Introduction

Cardozo Law Review has, for the first time, collected all of the articles about the criminal legal system in Volume 42 into one issue.1 I am thrilled to have the opportunity to frame this issue with some thoughts on criminal legal scholarship.

In the summer of 2020, the United States saw the largest and most sustained protests against police violence in its history.2 Comfortable, White America, like it or not, was forced to bear witness to the centuries-long pain policing has inflicted on Black and Brown America: the literal knee on George Floyd’s neck a too-apt metaphor for the choking fear the specter of police violence imposes on marginalized communities.3

Lost, though, in the ongoing conversation about police violence, is the vast network of laws, norms, and people who encourage, justify, and reward such violence. Yet, it should be widely recognized that police violence is simply the most visible arm of a system that cages, tortures, and dehumanizes millions of our fellow citizens.4 To say, as I will, that prosecutors, legislators, judges, jailors, prison guards, parole officers, and the average non-criminal-justice-involved person are also implicated in Mr. Floyd’s death may seem a provocation, but it is a necessary one if we are to truly reckon with the violence the system metes out to the poor and to people of color.

Our elected legislators decided that Floyd’s alleged crime, passing a counterfeit twenty-dollar bill, was an act worthy of arrest, prosecution, and incarceration.5 Prosecutors have sent people to jail or prison thousands upon thousands of times for minor crimes such as this.6 Judges have approved the plea deals that send so many to prison for so long.7 Prison guards make their living off of caging and dehumanizing their fellow human beings.8 Parole officers report formerly incarcerated people for miniscule violations that send them back to jail or prison.9 And many members of the public call the police in situations where no one was threatened with harm,10 despite incontrovertible evidence that encounters with the police are damaging (though rarely deadly).11 All of these actors have contributed to the conditions that put Mr. Floyd under Derek Chauvin’s knee. What is more, they have encouraged, in the aggregate, untold, smaller violence and harm to so many poor people of color in the country.12 Many of whom sit, caged, right now.

These realities have led to a renewed call, from some legal scholars, for abolition—to tear down the current system and rebuild it without the prison industrial complex.13 These scholars tend to focus on broad, structural change, and are skeptical of solutions that call for small scale reform or reform that shores up the criminal legal system as a whole. Other legal scholars, though aware that the criminal legal system is an interconnected web rather than a set of fixed and separate points, believe that tweaking certain specific aspects of the system will have positive ripple effects.14 The articles in this issue represent the best of both of these kinds of scholarship.

One salient issue that has arisen among those who long for large-scale change is the question of whether certain small-scale reforms actually harm, rather than help, the cause of radical decarceration. If a reform tends to shore up, or legitimize, the criminal legal system or increase its reach, such a “reformist reform” may be seen as a net negative.15 This debate between “reformist reforms” and “abolitionist reforms” is on the rise in conversations among criminal legal scholars. And this is a discussion that should be heeded by anyone interested in seeing her prescription for change or her contribution to the scholarly literature make a mark.

In the rest of this Introduction, I want to trace this idea, of the possible problem with “reformist reforms,” by exploring one particularly prevalent critique of the criminal legal system—its lack of transparency. This kind of critique, and the arguments for more information that often accompany it, can be both an asset to and a distraction from radical change. It is an asset in that it surfaces the way the criminal legal system has been allowed to bloat and to hide its grossest practices from the public. It is a distraction in that it can be confused for achieving actual change to the system, when all transparency does is expose information. It can be a distraction in that too many scholars and advocates focus only on gathering more information about a system that has been shown for decades to be deeply broken, and recently irrevocably so. Moreover, system actors, such as the police, can use their transparency as a way to, in fact, obscure larger abuses and refusals to make systemic changes.

The Articles in this volume do the important work of uncovering dark places in the criminal legal system in a number of different settings. In Law Enforcement Perspectives on Public Access to Misconduct Records, Moran and Hodge discuss the lack of data surrounding the issue of transparency in police misconduct records, adding a new element to this discussion by providing data based on interviews with police themselves regarding law enforcement beliefs about misconduct transparency.16 In The Paradox of Criminal History, Fish uncovers the undue influence a person’s criminal history has on collateral consequences—such as immigration status—when judges rely on these histories without full information,17 and, in Certifying Second Chances, Suvall laments the information and access asymmetries that make it difficult for those most at need to take advantage of the reintegration programs designed to create second chances for formerly incarcerated people.18 In The Shadow Bargainers, Wright, Roberts, and Wilkinson conduct their own qualitative research to open up the black box of plea negotiations, which, despite essentially being the way criminal charges are resolved, remain undertheorized, haphazard, and full of foolish disparities.19 Through these articles, we can see the way a lack of transparency from, or perhaps put better, information asymmetry within, the criminal legal system can wreak havoc on the life of a person: a worse plea outcome,20 the inability to challenge an officer testifying at a suppression hearing or to easily access records for civil lawsuits against police,21 the deportation consequences of a reduced charge,22 and the labyrinthian process of clearing one’s record after serving a prison or jail sentence.23

The value of information and of surfacing opacity in the criminal legal system is clear and is rightly celebrated.24 The articles I mention above do this good work, as well as add much more to our conversation on various aspects of the criminal legal system. On the other hand, I see some real and underappreciated downsides to legal scholarship’s many transparency critiques of the criminal legal system. My criticism does not necessarily apply to any or all of the pieces here, but, rather, raises broader concerns about the value of transparency in the criminal legal system25 and about the functions of criminal legal scholarship itself.26 First, the proposed solutions to many transparency problems are necessarily calls for more transparency. As I, and others, have noted elsewhere, transparency may be a positive instrumental goal, but it is never an end in and of itself.27 Thus, scholarship that revolves around simply calling for more transparency without actually showing how that transparency will contribute to making change, or that claim transparency will make change when there is good reason to believe it will not, can lead to unproductive and revolving conversations in the scholarly world, and allow criminal legal system actors to claim that they have made reform attempts when all they have done is unleashed information. One can see this very clearly in the world of policing. Transparency is one of the favorite buzzwords of police chiefs around the country and has been for many years. Yet this transparency has rarely led to any actual changes in the way overpoliced communities experience law enforcement or the rate at which racial disparities continue to infect stops, searches, and arrests.28

Second, transparency may benefit those who are actually tied up in the criminal legal system, but, often, its benefits are overstated and risk obscuring more direct action.29 Indeed, the groups who most often clamor for more transparency are academics and the media, because these are the groups that can make most direct use of the data through study or investigation. Of course, these groups can use information to make change or to influence those who do, but the notion that transparency is a solution to real-world criminal legal problems is, I think, overstated. For example, one major reform suggestion for the police, from scholars and journalists, is to make their actions more transparent across numerous axes, from policy setting to the punishment of officers who violate rules and everything in between.30 The obsessive focus on police transparency has been made abundantly clear in New York in the last several months, where the main legislative response to the Floyd protests was a successful push to ensure that police disciplinary records are made public, rather than protected as private employment records.31 This is just one example of the tremendous time and energy scholars and advocates put into transparency-related solutions to police brutality.32 And, while there is certainly something to be gained from publicizing, cataloguing, and studying police disciplinary records,33 such transparency solutions often become self-fulfilling. Police departments, once they are forced or choose to adopt transparency, maintain that they are “reformed,” while the ills transparency should reveal, such as systemic racism, go unaddressed.34 Instead, making use of the overwhelming information we already have about bad practices in police departments to advocate for real and lasting change, such as defunding police,35 reducing police contact with citizens,36 and giving power over policing to those most affected by it,37 would seem much more useful than further calls for information. As I will note below, there is no rule that says scholars should be writing to change the criminal legal system for those who are impacted, but, as most scholars claim to be doing just that—critiquing the harshness of the system—it is worth noting that their transparency-related solutions often do little to move the ball forward on that front.

Indeed, in a third way, a focus on transparency can reify endemic biases and shortcomings in the criminal legal system by accepting, without interrogating, who has power in the criminal legal system, why it is structured as it is, and reinforcing binaries. As Anna Roberts shows cogently in her article in this issue, Victims, Right?, even the terms we casually use to describe those involved in the system can perpetuate problematic assumptions. For example, the use of the word “victim” rather than alleged victim, a term commonly employed at the very start of an investigation, suggests that there must be a “perpetrator” rather than an “alleged perpetrator,” semantically skewing the process against an accused person before any burden of proof has been tested.38 Such language will be all over the police reports, prosecutorial records, charging data, grand jury minutes, and plea negotiations that scholars desire be made public. Rather than helping to uncover a problem in the system then, in a case such as this, transparency serves only to legitimize a perversion of justice.39

Finally, the question of transparency in criminal law gets at another debate, one that simmers beneath the surface of much recent criminal legal scholarship: how much is legal scholarship simply a quest for knowledge and understanding, and how much is it a call to action, a prescription for change, an act of protest against an unfair status quo, or a vision for a better legal future? Many, if not most, law review articles aim to produce knowledge, to solve a doctrinal puzzle, to recategorize a legal phenomenon, or, through empirics, to confirm assumptions or anecdotal realities. But some scholars have begun to ask questions about this style of writing.40 The question of what scholarship should uncover is just beneath the one I have posed here of how far transparency gets us in the criminal legal system. A question that I often struggle with is, when is the aggregate information we do have enough? Why do we need more information, to take an obvious example, and one unrelated to this issue, about the racial disparities inherent in the application of the death penalty to declare it hopelessly broken?41 Or, put another way, when will there be enough information to say either that this is an untenable punishment because of the way it perpetuates racism or to admit that we do not need more information, we just do not value racial equality enough to overcome our desire to maintain capital punishment? As a general matter, then, I am left to wonder how much more information do we need to know that the criminal legal system in this country is a failed experiment? How many statistical analyses, how many qualitative studies, how much data would be enough?

But these questions surface an underlying and current struggle in criminal legal scholarship and teaching: how much should the legal scholar strive to help implement her better vision of society? The concern that transparency is a revolving and increasingly marginal door to change in the system only matters if a vision of legal scholarship is aspirational.42 To many, legal scholarship may simply be about a quest for understanding or for surfacing dilemmas or problems within a system.43 These quests are at the root of the desire to collect data and to lament opacity. And that quest is, in many ways, the most natural one for an academic. Other scholars, in particular a recent movement in criminal law scholarship, have begun to suggest that it is a scholar’s responsibility to put forth a vision of the criminal legal system that demands change to the status quo, including the way academic scholarship and teaching work to maintain the structures and systems that have been known to cause so much harm to so many for so long.

These visions of scholarship are not necessarily mutually exclusive, but, like the idea of reformist reforms versus abolitionist reforms, they signal true differences of opinion among legal scholars about what our job is, what our scholarship does, and for whom we do it. These questions will certainly occupy me as I continue my work, and, perhaps, will provide an interesting lens upon which to view the five excellent pieces in this volume.


* Associate Professor of Law, Benjamin N. Cardozo School of Law. Thanks to Ciera Foreman and the editors of the Cardozo Law Review for inviting me to write this introduction and working with me to edit it.