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Suppose that we simplify the court's Eighth Amendment jurisprudence greatly and pretend that a "national consensus" against a certain type of punishment exists when 10 states or fewer authorize that punishment and not otherwise; and that when a national consensus against a punishment comes into existence, the courts will strike down that punishment in any remaining state that continues to use it or any state that introduces it.
This rule acts as a ratchet. When a punishment falls to the 10-state threshold, it ceases to be permissible. If people in the various states change their minds and come to believe that the punishment is justified, legislatures will not be able to enact the punishment without violating the Constitution. It seems likely that they will therefore not bother, and so a new consensus in the other direction cannot get started. Perhaps, in the rare instances when a national consensus will develop quickly, dozens of states will enact the law even though it violates the Constitution, and courts will recognize a change in the consensus. But this is likely to be rare, and it loads the dice against national consensuses developing in favor of harsher punishments.
If the Eighth Amendment is just about national consensus or some such thing, why can't a consensus emerge in favor of a punishment that previously had been barred? The dissent in Kennedy v. Louisiana makes this argument, which is acknowledged but rejected (without any attempt at justification, as far as I can tell) by the majority.
Is there any justification in political, constitutional, or moral theory for such a ratchet? I don't see one. There is an old, simple-minded Whig view that human history reflects progressive moral development, and perhaps the idea is that courts can prevent temporary backsliding caused by public overreaction to ephemeral events—and such rhetoric about society "maturing" can be found in Justice Kennedy's majority opinion. But this view took a hit in the 1930s and has never recovered. And even if it were correct, a society might "mature" by introducing new harsh punishments against behavior—such as spousal and child abuse, or, say, honor killings of daughters—that earlier generations found unobjectionable. Current Eighth Amendment jurisprudence, or at least the logic behind it, would block such moral evolution.
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Diane's point is well-taken: If the evidence is tainted, it's tainted for purposes of conviction, as well as for sentencing, and it's just as tainted if the defendant gets a long prison sentence as it is if he gets a lethal injection. If the conviction is "clean," by contrast, it's clean irrespective of the nature of the sentence he receives.
Yet I think Emily is onto something anyway when she says that she doesn't "want this country to be a place where people are sentenced to die based on a prosecution that is tainted by torture testimony." Death, after all, is different in many ways, some legal, some prudential. I'm willing, for example, to see a conviction sustained on a weaker factual record than the record on which I'm willing to see a capital sentence carried out—notwithstanding the fact that as a purely legal matter, the evidentiary threshold is the same: proof beyond a reasonable doubt.
That's why I've been cheered at times when governors (and President Clinton once) commuted death sentences to life in prison based on residual doubts about the integrity of a trial record but did not act against the conviction itself. Something similar may be at work here. The stakes in the MCA's softening of the traditional rules of evidence are particularly high in light of the availability of capital punishment in this case. Put another way, I think many people would not argue against conviction of someone who had been waterboarded upon capture if the government can prove his culpability without the use of tainted evidence. Many more, I suspect, would argue in principle against his execution, even if the evidence is clean.
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Emily’s brief post raises several fascinating questions, which seem to me to warrant fleshing out. The key sentence is the following: “if the government executes these men [the 9/11 plotters] after the coercive interrogation (torture) some of them experienced and all the failings of the this-ride-only military tribunals set up to try them, the damage Guantanamo has done to the reputation of our justice system will be raised by a power of ten.” But that specter, she writes may concentrate the mind. So “maybe the threat of the death penalty is the best hope that they will get some semblance of real due process.”
So here are my questions—to Emily and to all:
1) Whatever people think of the death penalty, should the circumstances of these detainees’ interrogation ameliorate their sentences? I can see why we would want to suppress evidence obtained under duress. I’m not sure I see why being coercively interrogated—even tortured—lessens one's culpability for September 11, assuming that culpability can be proven without relying on evidence obtained improperly.
2) Are we really so confident that these tribunals are incapable of delivering a semblance of real due process? Are they really that different from other ad hoc tribunals countries have set up to deal with extraordinary international criminal trials? Nuremberg, after all, was a this-ride-only military tribunal and we think of it as a triumph of international justice. Do we really think fair trials are impossible under the Military Commissions Act and, if so, why?
3) What would “real due process” look like for these defendants at this time?
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Like Ben and Eric, I felt a certain appreciation for Mukasey's odd riff about how he "kind of hope[s]" the 9/11 plotters don't get the death penalty because they're like masochists who want it, which would make the US a sadist in doling it out. First of all, he's right. And also, if the government executes these men after the coercive interrogation (torture) some of them experienced and all the failings of the this-ride-only military tribunals set up to try them, the damage Guantanamo has done to the reputation of our justice system will be raised by a power of ten. I wonder, though, if in some upside-down way it's useful that the government is seeking the death penalty. Nothing concentrates the mind like a killing, including, perhaps, the minds of the military appointees and eventually (one hopes) Supreme Court justices who would have to allow these executions to take place. So maybe the threat of the death penalty is the best hope that they will get some semblance of real due process. Distressing as that is, it's better than the alternative.
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