estate tax “by which the State marks its condemnation of the selfish millionaire's unworthy life.” All that hell-raising pushed an income tax through Congress in 1894, but a year later, the Supreme Court granted relief to Charles Pollock, a ten-share stockholder in the Farmers' Loan and Trust Company, leaving Justice Henry Brown to moan in dissent that “the decision involve[d] nothing less than the surrender of the taxing power to the moneyed class.” The Populist Party demanded that “[t]he power of government—in other words, of the people—should be expanded … to the end that oppression, injustice, and poverty shall eventually cease in the land.” By the summer of 1914, oppression, injustice, and poverty were still around, but the Constitution had a Sixteenth Amendment, and the power to collect corporate excise and personal income taxes rested in the hands of the Treasury Department. But still, with all that hell-raising, I wouldn't wanted to work there.

Colonialism was always an uncertain process. Even the imposition of colonial law was fraught with incomplete application, resistance, and the reinterpretation of European categories in indigenous terms. Magistrates often operated with fragmentary and inaccurate understandings of local cultural practices and rules, seeking to rectify this disadvantage by relying on local experts yet unable to adjust their decisions according to the class and kin interests of these experts. Staffing was often limited, local linguistic knowledge lacking, and a sociological understanding of how custom operated according to social status and shared knowledge of individuals often missing. Colonial officials faced the problem of limited capacity and large populations to manage and govern. Indeed, recognition of distinct regimes of personal law was one solution to the dilemma of the need to control populations at the lowest possible cost. Even though retrospective histories tend to emphasize the transformative power of colonial law, as this collection shows so well, at the time the practices were far more ambiguously linked to the power to change. Instead, they created spaces for contestation and agency. However, these wonderfully detailed and careful studies also show that despite creative uses of the courts, women often did not succeed in legally challenging the marriages that bound them.

James Madison was a “law student or demi-lawyer,” Mary Sarah Bilder writes, with misgivings about his own role in the lawyers' world that he helped bring into being under the new federal Constitution. If Madison was the Constitution's “father,” his offspring seemed somewhat misbegotten. Structurally and ideologically the new regime was “federalist,” Alison LaCroix explains, with courts and lawyers “mediating among multiple levels of government” that retained a significant degree of separation and autonomy. But this was just what Madison had hoped to avoid. The demi-lawyer instead pushed hard for a “republican remedy” for the Confederation's pathologies, a structural solution to the centrifugal tendencies that jeopardized union and republican government. His proposed federal veto and council of revision would have constituted a “republican prerogative, via Congress” to check recalcitrant state legislatures. In effect, LaCroix concludes, Madison “envisioned the legislatures”—state and federal—“operating almost as a single system—a compound legislature comprising inferior and superior bodies.” Convinced by deep study and hard experience that federations must fail, the Madison who promoted the Virginia Plan was an ultranationalist, or anti-federalist.

Ajay Mehrotra has afforded us an opportunity to better appreciate and understand the development of state capacity in modern U.S. history. With detailed research findings and a well-organized narrative, he focuses on the elaboration of revenue generation and management systems appropriate and adequate to the growing responsibilities and commitments of the national government in the early twentieth century. It is the burden of Mehrotra's argument that “bureaucratic professionals” were as important a part of the “fiscal revolution” in modern U.S. politics as were changing governmental structures and evolving events and contingencies. Using World War I as his case study, Mehrotra seeks to refine and extend the narrative of organizational change and the rise of the modern state in the United States.

One of the challenges in writing about the history of American law and political economy is determining the proper amount of historical context necessary to make sense of past institutional and organizational change. Where to begin and end a historical narrative and how much to include about the broader social, cultural, political, and economic conditions of a particular place and time are, of course, questions that accompany any attempt to reconstruct the past. How one addresses these issues invariably shapes the motives and intentions that can be ascribed to historical figures. In their eloquent and thoughtful comments, Christopher Capozzola and Michael Bernstein have urged me to think more carefully about these issues, about where my story begins and ends, about the broader social, political, and material circumstances that animated World War I state-building, and about the seemingly apolitical ideas and actions of the Treasury lawyers who are the center of “Lawyers, Guns, and Public Moneys.”