Divergence and Convergence at the Intersection of Property and Contract – Article by Giuseppe Dari-Mattiacci & Carmine Guerriero

From Volume 92, Number 4 (May 2019)
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Divergence and Convergence at the Intersection of Property and Contract

Giuseppe Dari-Mattiacci[*] & Carmine Guerriero[†]

In this Article, we study rules that solve the conflict between the original owner and an innocent buyer of a stolen or embezzled good. These rules balance the protection of the original owner’s property and the buyer’s reliance on contractual exchange, thereby addressing a fundamental legal and economic trade-off. Our analysis is based on a unique, hand-collected dataset on the rules in force in 126 countries. Using this data, we document and explain two conflicting trends. There is a large amount of first-order divergence: both rules that apply to stolen goods and those that apply to embezzled goods vary widely across countries. Yet, there is also remarkable second-order convergence: virtually all legal systems protect the innocent buyer more strongly if the good was embezzled (rather than stolen) and if she purchased it in an open market, at an auction, or from a professional seller (as opposed to a private sale). We show that, while divergence is attributable to varying cultural values, convergence can be rationalized using a classic functional approach: these rules harmonize the owner’s incentives to protect property and the buyer’s incentives to inquire about title.

Introduction

Most legal systems around the world simultaneously advance two fundamental goals: the protection of property and the reliability of contractual exchange.[1] When stolen or embezzled personal property is sold to an innocent buyer, however, one of them needs to be prioritized over the other. This problem, which we call the “property-contract balance,”[2] arises because the thief or the embezzler commonly cannot be found or is insolvent. Therefore, we face the dilemma of either returning the property to the original owner—thereby frustrating the buyer’s contractual expectations—or upholding the transfer—thereby undermining the security of ownership.[3]

The rules addressing this issue—that is, good-faith purchase (“GFP”) rules—are as old as law itself. They can be found in the code of Hammurabi, the Talmud, Greek law, and Roman law, and Hindustani law, and they epitomize the pervasive phenomenon of transfers through (possibly unfaithful) intermediaries such as brokers, gallerists, middlemen, agents, and Internet platforms. Unauthorized agency, forged financial instruments, and double sales of personal or real property all raise analogous, GFP-like problems.[4]

The perplexing normative question of how such cases should be adjudicated is the object of an important and vast scholarship.[5] In this Article, we are concerned with the positive question of how such cases are adjudicated in different countries around the world, and if trends emerge, how such trends can be rationalized. In the analysis, we employ a unique dataset on the GFP rules in force in 126 countries around the world.[6]

To start with, we show that there is a large amount of first-order divergence across legal systems and quantify these differences using various indicators. GFP rules vary widely across countries, both for stolen and embezzled goods. This finding puts to rest a lingering debate in the literature, which has been traditionally divided in two camps: those who argue that GFP rules—and more generally private law provisions—vary,[7] as we show, and those who believe that they are rather uniform if one considers how such rules are applied in practice[8] (we account for this in our study).

Yet, we also show that there is remarkable second-order convergence—thereby vindicating both camps’ contentions—on how the protection of owners and buyers varies as a function of the mode of expropriation (theft versus embezzlement) and the context of the transfer (commercial versus private): virtually all legal systems in our dataset afford more protection to the innocent buyer if the good was embezzled rather than stolen, or if the purchase occurred in a commercial setting (we distinguish among public markets, auctions, and professional sellers, both for stolen and for embezzled goods) as opposed to a private sale. A fitting illustration is provided by the theft rule[9] versus the entrustment doctrine[10] in U.S. law: the owner prevails against a good-faith buyer of a stolen good, while the buyer prevails if the good was embezzled and she purchased it from a professional seller.

What explains these trends and how can they be reconciled? We use a combination of empirical analysis—which yields useful insights only if there is variation in the underlying data—and theoretical rationalization. We first address the question of divergence. In a previous study,[11] we developed a metric for cultural differences across countries—somewhat arbitrarily called self-reliance—capturing two distinct and important features of a country’s cultural endowment: respect for others and regard for hierarchy.[12] We show that a country’s degree of self-reliance accounts for divergence in GFP rules better than other measurable cross-country differences, including: random “disagreements,” the legal origins of a country’s current legal system, differences in political systems, and differences in religious beliefs.[13]

Our previous study dealt with stolen goods, but here, we exploit for the first time the other half of the data: embezzled goods.[14] Both analyses yield the same result: specific cultural traits are the root of comparative variation in private law rules and possibly beyond. In particular, we find that high levels of respect for others and low levels of regard for hierarchy—corresponding to a high degree of self-reliance—are associated with stronger owner protections. We demonstrate this contention using direct survey data on cultural traits and then repeat the analysis using the features of a country’s language as instrumental variables that embed cultural traits.[15] The survey data is contemporaneous to law and hence one cannot be sure there is a causal relationship rather than a simple correlation. Language, instead, does not often vary as a result of legal reforms and can be used as a stable indicator of hard-wired cultural traits.[16] To explore a possibly interesting avenue for future research, we also repeated our tests using world-wide data provided in the recent article, The Moral Machine Experiment[17] and spotted some interesting, though not very robust,[18] correlations between law and morality. More specifically, value systems that put more weight on an individual’s status and seniority are associated with stronger owner protection.

While our analysis yields insights into the causes of divergence, it also raises the question of how to rationalize (1) the relationship between legal divergence and cultural variation and (2) legal convergence. The literature has produced two main theoretical perspectives on the GFP problem. The ex anteincentives approach emphasizes that the level of protection that the law affords the original owner versus the buyer has an effect on the parties’ incentives to reduce the likelihood of potential conflicts. Namely, it dampens the owner’s incentives to protect her property and reinforces the buyer’s incentives to inquire about title.[19] Conversely, the ex postvalue approach suggests that, since something has already gone wrong, the contested good should simply be assigned to the party that surely, or absent reliable information on private valuations, values the good the most.[20]

Our analysis vindicates—again—both sides of the debate. We argue that the value approach provides a useful theoretical framework to understand divergence. The intuition is that while it is in principle more likely that the buyer attaches more value to the contested good—because high-value buyers self-select into the market—the importance of ex post reallocations is affected by the prevalence of theft—which in turn depends on the level of respect for others—and the efficiency of the enforcement system—which is a function of the level of regard for hierarchy.

In turn, we explain that the incentive approach sheds light on convergence. In a nutshell, stronger buyer protection emerges in contexts where the buyer has comparatively little control over the situation, and vice versa. In embezzlement cases, the owner can easily reduce the likelihood of expropriation by selecting a more trustworthy agent, which is not the case with theft cases. Similarly, in commercial transactions, there is a legitimate expectation that title has already been scrutinized, and hence, there is little the buyer can add.[21] In contrast, in private sales, the buyer’s effort pays off.[22]

We proceed as follows. In Part I we lay out the theoretical foundations of our approach, describe the data, and document convergence and divergence in GFP rules for stolen and embezzled goods. In Part II, we focus on divergence, show empirically that it is the product of cultural differences (in the degree of self-reliance), and compare our explanation with extant theories of comparative variation. In Part III, we address the issue of convergence and propose that, while the ex postvalue approach elucidates divergence, the ex anteincentives approach best accounts for convergence. The Appendix contains details of the analysis and of the data collection process, additional figures and regression tables.

I.  First-order divergence and second-order convergence

We focus on the regulation of the GFP for value without notice of personal property in the case of theft—in which the original owner was dispossessed by a thief—and embezzlement—in which the good was originally entrusted by the original owner to an (unfaithful) embezzler. Scholarship has traditionally been divided on the issue of divergence versus convergence in GFP rules.[23] Traditional comparative analyses were based on only a handful of countries, often covered only blackletter law, and did not generally offer a way to compare the rules in force in different countries in an unambiguous and measurable way.[24]

To overcome these challenges, we worked with 149 teams of property experts in 125 countries,[25] who generously provided their time and effort to this project. Their names and the list of countries covered in this study can be found in the Appendix. These experts are either law professors at leading universities in their respective countries or practicing lawyers associated with internationally renowned law firms, most of which are part of the Lex Mundi network. We collected the data by means of a questionnaire in which we asked the question, “[a]t what conditions does a good faith buyer acquire ownership of a stolen or embezzled good?” and investigated a number of complementary and boundary issues.[26]

We inquired about the specific rules that apply to GFP, the definition of good faith, whether good faith is presumed, whether compensation is due to the dispossessed good-faith buyer in case the owner successfully reclaims the good,[27] the general background rules of adverse possession, transfer of property and statutes of limitations, and which goods are excepted (such as cultural heritage) or registered (such as automobiles) and hence subject to a different set of rules. The data covers the period 1981–2011; there was no relevant reform over this period.[28] Importantly, experts were instructed to report the black-letter rules and how they are applied in practice by courts.

In order to obtain a comparable measure of the rules of interest in each jurisdiction, from the experts’ answers we distilled four variables indicating the number of years after which the good-faith buyer acquires title on the good in each of four situations: private sale, public market, auction, and professional seller. We repeated the same exercise twice: for stolen goods and for embezzled goods. (We focused on cases in which the good is immediately resold after theft or embezzlement.)[29] These variables provide a quantitative measure of the protection of the original owner versus the good-faith buyer in each case: the greater the number of years, the stronger the protection of the original owner, and conversely, the weaker the protection of the good-faith buyer.[30]

Table 1 provides an example of the most relevant of the variables in our dataset for four countries as compared to the United States, and of the extent of variation. Starting from the top row, Denmark provides the strongest degree of owner protection in the case of stolen goods purchased in a private sale. In this case the buyer never acquires title, hence the owner is fully protected. (The “theft rule” in the United States provides the same degree of protection.)[31] At the other end of the spectrum, Italy fully protects the buyer, who acquires title immediately. Turkey and France afford the owner an intermediate level of protection, recognizing the buyer’s title after five and three years, respectively. None of these four countries require the owner to pay compensation to the buyer when the owner reclaims a good that the buyer purchased privately (second row).

The third and fourth rows concern commercial transactions, in which the buyer purchased the good in a public market, at an auction, or from a professional seller.[32] While the main index of owner protection is the same as in private sales, Turkey and France require the owner to pay a compensatory sum to the buyer equal to the market price and the purchase price, respectively, conditional on the owner satisfying the time limitation.

Moving down the table, while France and Italy have uniform rules for stolen and embezzled goods, both Denmark and Turkey provide more protection to the buyer when the good was embezzled rather than stolen. The difference is particularly stark in Denmark, where owners are provided with full protection in the case of theft and buyers are provided with full protection in the case of embezzlement. (The buyer is fully protected in the United States under the entrustment doctrine if the embezzled good was purchased from a professional seller.)[33]

To illustrate one of the metrics we use, in Figure 1 we provide the same information as in the first row of Table 1 for all the countries in our dataset.[34] Each dot in the graph represents a different country. The position of the dot in the graph indicates the degree of owner protection for private sale; the degree of owner protection for embezzled goods is indicated on the horizontal axis and the degree of owner protection for stolen goods is indicated on the vertical axis.

The countries that can be found along the diagonal afford the same degree of protection for stolen and embezzled goods (like Italy and France). Countries above the diagonal afford more protection to the owner if the good was stolen as opposed to embezzled (like Denmark and Turkey) and, vice versa, countries below the diagonal afford less protection to the owner if the good was stolen as opposed to embezzled.

The figure shows a large degree of first-order divergence in GFP rules. Countries are widely spread out both along the vertical axis—implying variation in the GFP rules concerning theft—and along the horizontal axis—which refers to embezzlement. Next to the two polar cases (full owner protection and full buyer protection), many countries offer several different intermediate degrees of protection to the owner, with a particularly relevant amount of variation in the range from zero to ten years.

The figure also shows the extent of second-order convergence, which can be appreciated by comparing the rules for stolen goods with those for embezzled goods. With only a couple of exceptions, the vast majority of the countries in our dataset lie above the diagonal; that is, almost all countries afford more protection to the original owner when the good was stolen rather than embezzled.

Analogous results are obtained when one considers the case of theft versus embezzlement in commercial transactions in Figure 2,[35] and the case of private sales versus commercial transactions for both theft and embezzlement in Figure 3.

Table 2 shows the prevalence of buyer-compensation provisions. These provisions surface more often across commercial settings as compared to private transactions, which is consistent with a greater degree of buyer protection in commercial transactions. Likewise, with private transactions, buyer-compensation provisions are more common in cases of embezzlement as compared to theft. This is again in line with the fact that embezzlement is associated with more buyer protection. However, in commercial transactions the result is inverted: buyer-compensation provisions are more common with theft. Although apparently puzzling, this result can be rationalized by noting that, in all cases, the removal of the compensation requirement is accompanied by a shorter term of years. This suggests a substitution effect: the reason for the lower prevalence of compensation rules is the fact that the buyer effectively received more protection. In the following sections, we delve into the causes of divergence and convergence.

II.  Empirical analysis

A.  Theories of Comparative Variation and Their Empirical Implications

There are four main competing explanations for comparative variation that—given currently available data—lend themselves to empirical investigation. We introduce them in the following sections and emphasize their main empirical implications.

1.  Functional Equivalence

The functional-equivalence theory[36] holds that different legal systems most often implement the same solutions when addressing similar problems, owing to an underlying commonality of aims. This implies that, as emphasized by Professor Saul Levmore,[37] when differences in the laws of different countries are detected, they must be illusory (so that different rules actually reach the same outcome), accidental (rules differ for some random historical accident), or innocuous divergences of opinions (in cases when the optimal solution is unclear).

We can exclude the instances when differences in GFP rules are illusory. We asked country experts in our pool to report on how the black-letter law is applied in practice and to focus on the outcome of potential lawsuits. Differences remain and are substantial. If these differences are due to divergences in the way equally reasonable persons could assess the same issue, then they should not exhibit any particular pattern. If we detect a pattern in the data, we can then conclude that the functional-equivalence theory cannot explain divergence (while, as we will see in Part III, it may successfully explain convergence). Differences due to historical accidents may instead follow a pattern due, for instance, to colonization or transplantation dynamics. We discuss this issue in Section II.A.3.

2.  Culture

Countries differ sharply in terms of dominant cultural values. In turn, cultural differences may result in differences in the law.[38] Culture can be “measured” in various ways. Direct measurements are provided by questionnaires administered through world-wide surveys.[39] The problem with direct measurements of cultural differences is that they are contemporaneous to law and hence it is hard to determine whether the relationship is causal. Therefore, to inquire about the cause of comparative variation, one needs to look deeper and identify cultural traits in a way that is unlikely to be the product of private law rules or some hidden common cause.

Language provides a relatively stable measure of deep cultural traits that—controlling for colonization, which codetermined law and language in many former colonies—is unlikely to be affected by private law. More specifically, pronoun usage embeds the way in which native speakers of a certain language relate to each other.[40] On the one hand, some languages allow the speaker to drop the first-person pronoun. This rule de-emphasizes the individual in a conversation and is empirically associated with lower levels of trust and respect for others.[41] On the other hand, some languages require the speaker to choose between the formal and the informal version of the second-person pronoun. This rule is empirically associated with higher levels of regard for hierarchy.[42] Our self-reliance indicator captures both dimensions.[43]

3.  Legal Origins

Differences among legal systems can be traced back to a process of transplantation from one country to another.[44] The legal-families theory in comparative law[45] and the legal-origins theory in comparative economics[46] emphasize a particularly pervasive channel of transplantation: colonization. Empirically, this approach implies that divergence should be explained by common law rather than civil law origins; common law is associated a higher degree of private ordering in society, which in turn stresses owner protection.[47]

Instead of relying simply on the identity of the colonizer in a distant past, we empirically identify a country’s legal tradition based on its current characteristics along five dimensions: the precedential value of appellate decisions, the possibility to appeal on questions of facts, the role of equity, the adversarial character of procedure, and the scope of oral evidence.[48] This classification provides a continuous measure of proximity to a pure common law system, which in turn can be tested against self-reliance as a possible explanation for divergence.

4.  Political Economics

Politics may play an important role in determining a country’s private law institutions.[49] In our context, the protection afforded to original owners versus good-faith buyers could be a function of the balance of power between an entrenched, concentrated elite, focused on protecting static ownership, and the rest of society. As a result, we should expect less democratic systems and systems based on majoritarian rather than proportional representation to reflect the preferences of the elite[50] and tend towards higher levels of owner protection.[51]

5.  Religious Beliefs

Culture is heavily influenced by religious beliefs. Max Weber pointed out the effect of Protestantism on capitalist attitudes. He explained that, contrary to Catholics, Protestants saw worldly success as a sign of salvation and submitted to an ethics that discouraged expenditures to the benefit of re-investment.[52] A recent study has empirically documented the association of religion with an attitude towards the protection of capital. In particular, it found higher levels of creditor protection to be associated with Protestantism.[53] Analogizing to the GFP problem, we should expect Protestantism to be associated with higher levels of owner protection.[54]

B.  Testing the Explanatory Power of Alternative Theories

All of the theories of comparative variation illustrated in the previous Section are compatible with a certain degree of divergence in GFP rules but each yields different predictions as to the pattern of such divergence. While the functional-equivalence theory implies that divergence should manifest itself as random noise, all other theories, including ours, predict that divergence should follow a certain predictable pattern in response to changes in the country characteristics emphasized by the theory under examination.

These theories taken together predict that owner protection should be greater in countries displaying a stronger culture of self-reliance, a legal system nearer to a perfect common law tradition, weaker constraints on the executive, a majoritarian rather than proportional electoral system, and a larger share of Protestants in the population. If any of these variables can be shown to explain a country’s GFP rules, then we can reject the functional-equivalence hypothesis, which implies that none of them should be statistically significant.

To compare the explanatory power of these theories we ran a regression. Figure 4 visualizes the main result of the analysis, depicting the effect of self-reliance on owner protection after controlling for the determinants of comparative variation suggested by the competing theories.[55] The degree of a country’s self-reliance is measured on the horizontal axis, while the relevant owner protection indicator is measured on the vertical axis. A positively-sloped regression line indicates a positive effect of self-reliance on owner protection, and a steeper slope indicates a bigger effect. (Vice versa, a negatively-sloped line reveals a negative effect.)

Self-reliance has a positive, large, and statistically significant (at the 1% level) effect on owner protection in the case of embezzled goods. This result holds for all market configurations and allows us to reject the hypothesis that divergence is random.[56]

Similarly, Figure 4 reports the effect of a larger share of Protestants on owner protection, after controlling for all the determinants of comparative variation suggested by the competing theories (including self-reliance). In this case, the effect is smaller and negative, suggesting that a larger share of Protestants is associated with weaker owner protection. This result is inconsistent with the Weberian view that we mentioned before. Moreover, as documented in the Appendix, the coefficients attached to Protestantism are statistically significant at a 5% level only in the two upper graphs and in the bottom-left graph in Figure 5.

Similar tests on the effects of constraints on the executive, a majoritarian rather than proportional electoral system, and the common law tradition return coefficients that are statistically undistinguishable from zero. These results demonstrate that divergence in GFP rules for embezzled goods is best explained by cultural differences rather than randomness, a common rather than civil law origin, political economics, or religious beliefs. These results are in line with our previous study in which we focused on stolen goods and found the same pattern.[57] (We also ran a series of regressions—including widely used controls, related to income, natural resources, genetic variation and conflicts—and report the results in the Appendix.)

Since our analysis stresses the role of cultural and religious beliefs, moral beliefs may also play a role. We thus ran an additional regression analysis on data from the recent article, The Moral Machine Experiment,[58] which classified countries based on moral beliefs, as exemplified in a modern version of the trolley problem: an autonomous car is about to crash on either one of two (groups of) people. Respondents were essentially asked who should die and who should be spared. We found an interesting positive correlation between the propensity to spare higher-status and older individuals in a country and owner protection in GFP rules in that country (Figure 6). While these results may make intuitive sense—given that the protection of property generally favors individuals belonging to the elite as opposed to the masses and older as opposed to younger individuals—their statistical significance vanishes when introducing relevant controls. Future studies may delve deeper into the empirical relation between law and morality.

III.  Convergence and divergence in theory

Scholarship on the topic has put forward two alternative frameworks to rationalize the choice between owner protection and buyer protection in GFP. One camp[59] gives primacy to ex ante incentives to reduce the risk of unwanted transfers. In particular, the comparison is between the owner’s incentives to protect her property and the buyer’s incentives to inquire about title. The intuition is that protecting buyers provides owners with incentives to protect their property in order to reduce the likelihood of theft or embezzlement; conversely, protecting owners provides buyers with incentives to inquire about title in order to reduce the risk of paying for goods they will lose at a later time.

An alternative approach is to focus on the ex post allocation of the good to the (most likely) higher-value user between the buyer and the owner.[60] A useful heuristic is the fact that, typically, voluntary market transactions occur between a relatively high-value buyer and a relatively low-value owner. If the opposite were true, the transaction would not take place. Therefore, the potential buyers that populate a typical market are generally relatively high-value individuals.[61] Intermediaries tend to resell in those markets because the higher the buyer valuation, the greater their gains. In turn, dispossessed owners are not necessarily high-value individuals: some of them may never have sold the good while others might have in the future. Therefore, on average, the ex post conflict between the good-faith buyer and the original owner is most likely to involve a high-value buyer and an average-value owner. This in turn suggests that, in principle, ex post value is maximized in expectation if goods are assigned to the good-faith buyer.[62]

A.  The Ex PostValue Theory and First-Order Divergence

In previous studies, we have shown that country-specific characteristics affect the likelihood of ex post misallocation and, in turn, the relative desirability of buyer protection.[63] Respect for others and regard for hierarchy are relevant for the regulation of GFP transactions. Countries with a higher level of enforcement benefit more from buyer protection and hence are more likely to adopt it. The intuition is that high levels of enforcement result in goods being returned to their original owners more often under owner protection, which makes buyer protection preferable. Conversely, countries with a higher degree of trust and respect for others benefit less from buyer protection because of a lower incidence of unwanted transfers. In this way, country characteristics can be used as an explanation for the GFP rules in force.[64]

In terms of self-reliance, this analysis suggests that a higher degree of self-reliance—corresponding to higher levels of trust and respect for others and lower regard for hierarchy and enforcement—should be empirically associated with a higher level of owner protection.[65]

B.  The Ex AnteIncentives Theory and Second-Order Convergence

The ex anteincentives theories of GFP rules have traditionally been widely employed to construct normative arguments as to which rule is preferable on a global scale and have influenced scholarship more profoundly than the ex postvalue approach.[66] In turn, ex anteincentives theories are premised on the idea that improved ex post protections dilute incentives ex ante. More specifically, increasing owner protection improves the buyer’s incentives to inquire about title but reduces the owner’s incentives to “self-protect” her property.

However, this premise can be called into question in a dynamic market where prices adjust to expectations. If one allows the price that a buyer is willing to pay for a possibly stolen or embezzled good to reflect the risk that she will lose the good later on, the intuition illustrated above becomes far from obvious. While the literature has focused on the fact that legal protection affects the marginal benefits of self-protection, we argue that it also affects its marginal costs, making the result possibly indeterminate.[67]

In particular, a higher level of owner protection has a direct effect on the incentives for the owner to protect her property because it increases the probability that a stolen or embezzled good will be returned and hence lowers the benefits from efforts to protect property. However, it also has an indirect effect. If the owner is protected, the market value of goods of dubious origin decreases (as buyers may be wary of losing the good later on), which reduces the expected gains of thieves and embezzlers, making them less aggressive at the margin. This in turn makes it cheaper for the owner to protect her property, thus creating an incentive towards more self-protection for the owner. Similarly, on the buyer’s side, owner protection increases the benefits of inquiring about title but also makes goods cheaper and, hence, lowers the cost of not doing so.

Overall, the parties’ incentives may be positively or negatively affected by increased legal protection, weakening the power of the incentive-theory to explain the design of GFP rules for theft and embezzlement and, in turn, first-order divergence in GFP rules. We argue, however, that incentives can contribute to understanding second-order convergence in GFP rules.

We start with comparing theft with embezzlement. The core of the argument is that for any given marginal benefit of self-protection for the owner, the marginal cost of self-protection for the owner is lower in the case of embezzlement than in the case of theft. The reason is intuitive: while thieves are strangers, an owner chooses whom to trust. In embezzlement cases, there are many ways the owner can protect her property, because most commonly she is in a (contractual) relationship with the potential embezzler and, hence, can both screen her counterparty ex ante and control her ex post. Therefore, comparatively, the owner has lower costs of care in embezzlement cases, while the buyer’s incentives to inquire about title remain unaffected.

To stress our point, whatever effect owner protection has on the owner’s incentives to self-protect—and we have argued above that this effect is indeterminate—this effect is different in theft as opposed to embezzlement cases. In particular, the effect is comparatively more likely to go towards increased self-protection in the case of embezzlement. Convergence emerges as a second-order effect, when comparing the relative (a priori indeterminate) effect of legal protection in different setups.[68]

A similar trend can be detected by comparing the rules that apply to private transactions with those pertaining to commercial transactions made in a market, at an auction, or through a professional seller. In the latter set of cases, buyer protection is systematically stronger. This is because the original owner’s ability to protect her property remains unchanged while the buyer’s ability to inquire about title may be far greater in private transactions as compared to commercial settings. In this case, information about title, whenever available, should have already been acquired by the intermediary so there is little scope for any additional buyer’s inquiry. It may therefore be preferable to attempt to incentivize the owner.

Conclusion

In this article, we have documented first-order divergence and second-order convergence in GFP rules around the world. Our empirical analysis shows that the most likely cause of divergence is cultural differences across countries, while a likely push towards convergence remains the functional uniformity of these rules. Of the two main theoretical approaches to GFP rules, we have shown that the ex postvalue approach is well suited to rationalize divergence, while the ex anteincentive approach explains convergence. While navigating the different camps that have polarized the debate on the normative and positive analysis of GFP rules, at the various junctures of our analysis we end up vindicating both sides of the debate and emphasize that different approaches contribute different layers of the theory we advance. Our conclusions do not imply that other factors are not at play. We have offered an exploratory analysis of the effects of morality, and future research may offer a more nuanced view.

Appendix

A.  Additional Figures

B.  Econometric Analysis

C.  List of Country Experts

Besa Tauzi, Boga & Associates (Albania); António Vicente Marques and Cláudia Veloso, AVM-Advogados (Angola); Martín Bensadon, Marval O’Farrell & Marval (Argentina); Armen Melkumyan, Prudence CJSC (Armenia); Michael Back, Freehills (Australia); Wolfgang Faber, University of Salzburg (Austria); Rashid Aliyev, Baker & McKenzie, Baku, CIS Limited (Azerbaijan); Saifuddin Mahmood, Hassan Radhi & Associates (Bahrain); Al Amin Rahman and Sabrina Zarin, FM Associates (Bangladesh); Amina Khatoon, Doulah & Doulah (Bangladesh); Aliaksandr Danilevich, Belarusian State University (Belarus); Sergei Makarchuk, Law Firm CHSH Cerha Hempel Spiegelfield Hlawati, Minsk Office (Belarus); Caroline Cauffman, Maastricht University and University of Antwerp (Belgium); Tania Moody, Barrow & Williams (Belize); Mario Kempff and Patricio Rojas, CR & F Rojas Abogados (Bolivia); Meliha Povlakić and Darja Softić Kadenić, University of Sarajevo (Bosnia and Herzegovina); Rafael Gagliardi and Newton Marzagão, Demarest & Almeida Advogados (Brazil); Dimitar Stoimenov, Peterka & Partners Law Firm (Bulgaria); Camille Razalison and Adrien Rangira, John W Ffooks & Co (Burkina Faso and Ivory Coast); Jehny Ramiandrisoa and Adrien Rangira, John W Ffooks & Co (Burundi); Nimrod E Mkono, Gilbert LP Nyatanyi, Lambert Nigarura, and René-Claude Madebari, Mkono & Co. Burundi (Burundi); Eddy Ratianarivo and Adrien Rangira, John W Ffooks & Co (Cameroon); Matías Ignacio De Marchena Vicuña, Claro y Cía (Chile); Elliott Youchun Chen, Beijing Jun Ze Jun Law Offices, Shenzhen (China); Jie Chen, Jun He Law Offices (China); Ernesto Rengifo García, Universidad Externado de Colombia and Garrido & Rengifo Abogados (Colombia); Adrián Álvarez Orellana, Consortium Laclé& Gutiérrez (Costa Rica); Eduardo Calderon, Adriana Castro and Manuel Santos, BLP Abogados (Costa Rica); Hano Ernst, University of Zagreb (Croatia); Tatjana Josipovic, University of Zagreb (Croatia); Stéphanie Laulhé Shaelou, University of Central Lancashire (Cyprus); Alexandr Thöndel, Charles University (Czech Republic); Michaela Zuklínová, Charles University (Czech Republic); Arnauld Kayembe Tabu, University of Kinshasa and Kayembe Tabu Law Office Kinshasa (DRC) (Democratic Republic of Congo); Bukayafwa Deo Gratias, MBM-Conseil SCA (Democratic Republic of Congo); Francois Butedi, SADC-CNGO (Democratic Republic of Congo); Phebe Mavungu Clément, University of the Witwatersrand (Democratic Republic of Congo); Ole Borch, Bech-Bruun (Denmark); Tobias Vieth, Danders & More (Denmark); Laura Bobea Escoto, Medina & Rizek, Abogados (Dominican Republic); Pablo Ortiz-Garcia and Luis Marin-Tobar, Perez Bustamante & Ponce (Ecuador); Roque Albuja, Quevedo & Ponce (Ecuador); Ahmed El-Gammal and Nihal Madkour, Shalakany Law Office (Egypt); Monica Machuca, Aczalaw (El Salvador); Kai Kullerkupp, University of Tartu (Estonia); Liina Linsi and Monika Tamm, Lawin (Estonia); Molla Mengistu, School of Law, Addis Ababa University (Ethiopia); Muradu A Srur, Addis Ababa University, School of Law (Ethiopia); Jarmo Tuomisto, University of Turku (Finland); Sophie Tavergnier and Philippe Xavier-Bender, Gide Loyrette Nouel (France); David Kakabadze, Georgian Legal Partnership (Georgia); Vanessa Pickenpack and Klaus Guenther, Oppenhoff & Partners (Germany); Ellen Bannerman, Bruce-Lyle, Bannerman & Associates (Ghana); Norma Dawson, Queen’s University Belfast (Great Britain and Northern Ireland); Ben McFarlane, University College London (Great Britain, Hong Kong and Malaysia); Alexandra Economou, Drakopoulos Law Firm (Greece); Cristóbal Fernández and María de la Concepción Villeda, Mayora & Mayora, S.C. (Guatemala); Juan José Alcerro Milla, Carolina Aguirre Larios and Melissa Amaya Pastrana, Aguilar Castillo Love (Honduras); Gabor Fejes, Oppenheim and Partners Freshfields Bruckhaus Deringer (Hungary); Ciccu Mukhopadhaya and Surjendu Das, Amarchand Mangaldas and Suresh A. Shroff and Company, New Delhi (India); Nafis Adwani, Ali Budiardjo, Nugroho, Reksodiputro (Indonesia); Behrooz Akhlaghi, Shahrzad Majdameli, Encyeh Seyed Sadr, Camellia Abdolsamad, Ali Shahabi, Seyed Iman Mohamadian, Dr. Behrooz Akhlaghi & Associates (Iran); Caterina Gardiner, National University of Ireland, Galway (Ireland); Amnon Lehavi, Radzyner School of Law, Interdisciplinary Center (IDC) Herzliya (Israel); Alessio Greco, Istituto Mediterraneo per i Trapianti e Terapie ad Alta Specializzazione (Italy); Courtney B. Smith, Foga Daley, Attorneys at law (Jamaica); Hiroo Atsumi, Atsumi & Sakai (Japan); Bassam Abu-Rumman, Ali Sharif Zubi Advocates & Legal Consultants (Jordan); Dariya Saginova, Grata Law Firm (Kazakhstan); Saule Massalina, Salans law firm (Kazakhstan); Valikhan Shaikenov, Aequitas Law Firm (Kazakhstan); Peter Gachuhi, Kaplan and Stratton Advocates (Kenya); Atdhe Dika and Vegim Kraja, Kalo & Associates Law Firm (Kosovo); Al Noor, Al -Twaijri and Partners Law Firm (Kuwait); Babitskaya Elena Viktorovna, Veritas Law Agency Limited Liability Company (Kyrgyz Republic); Kanat Seidaliev, Grata Law Firm (Kyrgyz Republic); Nurlan Alymbaev, Law Firm Alymbaev (Kyrgyz Republic); Julija Kolomijceva, bnt Klauberg Krauklis Zab (Latvia); Tiisetso Sello-Mafatle, Sello-Mafatle Attorneys (Lesotho); Jaunius Gumbis, Lawin Lideika, Petrauskas, Valiūnas and partners (Lithuania); Simas Gudynas, Lawin Lideika, Petrauskas, Valiūnas and partners (Lithuania); Alex Schmitt, Bonn Schmitt Steichen (Luxembourg); Nenad Gavrilovic, Faculty of Law ‘Iustinianus Primus’, Skopje, University ‘Ss Cyril and Methodius’ (Macedonia); Fatima Diarra, Cabinet d’Avocats Sim (Mali); Jotham Scerri-Diacono, Ganado Advocates (Malta); Vincent Chong Leung, Juristconsult Chambers, cabinet d’avocats (Mauritius); Héctor Calatayud Izquierdo, Basham, Ringe y Correa (Mexico); Octavian Cazac and Vladimir Palamarciuc, Turcan Cazac Law Firm (Moldova); Nergui Enkhtsetseg, Anand & Batzaya Advocates (Mongolia); Neda Ivovic, University of Donja Gorica (Montenegro); Zohra Hasnaoui and Ahmad Hussein, Hasnaoui Law Firm AGIP (Abu-Ghazaleh Intellectual Property – Morocco) (Morocco); Carlos de Sousa E Brito, Carlos de Sousa E Brito & Associados (Mozambique); Win Win Aye and Khin Wint Maw, Kelvin Chia Yangon Limited (Myanmar); Willem Bodenstein and Mike Bottger, Lorentz Angula Incorporated (Namibia); Arthur Salomons, University of Amsterdam (Netherlands); Roger Tennant Fenton, Southern Cross Chambers (New Zealand); Minerva Bellorin R., Diogenes E, Velasquez V, and Mazziel A Rivera Núñez, Aczalaw (Nicaragua); Lydia Rosoanirina and Adrien Rangira, John W Ffooks & Co (Niger); Joseph Eimunjeze, Udo Udoma & Belo-Osagie (Nigeria); Jan-Ove Færstad, University of Bergen (Norway); Alastair R. Neale and Ruqaya Al Khanbashi, Jihad Al Taie Law Office (Oman); Zaid Al Khattab, Talala Abu Ghazaleh & Co (Oman); Ahsan Zahir Rizvi, Rizvi, Isa, Afridi & Angell (Pakistan); Ivette E Martínez, Patton Moreno & Asvat (Panama); Ramon Varela, Morgan & Morgan (Panama); Esteban Burt, Peroni Sosa Tellechea Burt & Narvaja (Paraguay); Manuel Villa-García Noriega, Estudio Olaechea S Civil de RL (Perù); Eduardo de los Angeles, Romulo Mabanta Buenaventura Sayoc & de los Angeles (Philippines); Jerzy Andrzej Pisuliński and Michal Kucka, Jagiellonian University in Cracow (Poland); Margarida Costa Andrade, University of Coimbra (Portugal); Monica Jardim, University of Coimbra (Portugal); Thelma Rivera, Goldman, Antonetti & Córdova, PSC (Puerto Rico); Ejan Mackaay, Université de Montréal (Quebec, Canada); Cristina Bolea and Vlad Peligrad, Clifford Chance Badea SCA (Romania); Magdalena Raducanu, Salans Moore si Asociatii SCPA (Romania); Sergey Strembelev and Natalia Dialektova, Egorov Puginsky Afanasiev & Partners Law Offices (Russia); Vannissa Rakotonirina and Adrien Rangira, John W Ffooks & Co (Rwanda and Senegal); Stephen Matthews and Abdullah Al Saab, The Law Office of Mohanned S Al-Rasheed (Saudi Arabia); Andrew Steven, University of Edinburgh (Scotland, UK); Nataša Lalatović Đorđević, Moravčević Vojnović and partners in cooperation with Schoenherr (Serbia); Žarko S. Borovčanin, Jankovic, Popovic & Mitic od (Serbia); Oredola Martyn, Clas Legal (Sierra Leone); Yi-Ling Teo, Gateway Law Corporation (Singapore); Katarína Čechová, Čechová & Partners (Slovak Republic); Tomaz Kerestes, University of Maribor (Slovenia); Athol Gordon, Bowman Gilfillan Attorneys (South Africa); Chun-Wook Hyun, Kim & Chang (South Korea); Carlos Díez Soto, Technical University of Cartagena, and Isabel González Pacanowska, University of Murcia (Spain); John Wilson, John Wilson Partners, Attorneys at Law & Notaries Public (Sri Lanka); Martin Lilja, Salzburg University (Sweden); Bénédict Foëx, University of Geneva (Switzerland); Deema Abu Zulaikha, Tag-Legal Syria (Syria); Kamanga Wilbert Kapinga, CRB Africa Legal (Tanzania); Cynthia M Pornavalai, Tilleke & Gibbins (Thailand); Phisit Dejchaiyasak, Weerawong, Chinnavat and Peangpanor Limited (Thailand); Stephen A Singh, Johnson, Camacho and Singh (Trinidad and Tobago); Issam Mokni, Ferchiou & Associés (Tunisia); Yesim Atamer, Ece Bas, Başak Başoğlu, Meliha Sermin Paksoy, and Pinar Yazici, Istanbul Bilgi University (Turkey); Emmanuel Kasimbazi, Makerere University (Uganda); Oleg Boichuk, Magisters (Ukraine); Rami Abdellatif and Mohammed Kamran, Al Tamimi Advocates & Legal Consultants (United Arab Emirates); Steven Walt, University of Virginia School of Law (United States); Pedro J Montano, Universidad de la República and Scelza & Montano (Uruguay); Juan Enrique Aigster and José Alberto Ramírez, Hoet Pelaez Castillo & Duque Abogados (Venezuela); Dang The Duc and Tuong Tran, Indochine Council (Vietnam); Sydney Chisenga, Corpus Legal practitioners (Zambia); Peter Lloyd, Gill, Godlonton & Gerrans (Zimbabwe).

D.  List of Countries and Country Codes

 


[*] *.  Professor of law and professor of economics, University of Amsterdam; Joseph P. Cunningham Visiting Professor of Commercial and Insurance Law (Fall 2018), Columbia Law School; Visiting Professor of Law (Spring 2019), New York University School of Law.

[†] †. Rita Levi-Montalcini” Associate Professor, Department of Economics, University of Bologna; e-mail: c.guerriero@unibo.it; homepage: https://sites.google.com/site/carmineguerrieroshome
page. The authors would like to thank Yun-chien Chang, Richard Epstein, Franco Ferrari, Saul Levmore, Ariel Porat, and Henry Smith for insightful comments. We are deeply grateful to Edmond Awad and his coauthors—Sohan Dsouza, Richard Kim, Jonathan Schulz, Joseph Henrich, Azim Shariff, Jean-François Bonnefon and Iyad Rahwan—for sharing with us the data from The Moral Machine Experiment. The authors would also like to thank Melissa Bales for excellent research and editorial assistance.

 [1]. This notion is central to the large literature in law and economics that has originated from R. H. Coase, The Problem of Social Cost, 3 J.L. Econ. 1 (1960). Its importance, however, had long been recognized in legal scholarship, not only in the United States. E.g., Gaetano Petrelli, L’Autenticità Del Titolo Della Trascrizione Nell’Evoluzione Storica e Nel Diritto Comparato, 53 Rivista di Diritto Civile 585, 588 (2007); J.G. Sauveplanne, The Protection of the Bona Fide Purchaser of Corporeal Movables in Comparative Law, 29 Rabel J. Comp. Int. Priv. Law 651, 651 (1965). See generally René Demogue, Les Notions Fondamentales du Droit privé: Essai Critique Pour servir d’Introduction à l’ étude des Obligations (1911) (on the notion of static versus dynamic security); Victor Ehrenberg, Rechtssicherheit und Verkehrssicherheit: mit besonderer Rücksicht auf das Handelsregister (1904) (on the notion of certainty of rights versus certainty of transactions).

 [2]. We introduced this notion in Giuseppe Dari-Mattiacci & Carmine Guerriero, Law and Culture: A Theory of Comparative Variation in Bona Fide Purchase Rules, 35 Oxford J. Legal Stud. 543 (2015) (dealing exclusively with stolen goods).

 [3]. Ashton Hawkins et al., A Tale of Two Innocents: Creating an Equitable Balance Between the Rights of Former Owners and Good Faith Purchasers of Stolen Art, 64 Fordham L. Rev. 49, 49­–50 (1995); Menachem Mautner, “The Ethernal Triangles of Law”: Toward a Theory of Priorities in Conflicts Involving Remote Parties, 90 Mich. L. Rev. 95, 95­96 (1991); see also Grant Gilmore, The Commercial Doctrine of Good Faith Purchase, 63 Yale L.J. 1057, 1057 (1954) (stressing that the historical emergence of the doctrine of good faith purchase served a commercial purpose: enabling contracting parties to rely on market transactions without costly inquiries about title); Boris Kozolchyk, Transfer of Personal Property by a Nonowner: Its Future in Light of Its Past, 61 Tul. L. Rev. 1453, 1454 (1987) (focusing on the rule’s function of enabling transfers through market intermediaries); Daniel E. Murray, Sale in Market Overt, 9 Int’l & Comp. L.Q. 24, 24–25 (1960) (arguing that the good faith purchase rules provide common sense solutions to a universal problem); Sauveplanne, supra note 1, at 651–52 (stressing the commercial logic behind good faith purchase rules). For a formal analysis, see Benito Arruñada et al., Property Rights in Sequential Exchange, 35 J.L. Econ. & Org. 127, 127­–28 (2019).

 [4]. See Benito Arruñada, Institutional Support of the Firm: A Theory of Business Registries, 2 J. Legal Analysis 525, 534­–54 (2010); Kenneth Ayotte & Patrick Bolton, Optimal Property Rights in Financial Contracting, 24 Rev. Fin. Stud. 3401, 3402–04 (2011). This Article focuses on personal property; real property is subject to registration, which in turn has different effects under different national registration systems. For analysis on real property, see generally Carmine Guerriero, Endogenous Property Rights, 59 Int. Rev. L. & Econ. 313 (2016).

 [5]. See, e.g., Alan Schwartz & Robert E. Scott, Rethinking the Laws of Good Faith Purchase, 111 Colum. L. Rev. 1332, 1333–38 (2011) (providing a recent scholarly contribution to this field that contains a review of the relevant literature).

 [6]. The raw data and a detailed description can be found in Giuseppe Dari-Mattiacci & Carmine Guerriero, A Novel Dataset on Horizontal Property Rights in 126 Jurisdictions, 11 Data Brief 557, 559–60 (2017). We dropped Taiwan due to a coding error and hence reduced the sample size to 125 countries for the purposes of this analysis. This change does not affect any of our main results since our proxy for the quality of legal enforcement is not observable for this jurisdiction. We thank Yun-chien Chang for having drawn our attention on this issue.

 [7]. See, e.g., Saul Levmore, Variety and Uniformity in the Treatment of the Good-Faith Purchaser, 16 J. Legal Stud. 43, 45 (1987); John Henry Merryman, The Good Faith Acquisition of Stolen Art, in Crime, Procedure and Evidence in a Comparative Context 275, 275–81 (John Jackson et al. eds., 2008); Patricia Youngblood Reyhan, A Chaotic Palette: Conflict of Laws in Litigation Between Original Owners and Good-Faith Purchasers of Stolen Art, 50 Duke L.J. 955, 1006 (2001).

 [8]. E.g., William M. Landes & Richard A. Posner, The Economics of Legal Disputes Over the Ownership of Works of Art and Other Collectibles, in Economics of the Arts 177, 214–17 (Victor A. Ginsburgh & Pierre-Michel Menger eds., 1996). For a historical perspective, see also Murray, supra note 3, at 50–52 (discussing how multiple legal systems across space and time have been similar).

 [9]. See Solomon R. Guggenheim Found. v. Lubell, 569 N.E.2d 426, 431 (N.Y. 1991).

 [10]. See U.C.C. § 2-403(2)–(3) (Am. Law Inst. & Unif. Law Comm’n 2018). For a constitutional perspective on the theft rule versus the entrustment doctrine, see generally Elwood Earl Sanders, Jr., (Red) Elvis Has Left the Building: Did the UCC Legalize Theft? Constitutional Concerns Arising from the UCC Entrustment Clause, A Critical Analysis of Lindholm v. Brant, 13 Appalachian J.L. 21 (2013).

 [11]. Dari-Mattiacci & Guerriero, supra note 2, at 550; see also Giuseppe Dari-Mattiacci, Carmine Guerriero & Zhenxing Huang, The Property–Contract Balance, 172 J. Institutional & Theoretical Econ. 40, 49, 60–61 (2016).

 [12]. Self-reliance takes three possible values: high, if a country has high respect for others and low regard for hierarchy; low, if a country has low respect for others and high regard for hierarchy; and medium, in the residual cases (high or low levels of both respect for others and regard for hierarchy). Collapsing two cultural dimensions into a single variable has the advantage of allowing for direct visualizations of the results.

 [13]. See infra Section II.A (providing details on these approaches and references).

 [14]. Dari-Mattiacci & Guerriero, supra note 2, at 559–60.

 [15]. See infra Section II.B.

 [16]. See Chi-yue Chiu, Language and Culture, Online Readings Psychol. & Culture, Mar. 2011, at 1, 3–5 (providing a literature review on the effects of language on culture); Emiko S. Kashima & Yoshihisa Kashima, Culture and Language: The Case of Cultural Dimensions and Personal Pronoun Use, 29 J. Cross-Cultural Psychol. 461, 462 (1998) [hereinafter Kashima & Kashima, Culture and Language]; Emiko S. Kashima & Yoshihisa Kashima, Erratum to Kashima and Kashima (1998) and Reiteration, 38 J. Cross-Cultural Psychol. 396, 396 (2005); Sean Lee, Rethinking the Relationship Between Pronoun-Drop and Individualism with Bayesian Multilevel Models, 2 J. Language Evolution 188, 192 (2017) (arguing that the associations between language and culture found by Kashima and Kashima may be driven by Indo-European languages); Amnon Lehavi & Amir Licht, BITs and Pieces of Property, 36 Yale J. Int’l L. 115, 115–18 (2011) (first to use this approach in legal scholarship); Lewis Davis, An Extension of the Kashima and Kashima (1998) Linguistic Dataset 2–4 (May 12, 2012) (unpublished manuscript) (on file with authors).

 [17]. See Edmond Awad et al., The Moral Machine Experiment, 563 Nature 59, 60­–64 (2018).

 [18]. See infra Section II.B (explaining these findings vanish when one adds relevant controls).

 [19]. See Levmore, supra note 7, at 46; Anthony Ogus, What Legal Scholars Can Learn from Law and Economics, 79 Chicago-Kent L. Rev. 383, 394–95 (2004). For a formal mathematical approach to the problem, see generally Landes & Posner, supra note 8; Caspar Rose, The Transfer of Property Rights by Theft: An Economic Analysis, 30 Eur. J.L. Econ. 247 (2010); Schwartz & Scott, supra note 5; Omri Ben Shahar, Property Rights in Stolen Goods: An Economic Analysis (1997) (unpublished manuscript) (on file with authors).

 [20]. Barak Medina, Augmenting the Value of Ownership by Protecting It Only Partially: The “Market-Overt” Rule Revisited, 19 J. L. Econ. & Org. 343, 368 (2003).

 [21]. Several previous contributions have recognized the fact that the owner is in the best position to reduce the risk of embezzlement and that the buyer is justified in assuming the presence of good title in an open commercial setting. E.g., Benito Arruñada, Institutional Foundations of Impersonal Exchange 41 (2012); Arruñada, supra note 4, at 528; Randy E. Barnett, Squaring Undisclosed Agency Law with Contract Theory, 75 Calif. L. Rev. 1969, 1996–97 (1987); Karen Theresa Burke, International Transfers of Stolen Cultural Property: Should Thieves Continue to Benefit from Domestic Laws Favoring Bona Fide Purchasers?, 13 Loy. L.A. Int’l & Comp. L.J. 427, 444–46 (1990); Saul Levmore, Rethinking Comparative Law: Variety and Uniformity in Ancient and Modern Tort Law, 61 Tul. L. Rev. 235, 287 (1986); Levmore, supra note 7, at 59; Mautner, supra note 3, at 131; Medina, supra note 20, at 346; Harold R Weinberg, Sales Law, Economics, and the Negotiability of Goods, 9 J. Legal. Stud. 569, 590–91 (1980).

 [22]. At a very general level, our analysis proposes a framework to rationalize divergence and convergence in private law rules, suggesting that divergence is driven by culture while convergence is driven by function—more precisely, the need to provide incentives for good behavior. For alternative frameworks used to addresss the same issue, see Yun-chien Chang & Henry E. Smith, Convergence and Divergence in Systems of Property Law: Theoretical and Empirical Analyses, 92 S. Cal. L. Rev. 785, 78696 (2019); Saul Levmore, Convergence and Then Downstream Divergence in Torts and Other Law, 92 S. Cal. L. Rev. 769, 78283 (2019); see also Yun-chien Chang, 214 Jurisdictions in the World Gets It Wrong: Fractional Ownership and Internal Auction in the Good-faith Purchase Problem 28–35 (2018) (unpublished manuscript) (on file with authors) (arguing that the market overt rule provides optimal incentives to owners, buyers, and intermediaries).

 [23]. See supra notes 78 and accompanying text.

 [24]. When we started collecting data for this project, the largest previous study on this matter only covered about thirty countries; for this information, see generally National Reports on the Transfer of Movables in Europe (Wolfgang Faber & Brigitta Lurger eds., 2011); Rules for the Transfer of Movables (Wolfgang Faber & Brigitta Lurger eds., 2008). Recent comparative law scholarship increasingly makes use of large datasets and a series of notable studies on this matter have been produced by Professor Yun-chien Chang, whose work is complementary with ours.

 [25]. Note that in the data we differentiate among England, Wales, Northern Ireland, and Scotland.

 [26]. The questionnaire was drafted by the two of us and Arthur Salomons and was sent to the country experts in English or French.

 [27]. While a number of countries require the original owner to pay compensation to the good-faith buyer when the good is reclaimed, interestingly, no jurisdiction in our sample contained the opposite rule, which would require a prevailing good-faith buyer to pay compensation to the original owner in order to retain the good.

 [28]. The data is freely available in Dari-Mattiacci & Guerriero, supra note 6, at 559–60. For more details and extensive summary statistics, see Dari-Mattiacci & Guerriero, supra note 2, at 55055.

 [29]. We did so because statutes of limitations start running at different times in different jurisdictions. In this way, we made sure that our comparisons are not affected by this additional source of variation.

 [30]. There are cases in which the buyer never acquires title (as reported in Table 1). We assigned to these cases the value of 30 years, which is the largest value short of “Never” in our data. We repeated the analysis with alternative proxies for “Never” and the results remain essentially the same.

 [31]. E.g., Solomon R. Guggenheim Found. v. Lubell, 569 N.E.2d 426, 431 (N.Y. 1991).

 [32]. Note that the dataset differentiates among these three cases while the table does not, because the four countries reported here apply uniform rules, in contrast with the United States. See id.

 [33]. See U.C.C. § 2-403(2)–(3) (Am. Law Inst. & Unif. Law Comm’n 2018).

 [34]. For the list of country and country codes, see infra Appendix.

 [35]. Note that there is less variance in commercial transactions, as compared to private sales. This observation is consistent both with a static push towards more buyer protection in commercial settings, which mechanically reduces variation and with a dynamic tendency towards convergence due to higher stakes and more frequent interactions. See Richard A. Epstein, The Path to the T.J. Hooper: The Theory and History of Custom in the Law of Tort, 21 J. Legal Stud. 1, 1516 (1992).

 [36]. Konrad Zweigert & Hein Kötz, Introduction to Comparative Law 33–47 (Tony Weir trans., Clarendon Press 3d rev. ed. 1998).

 [37]. Levmore, supra note 7, at 65. For further discussion, see generally Levmore, supra note 22.

 [38]. See Sjoerd Beugelsdijk & Robbert Maseland, Culture in Economics 313–18 (2011); Geert Hofstede, Cultures and Organizations 23–24 (1991); Deepak Lal, Unintended Consequences: The Impact of Factor Endowments, Culture, and Politics on Long-Run Economic Performance 62–65 (1998) (noting the effect of culture on predominantly-Islamic countries); Philippe Aghion et al., Regulation and Distrust, 125 Q.J. Econ. 1015, 1046–47 (2010); Thorsten Beck et al.,, Law, Endowments, and Finance, 70 J. Fin. Econ. 137, 151–53 (2003); Yuriy Gorodnichenko & Gerard Roland, Culture, Institutions and the Wealth of Nations, 99 Rev. Econ. Stat. 402, 40204 (2017); Jim Granato et al., The Effect of Cultural Values on Economic Development: Theory, Hypotheses, and Some Empirical Tests, 40 Am. J. Pol. Sci. 607, 613 (1996); Avner Greif, Cultural Beliefs and the Organization of Society: A Historical and Theoretical Reflection on Collectivist and Individualist Societies, 102 J. Pol. Econ. 912, 914 (1994); Luigi Guiso et al., Does Culture Affect Economic Outcomes?, 20 J. Econ. Persp. 23, 44–46 (2006); Amir N. Licht et al., Culture, Law, and Corporate Governance, 25 Int’l Rev. L. & Econ. 229, 253 (2005); Susan Rose-Ackerman, Corruption, in 1 The New Palgrave Dictionary of Economics and the Law 517, 521 (Peter Newman ed., 1998); Shalom H. Schwartz, A Theory of Cultural Values and Some Implications for Work, 48 Applied Psychol. Int’l Rev. 23, 25 (1999); René M. Stulz & Rohan Williamson, Culture, Openness, and Finance, 70 J. Fin. Econ. 313, 346 (2003); Guido Tabellini, Institutions and Culture, 6 J. Eur. Econ. Ass’n 255, 255–59 (2008); Claudia R. Williamson & Carrie B. Kerekes, Securing Private Property: Formal Versus Informal Institutions, 54 J.L. & Econ. 537, 564 (2011).

 [39]. For an example of one of these world-wide surveys, Ronald Inglehart, World Values Survey wave 6 (20102014), Inst. for Social Res. (2014), http://www.worldvaluessurvey.org/WVSDocument
ationWV6.jsp.

 [40]. See  Peter Mühlhäusler & Rom Harré, Pronouns and People: The Linguistic Construction of Social and Personal Identity 16–18 (Peter Trudgill et al. eds.,1990); Kashima & Kashima, Culture and Language, supra note 16, at 461–64.

 [41]. See Geert H. Hofstede, Culture’s Consequences 11–14 (Walter J. Lonner & John W. Berry eds., 1980) (classifying culture along the individualism-collectivism dimension). Italian, for instance, allows pronoun drop (low level of trust and respect for others), while English does not (high level of trust and respect for others).

 [42]. See Shalom H. Schwartz, Beyond Individualism/Collectivism: New Cultural Dimensions of Values, in Individualism and Collectivism 85, 98 (Uichol Kim et al. eds., 1994) (classifying culture along the hierarchy-egalitarianism dimension). Italian, for instance, allows the use of different second person pronouns modulated by social distance (widespread acceptance of hierarchy), while English does not (limited acceptance of hierarchy).

 [43]. See supra note 12 and accompanying text.

 [44]. See Alan Watson, Legal Transplants 16–20 (Univ. of Ga. Press 2d ed. 1993); Alan Watson, Roman Law & Comparative Law 197 (1991).

 [45]. See James Gordley, Comparative Law and Legal History, in The Oxford Handbook of Comparative Law 753, 761 (Mathias Reimann & Reinhard Zimmermann eds., 2006).

 [46]. See Rafael La Porta et al., Legal Determinants of External Finance, 52 J. Fin. 1131, 1131 (1997) (defining modern legal origins as either English, French, German, or Scandinavian).  See generally Thorsten Beck et al., Law and Finance: Why Does Legal Origin Matter?, 31 J. Fin. Econ. 653 (2003) (providing another example of legal origins); Edward L. Glaeser & Andrei Shleifer, Legal Origins, 117 Q.J. Econ. 1193 (2002) (same); Rafael La Porta et al., Law and Finance, 106 J. Pol. Econ. 1113 (1998) (same).

  [47].               Rafael La Porta et al., The Economic Consequences of Legal Origins, 46 J. Econ. Literature 285, 28587 (2008).

 [48].  Since many countries have undergone substantial reforms after colonization, classifying a country as a common law or a civil law jurisdiction by looking at the moment of colonization may be unwarranted. Carmine Guerriero, Endogenous Legal Traditions, 46 Int’l Rev. L. & Econ. 49, 67 (2016); Mariana Pargendler, The Rise and Decline of Legal Families, 60 Am. J. Comp. L. 1043, 1043–47 (2012). In addition, identifying the legal tradition as the country of origin of the colonizers lumps together a number of factors that are difficult to disentangle from the notion of a legal tradition, such as business culture, language, religion, preference heterogeneity and inclusiveness of political institutions, as one of us documented in previous works. See Guerriero, supra, at 67.

 [49].  Clayton P. Gillette, Who Puts the Public in Public Good?: A Comment on Cass, 71 Marq. L. Rev. 534, 534–36 (1988); Mark J. Roe, Legal Origins, Politics, and Modern Stock Markets, 120 Harv. L. Rev. 460, 463 (2006).

 [50].  Marco Pagano & Paolo F. Volpin, The Political Economy of Corporate Governance, 95 Am. Econ. Rev. 1005, 1007 (2005); See Bernd Hayo & Stefan Voigt, Endogenous Constitutions: Politics and Politicians Matter, Economic Outcomes Don’t, 88 J. Econ. Behav. & Org. 47, 48 (2013).

 [51].  In the analysis, we measure the level of democracy by the constraints on the executive as coded in the Polity IV dataset. Monty G. Marshall & Ted Robert Gurr, Polity IV Individual Country Regime Trends, 1946-2013, Polity IV Project (June 6, 2014), http://www.systemicpeace.org/
polity/polity4.htm. Please note that this website has since been updated and its data does not exactly match the data used by this Article. We also use data on the electoral systems from Lorenz Blume et al., The Economic Effects of Constitutions: Replicating—and Extending—Persson and Tabellini, 139 Pub. Choice 197, 209–25 (2009).

 [52].  See Max Weber, The Protestant Ethic and The Spirit of Capitalism 108–11 (Talcott Parsons trans., Routledge 2005).

 [53].  Stulz & Williamson, supra note 38, at 315.

 [54].  To test the effect of religion, we use data collected by Rafael La Porta et al., The Quality of Government, 15 J.L. Econ. & Org. 222, 234–44 (1999).

 [55].  For the summary statistics of all the variables we use and the estimates of our regression, see infra app. The figure reports the residuals from regressing the variable of interest (for instance, owner protection in private sales, in the upper-left graph) on all explanatory variables and compares it with the residuals from regressing self-reliance on the same explanatory variables. Through this procedure, we capture the extent to which self-reliance explains owner protection after considering the effect of other variables.

 [56].  A recent study has emphasized that the association between languages and culture is especially driven by Indo-European languages. See Lee, supra note 16, at 192. To make sure that our results are not affected by this potential problem, we repeated the analysis with countries speaking only Indo-European languages and found the same results. The sample size, though, is severely reduced, limiting the possibility of running additional tests. See the Appendix for details.

 [57].  See Dari-Mattiacci & Guerriero, supra note 2, at 57173.

 [58].  See Awad et al., supra note 17, at 60­–64.

 [59].  See supra note 19 and accompanying text.

 [60].  See supra note 20 and accompanying text.

 [61].  This remains true even though owner of stolen or embezzled goods may attach low or high value to them.

 [62].  The desirability of buyer protection is only increased if one considers a potential feedback effect on prices. Buyer protection is likely to increase the resale price of stolen or embezzled goods, because buyers are willing to pay more if their title is more secure. In turn, the increase in price could add to the self-selection of buyers: higher prices discourage low-value buyers from entering the market, reinforcing our argumentation.

 [63].  Dari-Mattiacci & Guerriero, supra note 2, at 55557; Dari-Mattiacci, Guerriero & Huang, supra note 11, at 15–16; Carmine Guerriero, Property Rights, Transaction Costs, and the Limits of the Market 3 (Dec. 4, 2018) (unpublished manuscript) (on file with authors).

 [64].  See Schwartz & Scott, supra note 5, at 1372–73.

 [65].  This approach is in line with a related study by Professors Lehavi and Licht, who proposed individualism as a cultural feature explaining the protection of property. Lehavi & Licht, supra note 16, at 117–18 (explaining that self-reliance encompasses individualism through the pronoun-drop feature of the language as one of its two subcomponents).

 [66].  In contrast, the literature on private takings originated from Guido Calabresi & A. Douglas Melamed, Property Rules, Liability Rules, and Inalienability: One View of the Cathedral, 85 Harv. L. Rev. 1089 (1972) which almost entirely focuses on the maximization of ex post value. The problem addressed in this literature is the maximization of the chance that the good ends up in the hands of the highest value user. When voluntary transactions fail this goal because of transaction costs, involuntary transactions (takings) may be tolerated. Differently from this literature, in a GFP situation the “taking” is effectuated by an intermediary (a thief or an embezzler) rather than directly by the taker (buyer, in our setup) and hence the transaction is always involuntary from the perspective of the owner and the buyer. See Dari-Mattiacci & Guerriero, supra note 2, at 555 & n.61.

 [67].  See generally Dari-Mattiacci, Guerriero & Huang, supra note 11, for a formal model of this trade-off.

 [68].  We cannot exclude, however, that the ex postvalue theory could also help explain differences between private and commercial sales and between theft and embezzlement in cases were transaction costs systematically vary across these environments. The interaction between the original owner and the intermediary, and the higher complexity of commercial environments might increase transaction costs and call for weaker original owners’ property rights. See Calabresi & Melamed, supra note 66, at 1095–97; Guerriero, supra note 63 (manuscript at 26–27).

 

Convergence and Divergence in Systems of Property Law: Theoretical and Empirical Analyses – Article by Yun-chien Chang & Henry E. Smith

From Volume 92, Number 4 (May2019)
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Convergence and Divergence in Systems of Property Law: Theoretical and Empirical Analyses[*]

Yun-chien Chang[†] & Henry E. Smith[‡]

This Article utilizes a unique data set of property laws in 119 jurisdictions in the world to test convergence/divergence theories in comparative property law. Our theory predicts that first, because legal systems face similar positive transaction costs in delineating property rights, the structure of property law among all jurisdictions in the world will converge or remain similar since some time in the distant past. Second, our theory posits that the style of property law will tend to converge when the doctrines in question are isolated, but diverge when they are interconnected. Our data and descriptive analysis support the theory. Doctrines regarding possession, sales, condominiums, tenancies in common, and limited property rights serve as prominent examples.

Keywords

numerus clausus principle, tenancy in common, possession, sales, condominium

  Introduction 

Comparative property law faces the familiar challenge of choosing a unit of comparison. What do we compare and why? Doctrines with similar labels might serve different functions, their labels being a mere etymological accident. Examples include civil law “real rights” (rights in things) versus common law “real property,” or civilian “cause” (the reason for a contract) versus “cause” in the common law of torts.[1] Alternatively, doctrines with very different labels can show a high degree of similarity, as in common law adverse possession and civil law prescriptive acquisition.

So far so familiar. And yet the comparative problem of identifying the proper subject matter of inquiries into convergence or divergence is at its extreme in the case of property. To get a handle on what to expect in terms of convergence and divergence among systems of property law, we need a theory of how those systems work and what problems they are meant to solve. If the contours of property systems reflect the ends they are supposed to serve and the costs of achieving those ends, we can start to predict how these forces will play out in the comparative arena.

We take as our starting point an account of property’s overall architecture and its functional motivation. Property law serves as a platform for the interaction of actors in society with respect to things. Because our potential uses of resources often conflict, and most of the external objects of the world are only contingently associated with any actor, the law needs a way to protect uses, prioritize decisions about use, and facilitate the coordination of actors’ uses. In a world of zero transaction costs, we could formulate the law governing such interactions in a fully articulated fashion: every micro-action by each actor impacting each other actor with respect to each aspect of each resource would be the subject matter of a legal rule, and such rules could condition on any combination of features of other actors, things, or relations.[2] The complexity here quickly becomes intractable. In our world, property law employs (legal) things and a combination of exclusion and governance strategies to manage this complexity.[3] Because this management function could not be accomplished by contract alone or through a more articulated activity-based tort law, we can call it the “essential function” of property law.[4] And because every modern property system faces this problem to roughly the same gross extent, we can expect some similarity in the institutional responses to this basic problem. Separating the world into more or less distinct things and affording to owners rights based on exclusion over these things is a first cut, which is then refined through more use-based governance strategies that take care of especially important interactions between actors.[5]

As with other law, we can distinguish the structure and the style of a system of property law.[6] The structure of property law refers to how property law groups problems so that they need not be treated in a fully articulated fashion, and in so reshaping problems, property law serves an essential function—a function that cannot be replicated by contract. For the property systems we will be investigating, the manner of carving up the set of resource-related activities turns out to be some version of a hybrid of exclusion and governance strategies. Property law identifies things and affords owners the right to exclude, as implemented in property torts like trespass and conversion, and fine-tunes this package with rules of governance. In real property, these governance devices include nuisance, easements, covenants, and zoning, and in personal property they include bailments. In both areas, governance devices also include leases and mortgages. Sophisticated hybrids of exclusion and governance are also possible, ranging from condominiums to partnerships and corporations, and, in the common law world, to the trust. The need to employ a system based on a mixture of exclusion and governance stems from the problem of protecting uses at a positive cost, not least the intractability of an unstructured system.

Serving the essential function of property—protecting uses in a world of positive institution costs—still leaves a great deal of freedom in terms of how to serve those objectives within the framework. In any set of cultural artifacts, including law, style is a characteristic manner of doing things. Families of legal systems, like common law and civil law, have sometimes been defined in terms of style,[7] although we will not prejudge this matter here. In property law, an example of style would be the reliance on possession and a more implicit definition of ownership in common law systems versus the definition of dominion and departures from it in typical civilian systems. Likewise, a lease can be a contract given in rem protection or can be delineated as an in rem right of a limited scope. Styles of property law show great persistence overall, in at least some of their aspects. As with styles generally, this can be attributed to path dependence; because law exhibits network effects, it is difficult to change even in the face of equally good or even superior alternatives.[8]

Structure and style raise the issue of how tightly a given aspect of property law is integrated into the overall system. Private law doctrines that are most integrated into its overall system are the most difficult to change; doctrines that are easily treated in isolation, with fewer ripple effects, are conversely much easier to modify.[9] In property law, the various doctrines and institutional features sometimes interlock and sometimes do not. Those that are highly interconnected with the rest of the system, like possession, might be expected to be difficult to change, in contrast to doctrines that can safely be treated in isolation, like the contractual aspects of leases.

Our approach to convergence and divergence is rooted in a combination of the relative propensity to change and the relative closeness of starting points. In a system like property, which is some combination of spontaneous order and design, change over time (whatever its source) will flourish or be cut off depending on the resultant fitness (however defined) of the overall system. Drawing on a well-known evolutionary model, Lee Alston and Bernardo Mueller add this aspect to the bundle of rights.[10] The various elements of the bundle of rights—rights to grow tomatoes, rights to build a shed, rights to walk and so forth—may be relatively isolated or show “epistatic” connections.[11] In an epistatic connection, a change in one element will lead to an effect on a connected element. Thus, a change in one gene may produce an effect in another gene, if they are epistatically connected. Likewise, the right to draw water affects the value of the right to grow tomatoes, but the right to prevent airplane overflights is (presumably) unconnected to either the right to draw water or the right to grow tomatoes.

Once epistatic connections are in the picture, the implications of different patterns and densities of epistatic connections for the evolution of property rights are likely to be quite important. Along a spectrum, we can distinguish three types of scenarios. First, the elements in the bundle of rights might be wholly unconnected. If we get the answer right for each element, then all we have to do is add up the effects of all the elements, and we can be assured that we have optimized the entire bundle. Often, in the conventional post-realist bundle of rights picture, exactly this disaggregated pattern with no epistatic connections is assumed. If so, it is easy to change individual elements without the downside of severe, unrelated (by epistatic connection) negative effects emerging in the bundle. However, assuming epistatic connections away is unrealistic (for example, water and farming), even if convenient.

At the opposite extreme, we might have maximal epistatic connections: everything is connected with everything else. If so, the pattern of consequences to minor variations in one element of the bundle is random or chaotic and very hard to predict. This pessimistic picture does not describe our world either. Sometimes problems, like high-altitude airplane overflights, can indeed be treated largely in isolation from other problems.

In between these two extremes of zero and total connectivity is what has sometimes been called “organized complexity.”[12] Here, epistatic connections are important but far from universal. They can also be clustered. Innovation is promoted by the fact that interconnection is not complete and is semi-organized.[13] Either by design or through spontaneous variation, changes to part of the bundle can be made, and the overall effect can move in the direction of a local optimum more easily than under complete connection (and the chaotic landscape it corresponds to). This is another sense in which the bundle of rights (if one wishes to call it that) is a structured one.[14]

The notions of essential function and interconnection allow us to form expectations or even predictions about the convergence and divergence of property systems. Structural aspects of modern property systems that solve the basic problem of managing use conflict and avoiding intractability will cause some convergence on the exclusion-governance architecture. To be sure, the relative emphasis on exclusion and governance will vary according to local conditions, and in particular, it will be easier to add, subtract, or modify governance rules than it will be for analogous changes to the exclusionary setup. Property systems will converge in having a mix of exclusion and governance and will diverge more in the area of governance than in exclusion, as exclusion is one of the three essential elements in property.[15] We should also expect that, because in general it is more detachable from the system, stylistic variation more easily arises in governance than in exclusion. So, our first proposition is that structural aspects of property law should show convergence and the structures in question should be stable over time. More tellingly, even if the initial condition of the property structure is no exclusion at all, this arrangement is unlikely to persist if open access does not make sense on its own terms (that is, it fails to provide benefits that exceed the costs, or compares unfavorably with other arrangements that could be implemented).[16] A prime example is the people’s commune during the Cultural Revolution in China. Private property and individual farming had been the norm and practice, but during the revolution the government mandated a shift to limited-access common property. As is well known, this social experiment did not last long.[17] The structure of property law, therefore, will converge to an exclusion-based system, regardless of the initial conditions.

When it comes to more stylistic features, we must distinguish between those that are more interconnected and those that are less interconnected with the rest of the system of property law. Our second proposition holds that, in any aspect of the property system that is less interconnected, we should expect more stylistic variation. Tighter interconnection will lead to more uncontained ripple effects and a more jagged fitness landscape,[18] such that it is harder to achieve higher peaks of fitness. Conversely, less interconnected doctrines can respond to pressures for improvement, whether designed or not, and the improvement to that one piece of the system leads directly to an overall unambiguous contribution to fitness.

We might offer a third, dynamic, proposition: the less interconnected an aspect of the property system is, the more we should expect that it could change over time for a variety of reasons. One of these reasons is voluntary borrowing, or legal transplants due to colonialism. Previous work has found that in the admittedly small number of mixed systems that have both common and civil law heritages, there is a tendency to borrow contract law more than property law (never the latter without the former),[19] and within property law to borrow more in the in personam than in the in rem aspects.[20] Thus, in terms of changes over time, we might expect that stylistic features would converge or diverge but that more rapid changes would take place in less connected, rather than in more connected, areas of property law.

Now, after decades or centuries of evolution in property law, we might be more likely to observe the convergence of isolated (less interconnected) doctrines, if at least one of the following conditions holds: (1) there is one or a few apparently dominant strategies; (2) convergence in a global market saves transaction costs and attracts investment and business; or (3) there have been conscious or subconscious, voluntary or involuntary borrowing or legal transplants, with or without explicit efficiency concerns.[21] This is not the place to propose a full-fledged convergence and divergence theory.[22] Our key point here is only that less interconnected doctrines are more likely to vary (resulting in divergence or convergence depending on background conditions) than more interconnected ones.

In this Article, we employ a snapshot of current property systems. We are not in a position to test the third proposition—that the interconnectedness of doctrines should correlate with rapidity of change. As for the first two, assuming that systems are not subject to overwhelming pressures to converge, we can isolate our expectations: property systems should show more convergence in their less interconnected than in their more interconnected aspects. This is based on the particular conditions of our world. If all countries had the same property law to begin with, we would see that more interconnected parts of the property system remain the same—they would remain convergent. Less interconnected parts of the property system, given that they cannot become more convergent, and they vary more, will become relatively divergent. Of course, this is not our world. We live in one where the common and civil law have very different starting points (styles) in terms of property law.[23] The civil law system is also inherently plural. Hence, what is more interconnected has different starting points and remains divergent, whereas what is less interconnected could diverge or converge due to one or more of the three forces laid out above. By contrast, the basic structure is highly systemic and so should show more convergence than do more structurally peripheral aspects. And among styles of property law, we should expect those that are connected to the rest of the law to retain their greater diversity. Our theoretical framework is summarized in Table 1.

Aided by a unique data set on property laws in 119 jurisdictions in the world (see Figure 1),[24] we find that many property issues, as of 2015, are still framed in drastically different fashions. For instance, in civil law countries, rei vindicatio—the action to force someone to return possession of a thing to its owner—is the major right of a property owner, while this expression is almost nontranslatable into a legal term in English (“revindication” is the usual English word, which means nothing to common-law lawyers). Property owners in the common law, of course, are generally well protected—by different means with different labels (trespass, conversion, replevin, and so forth).

Structures of property, on the other hand, do appear to converge. Most jurisdictions, in their civil codes or case law, address the same types of property issues. This suggests that the problem of serving property’s functions at positive information cost everywhere creates the same disputes. Uncertainty over titles to real or personal property gives rise to the adverse possession doctrine. High costs of verifying true owners of movables put on sale lead to the good-faith purchaser doctrine.[25] Use rights and security rights, while often bearing very different names (for example, the land charge in England is functionally equivalent to the Reallast in Germany), are staples in virtually all property systems. Moreover, jurisdictions around the globe adopt only around ten limited property forms, and many jurisdictions explicitly reserve to the legislature the power to create new forms.[26]

The exact contents of property doctrines do not necessarily converge. Lawmakers around the world face the same issue of positive information costs, but the same problem does not always call for the same solution. Information costs only force legal systems to come up with a solution, but often anything goes.[27] Many, if not most, doctrines mix structural and stylistic aspects. When lawmakers for any reason settle on a solution, etched in civil codes or leading cases, they do not always have strong reasons to change the solution to become more like other jurisdictions.

Specifically, concrete solutions are more likely to converge if the doctrine in question is more isolated from other doctrines. This is true of structural and especially of stylistic aspects of law. In an interconnected doctrine, such as the definition of possession, convergence (indeed, any deviation from the status quo) requires moving other pieces in the whole system to go along with the change.[28] Especially in the civil law world, the fear of unintended consequences in changing a foundational doctrine in a civil code could kill any proposal for deviation. France and Germany each have their own conceptual system of possession, which is hard to uproot after hundreds of years of doctrinal interpretation. When European scholars proposed the Draft Common Frame of Reference,[29] they neither found common ground nor simplified the concept. Instead, they managed to keep the two conceptual systems of possession together—creating a lot of confusion and contradiction.[30] By contrast, a “downstream” doctrine that is more isolated from other doctrines has more wiggle room, as, in the worst-case scenario, a failed experiment would not drag the whole system down with it. Co-ownership partition is a prime example of such a doctrine. The aforementioned data show that ninety-one jurisdictions (77%) prefer partition in kind and allow partition by sale.[31] The widely adopted condominium form is another example.[32]

To be sure, we do not claim that isolation and interconnection are the only reason for doctrines to converge or diverge. Many other factors—the benefit of convergence, for one—affect lawmakers’ decisions. That is, large benefits of convergence may push interconnected doctrines toward convergence. Europe’s effort in streamlining registration of mortgages is a case in point. By contrast, small benefits of convergence will leave isolated doctrines untouched. Doctrines related to accession and finders are two examples.

In addition, rigorously testing convergence and divergence empirically would require a panel data set with 100 plus jurisdictions over the past several decades. Powered by such a panel data set, scholars could chart the evolution of property doctrines to examine whether they were the same or different in the beginning or became similar or dissimilar to one another over time. Unfortunately, no such data sets are available. Our approach is to use property laws around the world in 2015 as a snapshot and inquire whether they are the same (convergent) or still different (divergent).

I.  Convergence in Structure

Our first proposition is that property systems will converge in terms of their structure. The structure of property law responds to function more than does what we call “style.” The latter is a way of achieving a function that could easily be different, and it functions mainly as a method of communication among actors in a legal system. Because structure is functionally motivated in a deeper and more thorough sense, we expect that similar functional needs will be reflected in similar property structures—to the extent that property law responds to those functional needs. We further hypothesize that some very basic functions served by property law systems, and important constraints on the devices each system utilizes, are prevalent across jurisdictions. We are not yet in a position to test this proposition comprehensively. Nevertheless, highly suggestive illustrative evidence is available from our snapshot of 119 jurisdictions. In this Section, we will present evidence from devices, like adverse possession, that respond to the cost of verifying titles and from principles, like the limited number of property forms, that manage information costs.

A.  High Information Costs of Verifying Titles

The information costs for potential transactors to verify the identities of current owners have been high everywhere most of the time throughout history. Therefore, countries around the world, through legal transplants or imitations, develop similar strategies for reducing the expenditure of information costs to reasonable levels. Well-known doctrines such as adverse possession and good-faith purchase are cases in point. Indeed, 82 of the 119 jurisdictions (69%) have adverse possession doctrines that enable, at a minimum, good-faith possessors to acquire ownership of items of personal property. In 11 additional jurisdictions (9%) that are greatly influenced by French law, there is no need for an adverse possession doctrine for movables, as possessors of movables are immediately presumed to be the owners. 108 of the 119 jurisdictions (91%) have the good-faith purchase doctrine or the French doctrine that presumes all possessors to be owners. 108 of the 119 jurisdictions (91%) have an adverse possession doctrine that at least enables goodfaith possessors to acquire ownership of land.[33] Notably, 20 jurisdictions explicitly limit the application of the adverse possession doctrine to unregistered land. Since the main justification for the adverse possession doctrine in the contemporary world is clearing titles and aligning the gap between de jure and de facto ownership arising from high information costs,[34] a categorical rule that excludes registered land makes sense, as information costs for verifying titles to registered land should not be high.

B.  Limitations on the Number and Kinds of Property Forms

As property has in rem effects, a large number of limited property forms carved out of ownership create information costs for all potential transactors; they need to discover, understand, and price the encumbrance of such rights on real and personal property. One popular way to control the level of such information costs is to adopt a closed system, the numerus clausus, under which only the legislature can invent new property forms. As Figure 2 shows, 50 of the 119 jurisdictions (42%) explicitly stipulate the numerus clausus principle. Those that do not, such as states in the United States,[35] may endorse and enforce it in practice without promulgating the principle in statutes. Countries like South Korea and Taiwan allow custom to create new forms, but in practice very few, if any, new forms have been recognized through custom. Some systems, like those of Norway[36] and South Africa,[37] purport to have a numerus apertus (or open number) of forms, but in practice are quite strictly closed. Likewise, even Spain’s numerus apertus system is heavily limited by its registrars’ reluctance to register new forms.[38]

Another way to control information costs is to adopt only a small number of property forms. The recursive nature of property forms and, in common law jurisdictions, the existence of the trust, to a large extent make unnecessary a significant number of forms.[39] Basic forms, such as the mortgage and the usufruct (leaseholds and life estates being partial functional substitutes), go a long way in increasing the value of property. The data set we use includes twenty-six types of limited property forms.[40] Figure 3 shows that most countries have around ten forms. (The North Korean Civil Code contains zero limited property forms.) Certain forms are core, with high adoption rates: easement (99%), mortgage of real properties (98%), pledge of personal properties (97%), pledge over rights (82%), usufruct (82%), and rights of retention (roughly, the combination of artisan’s lien, mechanic’s lien, and warehouseman’s lien) (76%).[41]

II.  Divergence in Interconnected Doctrines

We do not expect convergence across the board. Instead, doctrines that are more interconnected with the rest of the system of property law should be expected to resist convergence if they start out in a divergent state. Such divergence will be a possibility mainly for stylistic aspects of property law because of the structural convergence explored in the previous section. An interconnected doctrine is difficult to change because the change will cause more severe and widespread knock-on effects throughout the law. Thus, our second proposition holds that more interconnected doctrines will show more stylistic divergence (and as taken up in the next Section, less interconnected doctrines will tend to show more stylistic convergence across property systems). We illustrate interconnected doctrines in the areas of possession, sales, and temporal divisions of property.

A.  Possession

Possession is the root of many property law doctrines, such as adverse possession, first possession, delivery of items of personal property for purposes of sale, good-faith purchase, and so forth. That the law recognizes something along the lines of possession is structural and is convergent across legal systems. As Professor Thomas Merrill points out,[42] possession is a common-sensical cue that ordinary persons in everyday life can understand. Moreover, using possession as a proxy for boundaries helps enforce the exclusion-based structure of property. But what kind of possession doctrine to implement in the law is stylistic and interconnected. That is, the specific definition of possession, while only different on the margins, is difficult to change. We see this at work in civil law jurisdictions, where several versions of intention requirements for possession exist, as shown in Table 2. By contrast, one has a hard time identifying judicial or statutory definitions of possession in common law jurisdictions, even though they have the same second-order doctrines (adverse possession and so forth).[43]

 We doubt that in practice any such intention requirement will make a substantial and substantive difference, and yet, the doctrine has not converged. Perhaps more controversially, we also doubt in practice whether no-intention or animus domini as a precondition for possession has any real world consequences. Still, the doctrine remains divergent, probably because possession is a fundamental concept and lawmakers worry that changes in definition may bring unintended consequences. Possessory notions are not only important for protecting property rights through trespass and conversion, but they also play a role in doctrines like original acquisition and adverse possession—even in animal torts, as possessors of animals in Germany and Taiwan are liable in tort when the possessed animals injure other human beings.[44] Aspects of possession intersect with bailment and with agency, security interests, and the like. A change in the definition of possession might have implications throughout property law, which might require adjustment in those areas.

Jurisdictions differ in their choices in defining possession along other dimensions as well. Twelve non-common-law jurisdictions (10%) banish “agents in possession” (that is, employees relative to their employers) from the ranks of possessors, as do several common-law jurisdictions that distinguish possession on the one hand and custody or occupation on the other hand.[45] Thirty-seven jurisdictions (31%) prefer the concept of détention (physical control along with a purpose to control on behalf of others), and provide that a person with only détention is not a possessor.

B.  Sales

What constitutes a valid sale is highly divergent across jurisdictions.[46] To transfer title to movables, in fifty-eight jurisdictions (49%) a valid sale contract itself does the trick; in fifty jurisdictions (42%), delivery (possession changing hands) is sometimes or always required; and in nine jurisdictions affected by English law, a title transfers when parties intend it to.[47] Clearly, sales are connected with a complicated web of other property doctrines—for instance, do constitutum possessorium (in which the original owner becomes a mere possessor for the acquirer of the item in question)[48] and attornment (in which the seller agrees to assign to the buyer the right to reclaim the thing in question from a third party) count as delivery by default?[49] Is there a “real agreement” (dingliche Einigung) in addition to the sale contract?[50] Are the two levels of contracts always invalid at the same time?[51] Are the services of notaries or attorneys required to execute sale contracts? And so on. For a jurisdiction to change from an intention-based system to a delivery-based system, many foundational principles have to make way.

Sales of immovables are also a case in point. In fourteen jurisdictions (12%), a valid sale contract is sufficient to sell land and buildings. In thirty-seven jurisdictions (31%), recording creates an “opposability effect” to third parties.[52] In sixty-three jurisdictions (53%), registration is necessary. Twelve of these sixty-three jurisdictions conceptualize a real agreement as one necessary element in a sale. Here, it is apparent that changing the doctrine creates ripple effects on the design of the register and the markets of middlemen and professionals. Interestingly, anecdotal evidence suggests that in France and Japan, two opposability countries, basically all sales of real estate are recorded. Hence, if they move away from opposability and require registration as a precondition for valid transfer, market practices would not need to change at all. The behaviors of sellers, buyers, and third parties would be the same. Still, there is no sign that France and Japan are making the change.

C.  Temporal Division of Property

Only 13 of the 155 jurisdictions, all with common-law heritage, recognize future interests. This is one feature that maps onto the common-civil division perfectly. Another is the property-form trust (as opposed to a trust-like contract that lacks the features of property).[53] This feature can be expected to remain stable for a long time, because recognizing future interests or trusts would change the highly interconnected civil-law concept of ownership.

III.  Convergence in Isolated Doctrines

As opposed to interconnected doctrines that tend to resist convergence and so tend to diverge, more isolated doctrines will tend to converge more across legal systems. We illustrate this with an analysis of the convergence in co-ownership and condominium doctrines, which can be altered without massive ripple effects through the rest of property law. These doctrines exhibit the expected convergence across jurisdictions.

A.  Co-Ownership: Management, Sale, and Partition

Doctrines regarding co-ownership demonstrate our point that convergence and divergence depend greatly on whether the doctrines are isolated or interconnected. This Section shows that voting rules for managing and selling co-ownership are more divergent than rules regarding judicial partition of co-ownership. Both sales and partitions end the co-ownership; co-ownership doctrines will not apply after sales and partitions. Doctrines related to solo ownership apply to solo-owned things after sales and partitions of those things, just as for other things that have never been co-owned. Between the two, we also expect the voting rules for sales to be more divergent than the partition rules, as the former have to interact with the voting rules for management. For example, lawmakers are unlikely to set the voting rules for sales at super-majority voting if the voting rules for management require consensus. In comparison, partition is a unilateral right of any co-tenant, and judges usually have wide discretion as to the details of partition. Hence, judicial partition rules may change on the books while partition practices remain the same,[54] making it easier for them to converge.

By contrast, a covenant to manage tenancy-in-common property among cotenants means that the complex relationship continues to exist. Lawmakers have to consider, in a whole package, how to structure other dimensions of co-ownership. For instance, is there a duration cap to a management covenant? If a covenant cannot be established without consensus, it is more reasonable to allow it to last longer. In addition, can a management covenant include a covenant not to partition during the agreed term of the management? (Seventy-six jurisdictions allow it.) Can courts end such a covenant not to partition should circumstances mandate it? (Twenty jurisdictions stipulate a rule like this.) Under what conditions does a management covenant bind transferees of shares? (Forty-one jurisdictions stipulate a rule like this regarding real property, whereas twenty-four jurisdictions do so regarding personal property.) Hence, countries cannot easily adopt new voting rules for managing co-owned properties, as property policies in other doctrines would need to change as well.

 Tables 3 through 5 are consistent with our predictions. Regarding the voting rules for managing co-owned properties, both the majority rule and the consensus rule have a substantial number of supporters, but neither is adopted in more than half of the jurisdictions.[55] In addition, multiple voting rules that are more complicated are adopted, too. As for the voting rules for selling co-owned properties, Table 4 demonstrates that a majority of jurisdictions favor the consensus rule,[56] and the 119 jurisdictions have converged to three simple rules: consensus, majority, and super-majority voting. As for judicial approaches to partition, one rule (partition in kind is preferred and partition by sale is the second choice) is adopted in 60% of the jurisdictions. Two other popular approaches still prefer partition in kind and allow partition by sale, and only add additional options.

 

 

B.  Condominium

The condominium form is another example of a discrete device that shows convergence across jurisdictions. The condominium form was quickly recognized in at least eighty-nine jurisdictions (75%) after its invention.[57] The condominium form is used almost exclusively in residential buildings, and by definition is not applicable to land, so recognizing this form would not mess up the co-ownership regime in land. Late-coming lawmakers can choose any form to structure high-rise residential buildings. For one, they can opt for the cooperative, but only one jurisdiction, Pakistan, recognizes the cooperative while not recognizing the condominium. As it turns out, many jurisdictions adopt the condominium form,[58] as it does not interfere with existing doctrines.

Conclusion

Using data from 119 countries in 2015, we test the relationship between the interconnectedness of property doctrine and the degree of convergence and divergence in those doctrines across countries. Structural aspects of property, especially those that are in rem, tend to be integral to the system of property law, and as expected, we find that strategies for verifying titles and the limits on the number of property forms do indeed show convergence across legal systems. When it comes to more stylistic aspects of property, we find the expected contrast between those that are more and those that are less interconnected with the rest of property law. Because property solves the problem of managing uses at positive information cost, and network effects lead to path dependence, we expect interconnected doctrines to show more variation across countries, given the different starting points that many countries exhibit. Lynchpin doctrines like possession, sales, and temporal division diverge across countries, while more isolated doctrines involving features of co-ownership such as sale, partition, and condominium show greater convergence. We leave the dynamic implications of our functional account for further work. Even in the snapshot we are able to offer here, the picture of property that emerges is one in which the functions of property law play out differently depending on their integration into the overall system.


[*] *. We thank Richard Epstein, Saul Levmore, Charles Delmotte, Adam Mossoff, Ariel Porat, Christopher Serkin, and WU Ying Chieh for helpful comments and the Classical Liberal Institute at New York University for inviting us to present at the Convergence and Divergence in Private Law Symposium held at the New York University School of Law on November 2–3, 2018.

[†] †. Research Professor & Director of Center for Empirical Legal Studies, Institutum Iurisprudentiae, Academia Sinica, Taiwan. J.S.D., New York University School of Law. Email: kleiber@sinica.edu.tw. This Article is funded by Academia Sinica’s Career Development Award 106-H02. For coding of property law in the 100 plus jurisdictions, I thank my research assistants over five years from Taiwan, Peru, New Zealand, India, Israel, Colombia, China, Hong Kong, Singapore, Uganda, Turkey, France, and South Africa. They are Winnie Awino, Harika Bakaraju, Gahli Berger, Paloma Carreno, Jung-Han Chang, Danlin Chang, Gina Chavarry, Meng-Xin Cai, Chih-jui Chen, Tzu-Yuan Chu, Yichen Chu, Gital Dames, Huseyin Guzeler, Melanie Lee, Ingrid Lee, Christina Lee, Calvin Lim, Tin-jun Liu, Hannah Musgrave, Maria Oluyeju, Anne-Line Schwint, Zun Wei and Daniella Weinrauch. The librarians at the University of Chicago Law School and Cornell Law School provided great help in identifying foreign law materials when I was a visiting professor there. Some of the aforementioned research assistants are LL.M. students at Chicago and Cornell. The University of Chicago Law School also covered the expenses for the LL.M. research assistants. The law library at the University of Iowa College of Law also provided me with foreign legal materials when I was the Bonfield Fellow for 2016. Prof. XU Guodong, though we have never met in person, allowed me to photocopy his civil code collections.

[‡] ‡. Fessenden Professor of Law and Director of the Project on the Foundations of Private Law, Harvard Law School. Email: hesmith@law.harvard.edu. For her excellent research assistance, I would like to thank Kelsey Mollura.

 [1]. See N. Stephan Kinsella, A Civil Law to Common Law Dictionary, 54 La. L. Rev. 1265, 1268, 1287 (1994).

 [2]. See Brian Angelo Lee & Henry E. Smith, The Nature of Coasean Property, 59 Int’l Rev. Econ. 145, 151–53 (2012); Thomas W. Merrill & Henry E. Smith, Making Coasean Property More Coasean, 54 J.L. & Econ. S77, S9394 (2011).

 [3]. For further discussion on employing things and their possession to manage this complexity, see Henry E. Smith, The Elements of Possession, in Law and Economics of Possession 65, 67 (Yun-chien Chang ed., 2015); Henry E. Smith, Property as the Law of Things, 125 Harv. L. Rev. 1691, 1701–08 (2012) [hereinafter Smith, Property as the Law of Things].

 [4]. See Henry Hansmann & Reinier Kraakman, The Essential Role of Organizational Law, 110 Yale L.J. 387, 393–94 (2000); Henry E. Smith, The Economics of Property Law, in 2 Oxford Handbook of Law and Economics: Private and Commercial Law 148, 152–54 (Francesco Parisi ed., 2017).

 [5]. See Henry E. Smith, Exclusion Versus Governance: Two Strategies for Delineating Property Rights, 31 J. Legal Stud. S453, S456–57 (2002).

 [6]. See Yun-chien Chang & Henry E. Smith, An Economic Analysis of Civil Versus Common Law Property, 88 Notre Dame L. Rev. 1, 4–5 (2012) [hereinafter Chang & Smith, Economic Analysis]; Yun-chien Chang & Henry E. Smith, Structure and Style in Comparative Property Law, in Research Handbook on Comparative Law and Economics 131, 132–33 (Theodore Eisenberg & Giovanni B. Ramello eds., 2016).

 [7]. See Anthony Ogus, The Economic Basis of Legal Culture: Networks and Monopolization, 22 Oxford J. Legal Stud. 419, 419–20, 423 (2002); see also Nuno Garoupa & Thomas S. Ulen, The Market for Legal Innovation: Law and Economics in Europe and the United States, 59 Ala. L. Rev. 1555, 1615–16 (2008) (discussing the monopolizing tendency of legal culture in Professor Anthony Ogus’s sense). For a new approach that uses the contents of property law quantitatively to categorize legal families, see generally Yun-chien Chang et al., Drawing the Legal Family Tree: An Empirical Comparative Study of 108 Property Doctrines in 128 Jurisdictions (June 28, 2017) (unpublished working paper) (available at https://ssrn.com/abstract=2993794).

 [8]. See Douglass C. North, Institutions, Institutional Change and Economic Performance 93–94 (1990); S. J. Liebowitz & Stephen E. Margolis, Path Dependence, Lock-In, and History, 11 J.L. Econ. & Org. 205, 206–08 (1995) (discussing the three different forms of path dependence); see also Paul A. David, Path Dependence, Its Critics and the Quest for “Historical Economics, in Evolution and Path Dependence in Economic Ideas 15, 18–32 (Pierre Garrouste & Stavros Ioannides eds., 2001) (making a case for the economic significance of path dependence); W. Brian Arthur, Competing Technologies, Increasing Returns, and Lock-In by Historical Events, 99 Econ. J. 116, 116–17 (1989) (discussing the potential of a dynamic model to capture technological lock-in).

 [9]. See Henry E. Smith, The Persistence of System in Property Law, 163 U. Pa. L. Rev. 2055, 2067–74 (2015).

 [10]. Lee Alston & Bernardo Mueller, Towards a More Evolutionary Theory of Property Rights, 100 Iowa L. Rev. 2255, 2260–65 (2015); see also Henry E. Smith, Complexity and the Cathedral: Making Law and Economics More Calabresian, Eur. J.L. & Econ. (July 14, 2018), https://doi.
org/10.1007/s10657-018-9591-x; Henry E. Smith, Comment, Property as Complex Interaction, 13 J. Inst. Econ. 809, 811 (2017). Professors Lee Alston and Bernardo Mueller note that their model with some but not complete epistatic couplings reflects a view of the bundle that gives it some structure. Alston & Mueller, supra, at 2267 & n.41 (quoting Henry E. Smith, Property Is Not Just a Bundle of Rights, 8 Econ J. Watch 279, 286 (2011) and citing Chang & Smith, Economic Analysis, supra note 6, at 21–26).

 [11]. Alston & Mueller, supra note 10, at 2267–68.

 [12]. E.g., Warren Weaver, Science and Complexity, 36 Am. Scientist 536, 539–42 (1948).

 [13]. Alston & Mueller, supra note 10, at 2262 & n.31 (citing Yun-chien Chang & Henry E. Smith, The Numerus Clausus Principle, Property Customs, and the Emergence of New Property Forms, 100 Iowa L. Rev. 2275 (2015)); see also Thomas W. Merrill & Henry E. Smith, Optimal Standardization in the Law of Property: The Numerus Clausus Principle, 110 Yale L.J. 1, 40–42 (2000).

 [14]. Chang & Smith, Economic Analysis, supra note 6, at 21–30; Yun-chien Chang, The Economy of Concept and Possession, in Law and Economics of Possession, supra note 3, at 10812 (arguing that ownership, not property, should be characterized as a bundle of rights); Smith, Property as the Law of Things, supra note 3, at 1709–10.

 [15]. See Chang & Smith, Economic Analysis, supra note 6, at 30–34; Smith, Property as the Law of Things, supra note 3, at 1709–10; cf. Thomas W. Merrill, Property and the Right to Exclude, 77 Neb. L. Rev. 730, 734–35 (1998); Thomas W. Merrill, Property and the Right to Exclude II, 3 Brigham-Kanner Prop. Rts. Conf. J. 1, 2–8 (2014) (arguing that exclusion is the sine qua non of property).

 [16]. According to Professor Harold Demsetz’s famous theory, once resources become more valuable, property rights are likely to emerge to internalize externalities. See Harold Demsetz, Toward a Theory of Property Rights, 57 Am. Econ. Rev. 347, 350 (1967). In this demand-side account, Demsetz assumed that this would in practice favor greater exclusion. For extensions of this theory that allow for the emergence of mixtures of exclusion and governance and that take into account the supply side, see Thomas W. Merrill, The Demsetz Thesis and the Evolution of Property Rights, 31 J. Legal Stud. S331, S333–38 (2002) (summarizing contributions to a symposium extending the Demsetz model to account for the supply of property rights, including non-exclusion-based rights).

 [17]. See Yun-chien Chang & Henry E. Smith, The Numerus Clausus Principle, Property Customs, and the Emergence of New Property Forms, 100 Iowa L. Rev. 2275, 2303 (2015) (noting that new property forms emerge from the commons arrangement).

 [18]. For an explanation of fitness landscapes and their peaks, see Alston & Mueller, supra note 10, at 226067.

 [19]. See Vernon Valentine Palmer, A Descriptive and Comparative Overview, in Mixed Jurisdictions Worldwide 17, 57 (Vernon Valentine Palmer ed., 2001); Kenise Kim, Mixed Systems in Legal Origins Analysis, 83 S. Cal. L. Rev. 693, 711–14 (2010).

 [20]. See C.G. van der Merwe, Interpenetration of Common Law and Civil Law as Experienced in the South African and Scottish Law of Property, 78 Tul. L. Rev. 257, 274–89 (2003).

 [21]. Cf. G. Marcus Cole, The Long Convergence: “Smart Contracts” and the “Customization” of Commercial Law, 92 S. Cal. L. Rev. 851, 855 (2019) (“[T]he law of one law.”).

 [22]. For further discussion on convergence and divergence, see generally Richard A. Epstein, The Necessity of Convergence in Private Law, 92 S. Cal. L. Rev. 751 (2019); Saul Levmore, Convergence and Then Downstream Divergence in Torts and Other Law, 92 S. Cal. L. Rev. 769 (2019).

 [23]. See Chang & Smith, Economic Analysis, supra note 6, at 36–54.

 [24]. The data set as a whole contains 155 jurisdictions. In this Article, we limit our attention to the 119 jurisdictions that either have a civil code or are English common-law jurisdictions (including Israel, South Africa, and Scotland, which are mixed jurisdictions that have been heavily influenced by English common law). Thirty-six jurisdictions are excluded because their property laws may have been less comprehensively identified. Thus, the data set’s lack of information regarding these jurisdictions may or may not reflect the underdevelopment of property law—it may not, in the case of Nordic countries.

  More specifically, the 119 jurisdictions studied here include the following: Afghanistan, Albania, Algeria, Angola, Argentina, Armenia, Australia, Austria, Azerbaijan, Bahrain, Belarus, Belgium, Bolivia, Brazil, Burkina Faso, Burundi, California, Cambodia, Cape Verde, Chile, China, Colombia, Comoros, Costa Rica, Cuba, Czech Republic, Dominican Republic, Ecuador, Egypt, El Salvador, England and Wales, Equatorial Guinea, Eritrea, Ethiopia, France, Georgia, Germany, Greece, Guatemala, Guinea, Guinea-Bissau, Haiti, Honduras, Hong Kong, Hungary, India, Indonesia, Iran, Iraq, Ireland, Israel, Italy, Ivory Coast, Japan, Jordan, Kazakhstan, Kuwait, Kyrgyzstan, Latvia, Libya, Liechtenstein, Lithuania, Louisiana, Luxembourg, Macau, Madagascar, Malaysia, Malta, Mauritius, Mexico, Moldova, Monaco, Mongolia, Mozambique, Netherlands, New York, New Zealand, Nicaragua, Niger, Nigeria, North Korea, Pakistan, Panama, Paraguay, Peru, Philippines, Poland, Portugal, Puerto Rico, Qatar, Quebec, Romania, Russia, Rwanda, São Tomé and Príncipe, Scotland, Seychelles, Singapore, Slovakia, South Africa, South Korea, Spain, Switzerland, Syria, Taiwan, Tajikistan, Thailand, Timor-Leste, Togo, Tunisia, Turkey, Turkmenistan, Ukraine, United Arab Emirates, Uruguay, Uzbekistan, Venezuela, and Vietnam.

 [25]. See infra Section I.A.

 [26]. See infra Section I.B.

 [27]. Cf. Levmore, supra note 22, at 77076, 783; Giuseppe Dari-Mattiacci & Carmine Guerriero, Divergence and Convergence at the Intersection of Property and Contract, 92 S. Cal. L. Rev. 809, 81314, 83134 (2019).

 [28]. See infra Section II.A.

 [29]. Vanessa Casado Perez & Carlos Gomez Liguerre, From Nuisance to Environmental Protection in Continental Europe, 92 S. Cal. L. Rev. 1003, 102224 (2019).

 [30]. See Yun-chien Chang, The Problematic Concept of Possession in the DCFR: Lessons from Law and Economics of Possession, 5 Eur. Prop. L.J. 4, 11–23 (2016).

 [31]. See infra Section III.A.

 [32]. See infra Section III.B.

 [33]. For a more detailed analysis of adverse possession doctrines in the surveyed jurisdictions, see Yun-chien Chang, The Many Faces of Adverse Possession (2019) (unpublished working paper) (on file with authors).

 [34]. See Abraham Bell, Title in the Shadow of Possession, in Law and Economics of Possession, supra note 3, at 320–21; Thomas W. Merrill, Property Rules, Liability Rules, and Adverse Possession, 79 Nw. U. L. Rev. 1122, 1129 (1985).

 [35]. See Merrill & Smith, supra note 13, at 9–11, 23–24, 60.

 [36]. Although in terms of law on the books, Norway does not have a numerus clausus principle and may even be said to have a numerus apertus principle, strong norms of legal practice and a high degree of consensus about background norms may serve to constrain the nonlegislative creation of new property forms—an event that rarely occurs. On the pragmatic nature of Norwegian property law, see generally Geir Stenseth, The Importance of the Social Function of Property—Norway, in The Social Obligation Norm of Property and its Contemporary Relevance (Jessica Viven-Wilksch & Paul Babie eds. trans., 2d ed. forthcoming 2019). For similar reasons, Norwegian law can be more accommodating of custom without creating a serious information-cost problem for third parties. See generally Peter Ørebech, Western Scandinavia: Exit Bürgerliches Gesetzbuchthe Resurrection of Customary Laws, 48 Tex. Int’l L.J. 405 (2013) (discussing the role that customary law has played in Western Scandinavia).

 [37]. South Africa may be said to have a soft numerus clausus principle that differs little in its results from a more conventional numerus clausus. See C.G. van der Merwe & M.J. de Waal, The Law of Things and Servitudes 43–44 (1993); Hanri Mostert & Leon Verstappen, Practical Approaches to the Numerus Clausus of Land Rights: How Legal Professionals in South Africa and the Netherlands Deal with Certainty and Flexibility in Property Law, in 8 Modern Studies in Property Law 351, 351–52, 370–71 (Warren Barr ed., 2015).

 [38]. In Spain, any real property right can be registered. See Ley Hipotecaria art. 2 (B.O.E. 1946, 58); Reglamento Hipotecario art. 7 (B.O.E. 1947, 106). In practice, the set of forms is not completely open, because the Spanish registrar ends up standardizing the formsthe Dirección General de los Registros y del Notariado, an office within the registrar, decides whether a right has the nature of real property. Nonetheless, there are examples where the Spanish registrar accepted new forms of real rights that had not had formal legal recognition. We thank Vanessa Casado Perez for this point.

 [39]. See Henry E. Smith, Standardization in Property Law, in Research Handbook on the Economics of Property Law 148, 152–53 (Kenneth Ayotte & Henry E. Smith eds., 2011).

 [40]. Temporal forms such as reverters and remainders in the fee system are excluded. A few idiosyncratic forms that only exist in one or two countries (such as China) are also excluded. Our statistics thus may slightly underestimate the number of property forms in some countries, but our basic takeaway lesson remains the same. Note that ownership and co-ownership are not counted as limited property forms.

 [41]. Regarding such a lien in, say, Taiwan, see Yun-chien Chang et al., Property and Trust Law in Taiwan 128–29 (2017).

 [42]. Thomas W. Merrill, Ownership and Possession, in Law and Economics of Possession, supra note 3, at 9.

 [43]. For a classic statement of skepticism that there is anything to unify notions of possession across areas of U.S. property law, see Burke Shartel, Meanings of Possession, 16 Minn. L. Rev. 611, 611–13 (1932).

    [44].              Chang, supra note 14, at 122.

 [45]. Ramakarane v. Centlec (Pty) Ltd. 2016 (51) ZAFSCH at 17 (S. Afr.), http://www.saflii.org/za/
cases/ZAFSHC/2016/51.pdf (“‘[P]ossession’ means the physical or corporeal holding of the document pursuant to the right to its possession, as in the case of an agent or bailee; ‘custody’ means the mere actual physical or corporeal holding of a document, regardless of the right to its possession, as in the case of a servant . . . .”); Brigitta Lurger & Wolfgang Faber, Principles of European Law on  Acquisition and Loss of Ownership of Goods 395 (2011) (“In England and Ireland, the term ‘custody’ is used to denote cases where the physical control is in a person’s hands, but the results of the possession are attributed to the possessor proper.”); Dilan Thampapillai et al., Australian Commercial Law 11 (2015) (“Custody will occur where a party is holding the goods, but they do not have ownership or possession at law.”); Bruce Ziff, Principles of Property Law 136 (6th ed. 2014) (observing that Canadian law distinguishes custody and possession but considering such a distinction “arcane”); Possession and Custody in the Law of Larceny, 30 Yale L.J. 613, 615 (1921) (pointing out that a servant is in custody while the master is in possession).

 [46]. As with possession, whether to provide for sales is quite structural and convergent, but deciding what constitutes a sale is stylistic and interconnected—and quite divergent, as discussed in the text.

 [47]. See Yun-chien Chang, Wealth Transfer Laws in 153 Jurisdictions: An Empirical Comparative Law Approach, 103 Iowa L. Rev. 1915, 1932–40 (2018).

 [48]. See Cases, Materials and Text on Property Law 817 (Sjef van Erp & Bram Akkermans eds., 2012).

 [49]. See Chang, supra note 47, at 1939–40 tbl.1.

 [50]. Real agreement, a German concept, “describes the meeting of minds during registration for real properties and delivery for personal properties as a separate, thing-related contract. That is, it takes two contracts and registration to transfer titles to real estates.” Id. at 1926 (citation omitted).

 [51]. See id. at 1927–28.

 [52]. In these jurisdictions, once a real estate sale contract is consummated, it binds the seller, and between the two transacting parties, the ownership is considered transferred to the buyer. If the transfer is not registered, and later the original seller sells the real estate to a third party who registers, the third party (second buyer) will become the owner, as against the first buyer and everyone else in the world. If instead the first buyer registers the transfer, it creates an opposability effect against everyone. Hence, no later buyer who buys from the original owner will become the owner.

 [53]. The trust in East Asia is contract-based. See Lusina Ho & Rebecca Lee, Emerging Principles of Asian Trust Law, in Trust Law in Asian Civil Law Jurisdictions 259, 278 (Lusina Ho & Rebecca Lee eds., 2013).

 [54]. See Yun-chien Chang, Tenancy in “Anticommons”? A Theoretical and Empirical Analysis of Co-Ownership, 4 J. Legal Analysis 515, 536 (2012) (observing that a legal reform in Taiwan changed the judicial partition rule from no preference towards any mode to preferring partition in kind, but the percentages of partition in kind rulings before and after the reform remained constant).

 [55]. In twenty-one jurisdictions, we cannot find any rule regarding co-ownership management. We suspect that in the absence of any explicit rule, consensus is the most likely fallback option. Even if this is the case, consensus voting does not garner support from a majority of jurisdictions.

 [56]. If we count the twenty jurisdictions for which we cannot find explicit rules as adopting consensus voting, consensus voting is adopted in three-fourths of the jurisdictions.

 [57]. In seventy-eight of the eighty-nine jurisdictions, their civil codes provide for the condominium form. In the other eleven jurisdictions, it is other statutes that do so.

 [58]. Louisiana is an interesting exception. The condominium form is not included in its civil code at all and was only enabled by the Louisiana Condominium Act. This may be due to the ill-conceived claim by the Louisiana Supreme Court that the condominium form is “illegitimate under a civilian understanding of property.” See George M. Armstrong, Jr., Louisiana Condominium Law and the Civilian Tradition, 46 La. L. Rev. 65, 65 (1985) (citing Lasyone v. Emerson, 57 So. 2d 906 (La. 1952)).

 

The Necessity of Convergence in Private Law – Article by Richard A. Epstein

 

From Volume 92, Number 4 (May 2019)
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The Necessity of Convergence in Private Law

Richard A. Epstein[*]

I.  CONCERNING CIVIL AND NATURAL LAW

All peoples who are ruled by laws and customs partly make use of their own laws, and partly have recourse to those which are common to all men; for what every people establishes as law for itself is peculiar to itself, and is called the Civil Law, as being that peculiar to the State; and what natural reason establishes among all men and is observed by all peoples alike, is called the Law of Nations, as being the law which all nations employ. Therefore the Roman people partly make use of their own law, and partly avail themselves of that common to all men, which matters we shall explain separately in their proper place.[1]

This oft-quoted passage from The Institutes of Gaius sounds anachronistic to the modern ear, but the thesis of this Article is that, by staking out a strong claim for the convergence across diverse and separate legal systems, Gaius set private law on the right course for the better part of two millennia. To Gaius, the differences between legal systems were differences in form, which are critical in the day-to-day operation of any legal system but are all in the service of common ends. Namely, all successful private law systems aim to protect four fundamental relationships: the formation of marriage, the transfer of property, the enforcement of promises, and the control of private violence in all its various forms. The first three are amenable to the use of formalities in important transactions. The fourth, obviously, is not.

This is not to say that the substantive law in any of these areas is identical across all times and all legal systems. But the more modest claim is true: the variations across and within legal systems are likely to arise, as Professor Saul Levmore pointed out some time ago, on second-order questions that are so close on the merits that disagreement and inconsistencies are as likely to emerge.[2] But on matters that do go to human survival, those differences disappear. No community, however constituted, could long tolerate theft, trespass, murder, rape, or refuse to enforce any commercial promise. Quite simply, the control of aggression and advancing the gains from trade are too important to admit differences.

The natural law framework seized on these facts and should be understood in that light. But starting about one hundred years ago, resistance to Gaius’s formulation arose. There are few phrases today that make the modern lawyer recoil more than the two words “natural reason” or their close sidekick, “natural law.” To most modern lawyers—Professor John Finnis is the most notable exception[3]—the use of the term “natural” in legal discourse represents a giant categorical mistake. The laws of nature are those of physics, chemistry, and biology. These laws have to do with relationships between cause and effect in an immoral world devoid of interests, passions, emotions, and desires. The rules all refer to natural regularities, so that it is otiose to act as if a falling rock could disobey the laws of gravity. Human rules are strictly human inventions or, as David Hume—himself a Scotsman trained in Roman law—said long ago, the “artificial” conventions that structure human relationships.[4] Law, therefore, is just an instrumental tool that lets societies govern themselves. But for all his terminological tangles, Hume’s position is a less precise version of Gaius’s:

You may be thinking that if justice is granted to be a human invention then it too must be flimsy and impermanent in that way; but the cases are quite different. The interest on which justice is founded is the greatest imaginable, and extends to all times and places. It couldn’t possibly be served by any other invention.[5]

To avoid giving offence, I must here remark that when I deny that justice is a natural virtue, I am using the word ‘natural’ only as opposed to ‘artificial’ . . . . In another sense of the word, no principle in the human mind is more ‘natural’ than a sense of virtue, so no virtue is more ‘natural’ than justice. . . . Though the rules of justice are artificial, they aren’t simply decided on by some one or more human beings. And there’s nothing wrong with calling them ‘laws of nature’, if we take ‘nature’ to include everything that is common to our species, or even if we take it more narrowly to cover only what is inseparable from our species.[6]

Indeed, right after these statements Hume goes on, somewhat inaccurately, to state the central propositions of a just society dealing with the stability of ownership and the transfer of property, topics on which he clearly derives his basic classification from Justinian.[7] (Gaius had not yet been rediscovered when Hume wrote.) In A Treatise on Human Nature, Book III: Morals, Hume addresses “[t]he rules that settle who owns what.”[8] He begins by noting that “the stability of ownership is not only useful but outright necessary for human society,” and then proceeds to address the particular rules that resolve that question in individual cases.[9] Ultimately, his list is straight from Justinian: (1) occupation, (2) prescription, (3) accession, and (4) inheritance.[10] With these preliminaries established, it is possible to see why Gaius’s (as expanded in Justinian) position makes sense, by seeing how the overall system fits together.

First, neither Gaius nor Hume believe that some historical authoritative figure, whether divine or human, promulgated the law, nor does either appeal to some theory of logically necessary ethics to explain the emergence of any set of universal rules. Neither formulation hints at any kind of Kantian inevitably. Both think in terms of instrumentalist justifications for the law, obtained through the slow accretion by customary practice. Thus Hume writes: “[t]he rule concerning the stability of ownership comes into existence gradually, gathering force by a slow progression and by our repeated experience of the drawbacks of transgressing it; but that doesn’t detract from its status as a human convention.”[11]

In political terms, this last observation means that natural law arises before any state is in a position to generate the applicable rules. In light of the position of both Gaius and Hume, critics of the natural law tradition seriously misfire if, having satisfied themselves that laws do not enjoy the status of either logical or factual truths, they claim that laws are arbitrary dicta that societies can accept or reject at their will. Natural law, as an organizing concept, lasted for two millennia for good reason: it worked. Indeed, it only gave way during the progressive era in the United States under the legal realist movement, which often rested on the incorrect view that the imprecise nature of language makes it difficult to formulate legal rules at all,[12] or challenging to imply a set of sensible terms into any contract, statute, or constitution.[13] But the natural foundations are made of far sturdier stuff than its critics suppose. Natural law allowed successful societies to put together legal rules in order to maximize human well-being or flourishing in light of the laws of nature, including those of physics, chemistry, and, of course, biology. The uniformity that we see in the organization of private law practices reflects these underlying constraints on social organization.

My general claim about universality only applies to private law, which governs the relationships of ordinary individuals with each other on a plane of parity before the rise of the state. In practice, the well-organized state entrenches these rules in ways to improve its overall stability. Indeed, this is a view of natural law that is associated with John Locke and his Two Treatises of Government. It is wholly antithetical to Thomas Hobbes’s  earlier view on the same subject as expressed in his renowned work,  Leviathan.[14] Hobbes portrayed natural law as the system in which all individuals could do whatever they wanted in order to advance their self-interest because “the cardinal virtue” in the state of nature was the use of force and fraud so long (and until) one meets the strong resistance of some power.[15] In a state of nature, everyone keeps what he gains no matter how he gains it. On this grim view of human nature, the formation of any state will surely flounder for two reasons. First, the equilibrium will unravel. So long as one person thinks it advantageous to stay out, he poses a peril to all others and will inspire others to leave, until the defections snowball. Second, even if that problem can be surmounted, no leaders will know how to lead because they are bereft of any body of experience or judgment on which to rely.

Public law is, or at least can be, a very different beast. It necessarily arises in the city or state long after customary practices have created the body of rules that cope successfully with cooperation and conflict among ordinary individuals, often within a familial context. In contrast, any public law system, following Hobbes, often gives primacy of place to the arbitrary power of the sovereign who is now said to be the author (or at least ratifier) of all private law. Roman republicanism developed a complex system of divided checks and balances to guard against arbitrary power,[16] which informed American constitutionalism, as evidenced by the references to ancient institutions and practices found, for example, in The Federalist Papers.[17] But arbitrary power arises whenever one person or a small group manages to aggrandize their monopoly on the use of force within the territory, to use the useful definition of Max Weber.[18] It is not likely that anyone can devise a normative set of political practices from the Roman maxim, quod principi placuit legis vigorem habet—that which is pleasing unto the prince has the force of law.

Private law is quite different given the absence of one dominant person who can rig the rules of the game. In contrast to the public format, private law works under a built-in “impartial spectator” (Adam Smith)[19] or “veil of ignorance” (John Rawls) constraint,[20] because individuals do not know whether they will be injurers or victims, buyers or sellers, property owners or outsiders in any particular transaction. People are therefore forced to take a neutral perspective in formulating any rule. That process need not generate efficient rules. For many primitive societies were destroyed by internal conflict, even before being overwhelmed by external forces. But the position of ignorance pushes people toward an efficient solution: the rules that tend to lead to the largest level of social output. Since the pressures from scarcity and human imperfections exert a constant influence across different cultures, the solutions will tend to converge at least on matters of principle, because it is just too costly to flout the basic conditions of survival or what ancients and moderns alike, writing manifestly in the natural law tradition, dramatically called “self-preservation.”[21]

II.  THE PHYSICAL AND BIOLOGAL PRECONDITIONS OF CONVERGENCE

A.  Physics and Force

So, what are those conditions? They derive from the rules of physics and biology.

We start with the laws of physics, which contain terms such as force and power that are commonly carried over into every functioning legal system. This universal translation from physics to law does not represent some singular intellectual blunder endlessly repeated by all societies all over the world. The translation of the physical to the legal resonates because of this lockstep progression in three stages. First, the law of physics drives the development of language (and its universal grammar),[22] which in turn drives legal relations, including the prohibition on the law of force.

A person who has and can wield force against another has a huge advantage. The threat of the use of force can secure capitulation by individuals who prefer the surrender of property to the loss of life. Gravity is a universal constant. Height is always an enormous advantage, because the force of gravity is with you and not against you, which puts the underdog, literally taken, at a disadvantage. It is not for nothing that the holder of power receives the title “your highness,” while lower orders have to kneel and thus disarm themselves. People worry about having to fight an uphill battle, and fairness comes out of competing on a level playing field.

Leverage matters for power, just as Archimedes said that it would. It is for that reason that common law said that duress in the narrowest sense of the word always involves the creation of a choice—either surrender what you own or I shall inflict worse harm on you, your family, and your property. The reason duress is improper is not that it denies all choice, but that it denies, as Justice Holmes said, the choice that all individuals value most: the refusal to deal with other human beings at all by going their separate ways.[23] This notion is built into a universal grammar. The nominative refers to the person who exercises the force and the accusative to the person or thing to whom that force is directed. “He hit me” becomes the dominant mode of physical transformation. That transformation in turn becomes the causation of harm once it is demonstrated that the physical transformation from the application of force reduces the value of the person or thing to whom it is applied.[24] It is one thing to chisel a sculpture out of stone. It is quite another to destroy it, even if the same chisel can be used for both tasks.

B.  Biology and Marriage

Next comes biology. Here the imperative is reproduction so that persons can survive across generations. For human beings, the period of maturation everywhere is slow so that some provision has to be made to take care of the young before they are able to take care of themselves. For procreation and childrearing, the traditional forms of marriage are key. These tasks require the cooperation of male and female at both stages, typically through monogamous relationships, but often polygamous relationships as well. The legal rules create a “natural obligation” for parents to take care of children, long before the creation of the state, which rely on the common genetic bond to keep the relationship stable over time.

At this point, Gaius is surely correct that marriage is a uniform social arrangement. Hume, ever the nonskeptic, writes of “the natural appetite between the sexes, which brings them together and keeps them together ‘as a two-person society’ until their concern for their offspring binds them together in a new way.”[25] Because marriage is an important and infrequent relation (one does not get married every Tuesday), societies use formalities to mark off preliminary negotiations from actual marriage. That combination of high value and low frequency apply as well to land transactions and wills. Hence these transactions also generate requirements of formality, writing, and recordation. Historically, the same ceremony of mancipation—an uneasy cross between conveyance and fictitious judgment—applied to marriage and the conveyance of land and valuable herd animals.[26] Thus, on this point, Gaius is again correct to note that these forms—rituals, writings, witnesses, and recording—may vary from culture to culture even if the institution of marriage does not. The need for forms holds both when marriage is conceived of as a voluntary transaction between husband and wife, and, as was common historically, a conveyance of a daughter from the wife’s family to the husband, where dowries and obligations of support went hand in hand. Yet formalities often break down, so that all legal systems develop back-up rules, typically by allowing the perfection of title by long use—whether by cohabitation, adverse possession, or prescription. It was just these rules governing the “bonitar[y]” owner.[27] These are again rules that can admit of no exception even if the particulars of the prescriptive entitlement can vary.

C.  Property

The laws of physics and biology also set the conditions for the convergence, across societies, of the basic rules governing the acquisition and transfer of property. The rules governing the acquisition of private property reveal two distinct patterns and are resource specific.

For example, in no society do the rules governing water rights parallel those for land, chattels, and animals, which differ in lesser ways among themselves. The water rights start with the notion of common (res commune) property in a state of nature, whereby no one is in a position to exclude all others or to divert water solely for private use.[28] Again, the basic physics drives all water law systems because total privatization of the rivers and paths leads to endless balkanization. The value of water for transportation, for recreation, and for fishing are all lost if that water is put into a barrel. By the same token, in riparian systems some removal of water from the river is consistent with the preservation of the remainder for common use, which remains key to the overall picture. At no point, however, do the principles of riparian rights rely on the Lockean “labor theory” of property acquisition.[29] To be sure, any water properly taken out of a river is privately owned. But the customary rules place very different restraints on removal that have little or nothing to do with the two standard Lockean constraints: leave as much again and as good—which under scarcity can never be achieved—or the prohibition against waste.[30] Every riparian system rejects the notion of temporal priority for earlier riparians. It is designed to maximize total value subject to a distributional constraint of rough parity.[31]

Historically, legal enforcement followed these natural law rules. But the intensive use of water for transportation, fishing, and recreation could lead to overconsumption, which needs to be curbed without altering the basic relations among the various stakeholders, and the so-called public trust doctrine is a modern permutation whereby the Crown or state takes over operation of the river, not as an outside owner, but as a trustee whose duty is to maximize the value of the resource for all stakeholders.[32] Like other trustees, the public trustee is bound by rules against self-dealing and receives the protection of the business judgment rule for standard management decisions.

The rules for the occupation of land, animals, and chattels take the converse form, where temporal priority controls: prior in time is higher in right. But prior in doing what? The Roman and common law rule on priority keyed it to occupation,[33] a term that Hume used correctly in his Treatise,[34] coupled with his sound awareness of the common property status of air and water.[35] Locke, on the other hand, makes a cosmic error by adopting the so-called “labor” theory of acquisition, under which people acquire property by mixing their labor with some external thing.[36] So, why is the difference so critical? Under the occupation theory, the prospective taker need only do as little as possible to demarcate his property from the rest of the world. Hence the owner does not have to dissipate the surplus that he derives from efficient management, use, and development of the asset in order to perfect title in land or by capture of an animal. Obviously, there can be disputes as to when possession is acquired, whether it be by hot pursuit, wounding, or capturing. But these are low-level differences that do not reflect any major change in world view, given that they result in practice in the same outcome more than ninety-nine percent of the time.[37] By contrast, Locke’s labor theory of value makes it appear, wrongly, as though title is acquired only to the extent that labor is added, a decidedly Marxist conception wholly at odds with the common law rule.[38] The relative efficiency of the two rules should be instantly apparent. The labor theory of value results in a massive waste of resources, incentivizing prospective takers to labor as much as possible to claim the thing. If it takes $100 of labor to acquire land worth $100, why labor at all?

To be sure, a labor theory of value is relevant whenever two or more parties, as commonly happens, contribute inputs of property or labor jointly to the creation of a new product. In these cases, to get the right incentives, the best solution seeks to normalize the rate of return so as to maximize the total surplus from the property.[39] When it takes two ships to beach or capture a whale, the second crew has to divide the value with the first. Likewise, the finder who reports the whale to the ship that killed it receives, by custom, compensation for the services rendered, but cannot keep the whale or its sperm oil.[40] Again, these basic rules apply everywhere. The major weakness of these rules is that they lead to excessive capture of whales, but this is best handled by rules that limit catches, not by altering the rules of acquisition. And those institutional rules that set catch limits or other forms of hunting and fishing restrictions all require legislation or treaty for their implication.

We also see a convergence in the law of property transfers. Normally, standard contracts transfer property, but in some cases, transfer arises by mistake or theft. Here are three examples. First, consider the situation where A takes possession of land owned by B. Whether on purpose or by mistake, B always has the chance to recover that property for a decent interval before the statute of limitations runs. But A immediately gets good title against the rest of the world so that property does not fall into limbo once it is improperly taken. Thus, if A sues a later taker, T, T cannot defend by showing that B has the full title. Second is the circumstance where A mixes his labor or property with that of B. If A does it on purpose, he loses all claims. But if the action is done by mistake, the question arises how to respect the contributions of both parties.[41] Where the union can be easily undone, it is best to return to the status quo ante. But where the merger cannot be undone, the law allocates the thing to one party—usually the one who adds a distinctive component, preferring, for instance, the sculptor over the purveyor of the stone—but gives the other party just compensation for the material transferred. Last is the common situation where A takes the goods of B and sells them to C. If C knows that the goods are stolen, he has to return them to the owner. If he does not, there are complex rules to determine whether A or C prevails, and these differ as much within as across societies. But no one protects the thief. The basic natural law uniformity holds firm.

D.  Tort

This preoccupation with force is found through the law; for example, in the formation of the law of torts, physical aggression is always the greatest danger to social peace. Thus, the early English law of trespass starts with the direct application of force from one person to another. That rule applies to a person who puts his hand on your body, which in the Roman law carried with it the evocative name corpore corpori, or “by the body to the body.” But at this starting point, the same incremental extensions took place in both Roman law and common law systems. If you touch the clothing on the body, you touch the body as well. And if you use a stick, the transmission of force extends from the hand through a fixed object. Arrows and bullets are the direct application of force, even if they are no longer in the grasp of the archer or shooter, whether or not the blow was direct or a ricochet that just changed the direction of the arrow or bullet.

So casuistic extension is now tied to physics. Causation in law, as in life, has nothing whatsoever to do with some philosophical abstraction about “necessary” and “sufficient” conditions. The universality of physics explains why the laws of nature bear such a close connection to natural law. The physical reality is necessarily carried over into the grammar of every language by the use of a familiar list of transitive verbs—hit, pull, punch, kick, with a subject and a direct object. Indeed, in some complex cases both English and Latin use the hyper-transitive of the form “A made B hit C,” where B is both actor with regard to C and an object with respect to A. B is usually rendered in the accusative, so that A bears the ultimate responsibility. The difficult legal choices arise whenever A is out of the picture so that B becomes C’s only source of relief—a situation too infrequent in dealing with physical torts to destabilize any legal system.

This incomplete account sets the stage for many complications, of which I will mention only several here. The first involves joint causation, which in this narrow model occurs when F1 + F2 combine, additively, to cause the damage. Now deciding individual responsibility is much more difficult when some minimum level of force, Fx, has to be satisfied before physical harm—say the breaking of skin or bone—takes place. Thus, there is no clear apportionment mechanism between two forces, where F1 > F2, when the minimum force needed for harm is less than F1 + F2. Is either person alone responsible for the whole, or should the loss be split, and if so, how? Now the laws of physics do not explain the separation between parties, even if all these quantities are precisely known.[42] The problem takes on a special application, again in all systems, where F1 is supplied by the plaintiff and F2 is supplied by the defendant—in other words, on how contributory causation relates to contributory negligence.[43] No matter the legal system, this problem of joint causation is not advanced by the common, if illicit, strategy of converting a problem of physics into a pseudo-logical problem, by asking whether F1 or F2 is a necessary or sufficient condition. This formulation breaks down as the number of contributing forces increases, their relative size decreases, and purely natural forces contribute to the overall harm.

The rules governing force leave an enormous gap in every legal system: when the application of direct force ends, what happens to the theory of causation? To the modernist who thinks in terms of “but for” causation, the question is not worth a second thought. Nonetheless, the but for theory goes off the rails because it starts at the wrong end of the barrel. All serious theories of causation work out from direct causation; they do not work in from wildly remote theories of causation. No one argues that “but for the (negligent) discovery of America by Columbus, this accident would never happen,” which is why “but for” causation has no hold in civil law systems that start with corpore corpori cases.[44] Instead, causal arguments were historically extended through the “analogous action”—the actio in factum—to cover cases that the Romans called “causam mortis praestare,” or furnishing a cause of death.[45] The paradigmatic case was giving poison to someone who drank it of her free will, not knowing that it was poison. Similarly, cases in which one person set a trap for another—i.e., a concealed condition which represented apparent safety—into which someone else fell, was held liable as well even though the direct force came from the action of gravity on the body of the person. None of these cases involve the direct application of force, but in all systems the plaintiff’s mistaken action does not sever the causal chain as some “novus actus interveniens,” or new and intervening act. This argument is not peculiar to Roman law, for the exact same transformation took place in early English law with the rise of the action on the case—in other words, for particular facts—where the stock example was a horse stumbling over a log left in the road.[46] The plaintiff’s innocent application of force does not sever causal connection with the underlying dangerous condition.

When combined, these two theories of causation explain the tort of nuisance as with the release or noisome odors or fumes that that make their way from the defendant’s property—some directly and some not. These nuisances can be sprawling affairs, which place heavy pressure on private lawsuits, so that administrative remedies tend to dominate (except in cases of concentrated discharges by a few persons against a few persons). But since these permutations rest on undisputed physical facts, the substantive variations across legal systems are minor, even if the formal devices of joinder or regulation differ, at least in name, just as Gaius predicted.[47]

E.  Contract

The law of contracts facilitates the gains from cooperation and exchange. The first element of this project, of course, is to create some agreement between two (or more) parties. In some cases, this is easily accomplished with minimal fuss and bother, most notably in cases of the rapid exchange of low-valued goods and services, where speed is of the essence and formalities are unimportant. But many transactions, such as marriage, sale of land, formation of complex organizations, are for greater value and last far longer. In these situations, the second part of Gaius’s general rule, dealing with formality, kicks in to ensure the validity of the transaction. I have already mentioned the Roman use of mancipation for the transfer of land, certain herd animals, and slaves,[48] as well as marriage.[49] In medieval England, livery of seisin was a standard form for the conveyance of land, at least before it gave away to the deed under the Statute of Frauds.[50] Similarly, in contract law, the Romans required the match of an explicit question and answer system for stipulations—unilateral contracts that were used for the creation of debts and the delivery of property.[51] These formalities vary of course with time and technology. No Roman contract was verified by e-signature.

For our purposes, what matters is the uniform logic that determines the selective use of formalities. All contracts are subject to dispute about contractual language and performance. Any system of formality tries to limit the possibilities of error and fraud by the use of general precautions before the event. Such formalities help minimize the pressure on dispute resolution costs subsequent to formation by, among other things, dealing with the pesky problems of mistake, fraud, and duress that could arise over the life of a contract.[52] The overall ideal is to minimize the sum of both ex ante and ex post costs of administration and reduce uncertainty over the life of a transaction. This is usually done by ex ante precautions, both at the time of formation and over the course of the performance (for example, lien waivers).[53] Note that these formalities are never intended to limit the substantive terms of the agreement, either on price, subject matter definition, or conditions, and thus are quite different from regulations (for example, minimum wage or rent control) that impose substantive limitations on the terms of transactions and thus the possibilities of gains from trade. The exact remedial sanctions against the various parties can surely vary—consider nonenforcement, damages, and criminal punishments—but the basic entitlements remain remarkably constant throughout.

To be sure, there are some appropriate substantive limitations, which are usually tied to externalities against third persons that correlate with social costs. The two most salient candidates are contracts—now called conspiracies—to use force against third parties, and, in more modern times, contracts that impose unreasonable restraints of trade.[54] The rules against conspiracies to commit murder or robbery are rigorously enforced, precisely because the evident gains from cooperation between the coconspirators increase the probability and severity of an admitted negative externality, and hence have to be curbed.

Once the formality question is answered, the question of contract classification begins, and here too the Roman distinction between bona fide (good faith) contracts and stricti iuris (strictly enforced) contracts comes to pass. The line here is best illustrated by the extreme cases. The real risk in a loan contract is nonrepayment, for which there are few if any excuses. So the general rule is to have a strict law subject to a number of limited exceptions, each of which tends to be specially pleaded. But in a contract for sale, hire, or any permutation between them (for example, a contract for hire, with an option to buy), the obligations are much more fluid, and the sequence of performance on such matters as inspection or delivery are harder to identify. The bona fide limitation makes it clear that optimal cooperative behavior is required, but in the absence of any clear knowledge of what steps should be undertaken, the law retreats to a more global perspective.[55] So the basic good faith provision uses its generative capacity to articulate certain terms that help efficiency. For example, warranties of title protect against superior claimants, while warranties of merchantability cover defects in the condition of the sold product, both of which carry over into modern law in their original form.[56]

Complex contracts also raise sequence of performance issues where the performance of the seller, say, depends upon the performance of certain conditions by the buyer. For example, I do not have to deliver a large appliance to your home unless there is a safe mode of entry. As the permutations increase, the decision tree becomes more critical, and for each deviation from standard, a question could be asked: whether the party in breach is given the option to cure, whether damages or rejection or both is appropriate, and so on. These and similar arrangements arise everywhere in the law of sales, hire, agency, and partnership. Cooperation is required everywhere.

The matter is made more difficult because incompleteness of terms is a fixed feature of contracting. Yet once discharge by performance is not complete, one has to deal with implied excuses—mistake and frustration—and the choice of remedies. Ideally these issues are resolved by an explicit provision, and just that happens when a problem is recurrent and large. As to damages, restitution, reliance, and expectation damages cover many cases,[57] but, most emphatically, not the case of consequential damages after breach—for example, the lost profits that come when a small part in an airplane malfunctions, disabling the craft.[58] Thus, to eliminate the need to deal with complex mitigation issues, it becomes necessary to craft particular terms that set out the initial (or maximum) liability for breach in contracts for the carriage of goods. The standard form requires a designated sum that is small relative to the total damages, but large relevant to the price of the contract of carriage. That gives some assurance of delivery to the party whose goods are shipped, and a strong incentive to the party who receives and uses the goods to take steps to mitigate damages, which often involves the simple expedient of shipping the same goods by a different carrier over a different route. Again, these issues are not bound by time and place; the convergence tends to survive in modern times, unless of course displaced by statute.

Conclusion

The progression of this article runs as follows. It is evident that human beings have some traits in common and some on which they differ. The common traits drive every society to rules that understand that all persons fear death by the use of force and must guard against those forms of aggression and the close substitutes to it—for example, poisoning or setting traps. It also means that they must have ways in which to marry and propagate which, under the principles of natural love and affection, lead parents to care for each other, and in the other sense of care, care for their children. The law of property must regulate the acquisition, use, and transfer of various kinds of resources. Contract law facilitates gains from trade by bolstering the security of transactions, often by the use of formalities that reduce the overall cost of contractual enforcement. Hard cases are ever-present at the margins, but for the vast bulk of routine transactions, legal rules are relatively constant across time and space.

This collection of rules and practices were developed without regard to any conscious theory of utility or wealth maximization—concepts that were alien throughout much of our legal history. But the ancients did have a conception of human flourishing, which does supply the needed link between natural law theory and utilitarianism.[59] The translation is not that difficult to see. Flourishing looks like a biological term that applies to individual well-being. But it is easy to transform it into a social concept by noting that the flourishing of one cannot arise by attacking someone else’s person or property, or breaching promises. The effort to secure human flourishing for all anticipates the view that all social changes should be in search of Pareto improvements whenever possible,[60] with only narrow exceptions in cases of extreme imbalance.[61] I have long championed the view, and I have yet to see any powerful or systematic evidence to the contrary.

 

 


[*] *.  Laurence A. Tisch Professor of Law, the New York University School of Law, the Peter and Kirsten Bedford Senior Fellow, the Hoover Institution, and the James Parker Hall Distinguished Service Professor of Law Emeritus and Senior Lecturer, the University of Chicago. This paper was prepared for a conference on the convergence and divergence of legal systems, sponsored by the Classical Liberal Institute, and held at NYU Law School on November 2 and 3, 2018. My thanks to Jeremy Rozansky, University of Chicago Law School class of 2019, and Tiberius Davis and Denis Rondeau, University of Chicago Law School class of 2020, for their excellent research assistance.

 [1]. G. Inst. 1.1 (S. P. Scott, ed., trans., 1932). There is a parallel passage in the Institutes of Justinian. See J. Inst. 1.2.1 (J. B. Moyle, trans., Clarendon Press 5th ed. 1913).

 [2]. See Saul Levmore, Variety and Uniformity in the Treatment of the Good-Faith Purchaser, 16 J. Legal Stud. 43, 49 (1987).

 [3]. See John Finnis, Natural Law and Natural Rights 23­­­–30 (Paul Craig ed., 2d ed. 2011) (discussing the philosophy of law and religious ethics).

 [4]. David Hume, A Treatise on Human Nature, Book III: Morals 257 (Jonathan Bennett ed. 2017) (1740), https://www.earlymoderntexts.com/assets/pdfs/hume1740book3.pdf.

 [5]. Id. at 322.

 [6]. Id. at 260.

 [7]. J. Inst. 1.2.1.

 [8]. Hume, supra note 4, at 260.

 [9]. Id. at 260. For a discussion of the contrast between Locke’s labor theory of value and the traditional view on occupation as expressed by Gaius, Justinian and Hume, see infra text accompanying notes 3638.

 [10]. Id. at 261. For a brief commentary on each of these four modes, see Barry Nicholas, An Introduction to Roman Law 12040, 23441 (1962).

 [11]. Hume, supra note 4, at 254.

 [12]. See Richard A. Epstein, Linguistic Relativism and the Decline of the Rule of Law, 39 Harv. J.L. & Pub. Pol’y. 583, 601 (2016).

 [13]. See Richard A. Epstein, Our Implied Constitution, 53 Willamette L. Rev. 295, 298–99 (2017).

 [14]. Thomas Hobbes, The Leviathan (Prometheus Bks. 1988) (1651).

 [15]. Id. at 66.  Hobbes’s exact formulation was as follows:

To this warre of every man against every man against every man, this also is consequent: that nothing can be Unjust. The notions of Right and Wrong, Justice and Injustice have there no place. Where there is no common Power, there is no Law: where no Law, no Injustice. Force, and Fraud, are in warre the two Cardinall vertues. Justice, and Injustice are none of the Faculties neither of the Body, nor Mind.

Id.

 [16]. For an informative account on these connections, see M. N. S. Sellers, American Republicanism: Roman Ideology in the United States Constitution 4649 (1994).

 [17]. It is worth noting that The Federalist Papers were published under the name of Publius and explicitly referenced Roman institutions, history, and practice. The Federalist No. 6, at 24, 27 (Alexander Hamilton) (Buccaneer Books 1992); The Federalist No. 70 at 356, 361 (Alexander Hamilton) (Buccaneer Books 1992); The Federalist No. 38 at 182, 189 (James Madison) (Buccaneer Books 1992); The Federalist No. 63 at 321–22, 32425 (James Madison) (Buccaneer Books 1992).

 [18]. Max Weber, Politics as a Vocation (1919), reprinted in Max Weber: Essays in Sociology 77, 78 (H.H. Gerth & C. Wright Mills eds., trans., Routledge 1991) (defining the state as “a human community that (successfully) claims the monopoly of the legitimate use of physical force within a given territory” (emphasis in original)). Weber’s definition needs a lot of work to deal with dual sovereignty under the American constitution, for which clear lines are needed to separate state from federal spheres of sovereignty, both necessarily in the same territory.

 [19]. Adam Smith, The Theory of Moral Sentiments 10001 (MetaLibri 2006) (1759).

 [20]. John Rawls, A Theory of Justice 118–25 (Harvard Univ. Press rev. ed. 1999).

 [21]. Cicero, de Officiis 13, ¶ 11 (T.E. Page et al. eds., Walter Miller trans., William Heinemann 1913) (c. 44 B.C.E.).

First of all, Nature has endowed every species of living creature with the instinct of self-preservation, of avoiding what seems likely to cause injury to life or limb, and of procuring and providing everything needful for life—food, shelter, and the like. A common property of all creatures is also the reproductive instinct (the purpose of which is the propagation of the species) and also a certain amount of concern for their offspring.

Id.

 [22]. For the early claim, see Noam Chomsky, Syntactic Structures 49–50 (8th ed. 1969).

 [23]. Union Pac. R.R. v. Pub. Serv. Comm’n., 248 U.S. 67, 70 (1918) (Holmes, J.) (“It always is for the interest of a party under duress to choose the lesser of two evils. But the fact that a choice was made according to interest does not exclude duress. It is the characteristic of duress properly so called.”).

 [24]. See Richard A. Epstein, A Theory of Strict Liability, 2 J. Legal Stud. 151, 166 (1973).

 [25]. Hume, supra note 4, at 251.

 [26]. See G. Inst. 1.119 (discussing marriage); G. Inst. 2.14, 2.18, 2.22.23.

 [27]. Id. at 2.40 (discussing “bonitarian” ownership which is the fancy civilian term for the Latin which talks about these things as “in bonis,” or among the goods).

 [28]. See, e.g., J. Inst. 2.1.1.5.

 [29]. See John Locke, Locke’s Second Treatise of Civil Government 26 ¶ 27 (Lester DeKoster ed., William B. Eerdmans Pub. 1979) (1690).

Whatsoever then he removes out of the state of nature hath provided, and left it in, he hath mixed his labour with, and joined to it something that is his own, and thereby makes it his property. It being by him removed from the common state nature placed it in, it hath by this labour something annexed to it, that excludes the common right of other men.

Id.

 [30]. Id. at ¶¶ 24, 32.

 [31]. For further discussion on this topic, see Richard A. Epstein, On the Optimal Mix of Private and Common Property, 11 Soc. Phil. & Pol. 17 (1994); Richard A. Epstein, Property Rights in Water, Spectrum, and Minerals, 86 U. Colo. L. Rev. 389, 401 (2015).

 [32]. See Richard A. Epstein, The Public Trust Doctrine, 7 Cato J. 411, 411–12 (1987).

 [33]. See, e.g., G. Inst. 2.66.

 [34]. Hume, supra note 4, at 262.

 [35]. See id. at 256.

 [36]. Locke, supra note 29, 26 ¶ 27.

 [37]. See Richard A. Epstein, Possession as the Root of Title, 13 Ga. L. Rev. 1221, 1230 (1979).

 [38]. For discussion, see Richard A. Epstein, The Basic Structure of Intellectual Property Law, in The Oxford Handbook of Intellectual Property Law 25, 27–36 (Rochelle C. Dreyfuss & Justine Pila eds., 2018).

 [39]. For the rules on whale divisions, see Robert C. Ellickson, Order Without Law 191–206 (1991); Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., The Common Law 198–99 (Quid Pro Law Books 2010) (1881).

 [40]. See Ghen v. Rich, 8 F. 159, 162 (D. Mass. 1881).

 [41]. For discussion, see G. Inst. 2.73–79; J. Inst. 2.1.25.34.

 [42]. For a gallant exploration of these complications, see generally Mario J. Rizzo & Frank S. Arnold, Causal Apportionment in the Law of Torts; An Economic Theory, 80 Colum. L. Rev. 1399 (1980).

 [43]. For further discussion on this very problem, see Richard A. Epstein, Defenses and Subsequent Pleas in a System of Strict Liability, 3 J. Legal Stud. 165, 179–80 (1974).

 [44]. For discussion, see Reinhard Zimmerman, The Law of Obligations: Roman Foundations of the Civilian Tradition 988–96 (Oxford Univ. Press 1996) (1990).

 [45]. Dig. 9.2.6.8 (Ulpian, Ad Edictum 18) (Theodore Mommsen et al. eds., Univ. of Pa. Press 1965).

 [46]. See, e.g., Reynolds v. Clarke (1725) 92 Eng. Rep. 410, 41213 (KB).

 [47]. See, e.g., Restatement (Second) of Torts § 433B (Am. Law Inst. 1965).

 [48]. See G. Inst. 2.15–.18.

 [49]. Id. 1.119.

 [50]. See Hugh Evander Willis, The Statute of Frauds–A Legal Anachronism, 3 Ind. L.J. 427, 436 (1928).

 [51]. See G. Inst. 2.92–.116.

 [52]. See Lon L. Fuller, Consideration and Form, 41 Colum. L. Rev. 799, 799–801 (1941).

 [53]. Richard A. Epstein, Compounding Errors: Why Heightened Regulation and Taxation Are Bad Antidotes for Recessions and Income Inequality, 17 Theoretical Inquiries L. 711, 723–24 (2016).

 [54]. See Mitchel v. Reynolds (1711) 24 Eng. Rep. 347, 347 (Q.B.); see also Standard Oil Co. v. United States, 221 U.S. 1, 72–77 (1911) (carrying forward the limit on unreasonable restraints on trade into modern times).

 [55]. See G. Inst. 3.137.

Likewise, in contracts of this description the parties are reciprocally liable, because each is liable to the other to perform what is proper and just; while, on the other hand, in the case of verbal obligations one party stipulates and the other promises; and in the entry of claims one party creates an obligation by doing so, and the other becomes liable.

Id.

 [56]. U.C.C. § 2-312 (Am. Law Inst. 2018) (addressing title); Id. § 2-314 (addressing merchantability).

 [57]. See L. L. Fuller & William R. Perdue, Jr., The Reliance Interest in Contract Damages: 1, 46 Yale L.J. 52, 53–57 (1936).

 [58]. See Richard A. Epstein, Beyond Foreseeability: Consequential Damages in the Law of Contract, 18 J. Legal Stud. 105, 108 (1989).

 [59]. See Richard A. Epstein, From Natural Law to Social Welfare: Theoretical Principles and Practical Applications, 100 Iowa L. Rev. 1743, 1772 (2015) [hereinafter Epstein, From Natural Law to Social Welfare]; Richard A. Epstein, The Utilitarian Foundations of Natural Law, 12 Harv. J.L. & Pub. Pol’y 711, 719–29 (1989).

 [60]. Epstein, From Natural Law to Social Welfare, supra note 59, at 176672.

 [61]. Perhaps the most dramatic instance in which prior property rights were overridden because of the huge overall differences in output was Coffin v. Left Hand Ditch Co., 6 Colo. 443 (1882).

 

Convergence and Then Downstream Divergence in Torts and Other Law – Article by Saul Levmore

 

From Volume 92, Number 4 (May 2019)
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Convergence and then Downstream Divergence in Torts and other Law

Saul Levmore[*]

Introduction

All legal systems discourage theft, negligence, and other destructive behaviors, but they do so in disparate ways. They converge as far as many of their aims and starting points are concerned, but eventually they diverge in their details. My claim in this Article is that, at least in the case of tort law, there is a pattern to this descent. The divergence has a recognizable cause and is therefore fairly predictable. Specifically, I argue that convergence is associated with laws that are both efficient and attractivea term that conveys a shared ethical intuition in the society governed by these laws. Divergence, on the other hand, arises around rules or standards that are unnecessary on efficiency groundsbecause alternatives seem equally efficientand that do not reflect some commonly held ethical sensibility.[1] Inasmuch as these terms, as well as this ambitious claim, are open to debate, it is useful to consider a number of legal problems and treatments, both legislative and judicial, in order to clarify and appreciate the claim. The argument draws on elements of comparative law, the reality of shared ethical sentiments within a society, the economic analysis of tort theory, and the limits of empirical work. In this Article, the claim is limited to torts but, as suggestive examples will show, it can be turned into a conjecture that includes other areas of law,[2] and that pertains to both rules and standards.[3] It might also say something about areas in which law outsources decisionmaking to markets, but that subject is left for another day.

I.  Binary Constructions: Contributory and Comparative Negligence

In many jurisdictions, tort law long ago settled on an axiom that is binary in form: liability is assigned to a negligent party who caused harm; causation is also an all-or-nothing game. Law, more generally, vacillates between binary rules and smoother, multifactor ones. A either murdered B or did not; there is no punishment when there is a 30 percent chance that A did it. Similarly, in tort law’s treatment of negligently caused injuries, the long-standing tradition was, first, if C was 70 percent likely to have negligently caused D’s injury, C paid 100 percent, and second, that liability was completely forgiven when the injured party, D, was also negligent.[4] To be sure, there was, and remains, divergence at the first step because some activities were subject to strict liability; still, when this regimen was in force, liability was withdrawn in certain cases if the injured party’s negligence contributed to the injury.[5] Tort liability was thus regularly allornothing, or what I am calling binary, even when law might instead have shared liability between the injurer and injured parties. Several features of this characterization require examination. A newcomer to the legal system might ask where these categories came from and why they are necessary. A more difficult but somewhat tangential question is why and when laws come in binary form. This is especially relevant here, because the binary character is an important starting point for the claim that convergence is located where efficiency and shared ethical sentiments find common ground.

It is apparent that categories as well as binary rules facilitate simplified instructions to those who must make everyday decisions with legal threats hovering nearby, and this is itself a form of efficiency. Categories also smooth the work of government officials asked to judge or enforce laws. The more complicated an organization, and the lower the cost of false positives, the more attractive are binary rules. For example, a law requiring drivers to be at least sixteen years old might be sensible, even though age is an extremely rough proxy for what the law really wants of drivers, including skill, informed judgment, and an appreciation of risks. This is because the cost of barring skilled but underage drivers is low, especially when they are on notice not to invest in early training or in jobs that require them to drive, or where there is public transportation. It might be more efficient to count on insurance markets, concerned parents, or direct and cleverly designed fees to encourage safety training, or even to determine the age at which driving is permitted for particular individuals. However, generalization seems low cost and politically acceptable (note the hint of shared ethical intuitions here); it also makes enforcement easier as very young (illegal) drivers can be identified and removed. In fact, once automobiles came into wide use, virtually every jurisdiction established a minimum age requirement for drivers, as opposed to a standard or to no intervention by the state at all.

However attractive legal systems find binary categorization,[6] it comes at a cost. Categories can be foolish. Thus, people are unlikely to be entirely introverted or extroverted, or cruel or kind, however natural it may be to imagine these binary forms.[7] In some cases, binary legal judgments are attractive because more refined, multifactor decisionmaking is not only costlier to process but also likely to bring on the risk of corruption, at least where the new variables call for judgment rather than straightforward measurement. A standard gives a regulator more discretion, and thus invites common sense, but also abuse.[8] Binary rules make it easy to treat like cases alike, and thus lower a source of discontent by disappointed parties. Much of this is familiar from the rules-versus-standards literature, but some caution is required. An apparent rule might require a great deal of discretionary decisionmaking; thus, negligence and contributory negligence (discussed below), like “net income” in tax law and so many other legal “rules,” are better thought of as standards than as rules. This is in part why it is misleading to associate either binary or multifactor guidelines with what are conventionally described as rules.

The popularity of a negligence or strict liability approach, accompanied in the academic literature by a binary contributory negligence defense, is from this perspective unsurprising. Its efficiency is well known.[9] In the case of automobiles, for example, a driver has reason to be careful because he has no reason to expect that another driver will also be negligent in a way that causes the two to crash. The second driver also has reason to take care because she will know that recovery is unavailable if she does something like speeding out of a driveway without looking and is then hit (even) by another speeding vehicle unable to be stopped in time. Again, describing the law as binary, refers to the fact that liability is allornothing when it might easily have been shared between the two parties.

A more global explanation for the prevalence, or convergence, of the binary character of many laws, is that it suppresses evidence of voting paradoxes.[10] If a decision is to be made by multiple voters or other decisionmakers and there are more than two variables, it is easy for the decisionmakers to be unable to reach a stable result. They might cycle among the available options or be disgruntled when they can see, after the smoke clears, that a majority opposes the decision reached by a legislature or other body of voters that claimed to be governed by majority rule. A majority may prefer outcome X over Y, and then Y over Z, but Z might be preferred over X. Motion-and-amendment voting, found in legislatures around the world and popularized by Robert’s Rules of Order in the case of sizeable private organizations in the United States, finds a Condorcet winnerwhich is to say an option that defeats all other options in head-to-head competitionif one exists.[11] Motion-and-amendment voting allows X to win if it is preferred over both Y and Z, and all other proposals, but it hides the fact that there is no real, consistent majority winner where X beats Y, Y defeats Z, and Z is preferred over X. This voting method does this by always asking for binary decisions and then making it difficult to revisit an option once the option has lost in a head-to-head competition. With its binary decisions, law thus hides evidence of cycling preferences but does an excellent job of finding desirable, Condorcet winners where they exist. This might explain why legislatures are normally asked to vote a proposal, or any amendment or substitution to it, up or down, and why panels of judges on appellate courts, in binary style, affirm or reject rulings that they hear on appeal.[12] Indeed, this is a remarkable example of convergence across legal systems, though I am unsure whether to call it efficient (as it avoids repetitive cycling) or simply politically attractive (as it prevents the outrage expected of people when they see that a majority opposes the result found by another alleged majority). Though this is not unique to tort law, it is useful to see that where there is little risk of cycling, as when preferences are “single peaked,”[13] law is more hospitable to putting multiple variables or ranges on the table.

A good example of the emergence in tort law of a non-binary approach where there is little risk of cycling, and where there is no loss of efficiency and even a gain in terms of law’s ability to conform to political and ethical expectations, is the emergence of comparative negligence. Its predecessor, contributory negligence, is binary in form; a wrongdoer is absolved if the injured party was also negligent. In contrast, comparative negligence, under which the fact-finder spreads liability according to the relative wrongdoing of multiple parties, is more continuous as well as increasingly popular.[14] There are two useful ways to think about the emergence of comparative negligence. First, citizens find comparative negligence attractive because they seem to dislike the idea that mere negligence can reduce an injured party’s recovery all the way down to zero. The shared ethical sentiment is to favor comparative over contributory negligence. This sentiment may be motivated by a fear of mistaken fact-finding, though I hesitate to put too much weight on this conjecture because it introduces a kind of efficiency argument to what is essentially one about ethical sentiments. It seems unlikely that many citizens or legislators think about enforcement costs when they opine about fairness in tort law. A better description might therefore draw on a theory of justice or an evolved taste for retribution. An obvious question is why older law did not reflect these ethical intuitions. One answer is that perhaps we cannot know what ancient shared ethical intuitions looked like. Another, and one with some support in the historical record, is that some lawmakers inserted a version of comparative negligence by quietly reducing damages when the injured party was also negligent.[15]

The second characteristic of the emergence of comparative negligence in tort law returns us to cycling preferences. Imagine decisionmakers deciding whether to award full damages, partial damages, or zero damages to someone who was injured by a speeding driver, but who was arguably contributorily negligent, perhaps by suddenly emerging from a hidden driveway. One fact-finder might rank the desirability of results as Full-Partial-Nonewhere Full means that all of the liability is assigned to the speeding driver on the roadway, and is the fact-finder or decisionmaker’s first choice, Partial means that the first driver pays a fraction of the loss suffered by the negligent victim, so that the two divide the loss, and so forth. Another voter might have the opposite inclination, reasoning that law should strongly discourage drivers from darting into a public road, so that recovery by the negligent injured party should be completely denied. But it is hard to see why anyone would rank Partial last. A voter, or jury member, who thinks the plaintiff should recover full damages will surely be happier with a partial recovery by this plaintiff than with no recovery at all. Similarly, one who thinks that contributory negligence should bar recovery, would certainly prefer partial recovery over full recovery if she cannot have her first choice of None. If so, there is no danger of cycling; Full will beat None, or None will defeat Full, or there could be a tie between these two, but there is no chance that the winner of the Full-None competition will then lose in competition with the Partial option. Partial liability can certainly be a voter’s first choice, and it is almost surely the second choice of those whose first choice is either Full or None, but it is hard to imagine Partial (liability) as anyone’s third choice, and for this reason there will be no cycling. Similarly, the common rule barring anyone under the age of sixteen from operating a motor vehicle is a binary rule where there is no danger of cycling.[16] It is telling, and certainly interesting, that law has moved away from the binary approach of contributory negligence just where there is no apparent risk of cycling preferences.

It is noteworthy that the non-binary form of modern comparative negligence was first introduced in European admiralty law, where judgment was rendered by a single lawmaker who was, therefore, in no danger of cycling.[17] Indeed, it is tempting to say that legal systems that rely on a single judge rather than a jury will be quicker to adopt comparative negligence, though this hardly explains Hammurabi’s Code and other long-standing uses of contributory negligence. But the argument here suggests that juries are unlikely to cycle within a comparative negligence framework, so it is unsurprising that comparative negligence emerged in a wide variety of jurisdictions.[18] Similarly, it is not surprising that comparative negligence comes in many forms; none of these forms would come in last place, and any could emerge in a divided group of voters.

This first example illustrates the idea that there is convergence up high where ethical sentiments and efficiency considerations are in sync. Virtually all legal systems find a means of discouraging negligent behavior toward strangers. This example also supports the claim that divergence arises downstream, when it comes to detail, where ethical intuitions and efficiency considerations are at odds, or where efficiency can be promoted with a variety of legal directives.[19] To be sure, the argument would be better if there were no excluded class; once there is convergence upstream, we do not get to observe whether downstream divergence proves much. My claim might seem obvious or even circular. A better example might be one with upstream divergence and then downstream convergence. It is thus convenient to point to the fact that virtually all systems converge on awarding single damages in tort law, presumably to avoid moral hazard. At first, this example of upstream divergence and downstream convergence will seem contrary to the theory advanced here, and certainly to the title of this Article, but it shows that the theory is hardly obvious or tautological. Where different rules are all efficient, legal systems can afford to be divergent, though they might eventually evolve to a single rule if there develops a shared ethical intuition in its favor. But where efficiency favors a single ruleas it does for single indemnity to combat moral hazardand there is no shared ethical intuition that contradicts this rule, we find convergence. Here we have rare cases where this convergence-divergence pattern is of the downstream-upstream form, respectively, though usually it is the reverse.[20]

II.  Other Examples in Tort Law

A.  Negligence: Strict Liability and Rescue

The choice between negligence and strict liability is perhaps the most obvious and far-reaching example of the theory developed here. Another, yet narrower, example concerns the familiar question of whether there ought to be a duty to rescue.[21] But inasmuch as both of these examples are now obvious and inadvertently addressed elsewhere, they merit just a few words. Again, legal systems must discourage avoidable and intentionally caused injuries. They can do so with a variety of approaches, and of course we find divergence among legal systems.[22] The convergence is with respect to a law that requires one actorincluding negligent and wrongful onesto pay for the loss inflicted on an innocent party. The divergence is in the choice of negligence or strict liability, and then in the treatment of exceptional cases, where a negligencebased system opts for strict liability, or where a system or subsystem that chooses strict liability as its default switches to a negligence formulation.[23] Both approaches are consistent with the idea that tort law promotes efficiency, although reasonable people can disagree as to which is superior once activity levels and enforcement costs are taken into account. This uncertainty might be said to “explain” the divergence between the two approaches. The same is true once ethical sentiments come into play, as the approaches diverge just as these sentiments do.

In the case of a failure to rescue a person in danger, or even to save another person’s property that is at risk, there is variety among legal systems[24] and also disagreement about the efficiency of the various approaches.[25] Where human life is at stake, the shared ethical sensibility is quite clear; it is widely thought that one ought (or is even bound) to rescue another where there is little danger to the rescuer.[26] Indeed, this is an excellent example of the proposition that shared ethical sentiments alone do not predict law, and certainly not convergence of law. There is less agreement about rescuing another’s property when the rescue might be unsuccessful, where rescue requires trespass, and where destruction is unlikely to be immediate. But as an efficiency matter, there is the problem, perhaps just theoretical, that a duty to rescue persons might encourage people to avoid “rescue spots,” and also the problem that so many potential rescues involve multiple parties who might truly believe that someone else has called for help; over-rescue can be inefficient or even dangerous.[27] It might also be difficult to judge when the risk is immediate; a rescuer might claim there was imminent harm when in fact professional help could have been summoned, or there was no threat of harm in the first place. Again, we see variety among laws where there is not agreement between ethical intuitions and efficiency considerations.

B.  Incapacity Exceptions

It is tempting to deflect criticism that this Article is engaging in a form of ex post data fitting by claiming that the ideas offered here fit every nook and cranny of tort law.[28] It is more useful, I think, to limit our inspection to one additional, small application in the law of torts, and then to postpone for future work an expansion to other areas of law. There is great divergence among jurisdictions when negligent behavior by children, insane persons, and other incapacitated defendants have caused injury.[29] Again, there is no shared ethical intuition, as we sometimes excuse the incapacitated person and at other times empathize with the injured victim. On the other hand, there is some de facto convergence, as when an insanity defense tends to be followed by a period of confinement about the same as the length of incarceration for more typical, convicted criminals. Note that ethical intuitions support this similarity in detention.[30] There is also no clear category or principle to separate cases where it is clear that efficiency calls for liability or an exception to the default category of negligence (or strict liability). In the case of young children, for example, liability might lead to optimal supervision by their guardians, but it might also detract from desirable learning, something courts have noted.[31]

III.  Expanding the Theory Outside of Tort Law: From Trust Games to Voting

The ideas offered here are interesting but in some areas they are hard to pin down. It becomes apparent that both efficiency and convergence are imprecise terms, and yet the theory is enticing even outside of conventional legal topics. Consider the first-year curriculum of most law schools. The schools teach torts, civil procedure, and contracts, and thus converge. They then diverge, as predicted, one or two steps downstream when it comes to the length of these courses, the cases that are assigned, the mix of theory and doctrine, and the time spent on particular subjects.[32] The argument would be that it is sensible or “efficient” to begin with these subjects because they prepare students for more advanced courses, though these courses might themselves reflect arbitrary but useful categorization; the schools could just as easily have converged on a course titled unjust enrichment or free-riding. It would be difficult to insist on shared ethical intuitions and, as for efficiency, we do not really know that the convergence in curricula, if it is that, is efficient. There is certainly no controlled experiment in which the emergence of good lawyers or even of impressive bar-passage rates is compared with that of comparable students who experience a different first-year curriculum. To the contrary, no law school appears to discriminate among applications to be admitted as transfer students based on the details of the first-year courses these applicants experienced in other schools. Here, as in so many other institutional practices, there is initial convergence because of intuitions or imitation and, more interestingly, subsequent divergence where there is no way to assess or theorize about the most efficient or ethically attractive details.

Returning to legal systems, rather than the way they are taught, it is noteworthy that they have also converged over time in the way they punish or disable convicted criminals. Nevertheless, they diverge as to the length of imprisonment. It is easy to regard this as another example of basic convergence and subsequent, downstream divergence, but much harder to associate that which converges to a combination of efficiency and shared ethical sentiments. The best we can say is that there is less agreement about these things in questions of length, rather than manner, of punishment. In some cases, efficiency is a matter of theory rather than empirical evidence, as it is for negligence and strict liability, as well as contributory and comparative negligence. The pairs are interchangeable as a theoretical matter, and that is enough for the theory advanced here. If so, we can say that, in theory, imprisonment should deter crime, but when it comes to the length of sentences there are decent arguments for shorter and longer sentences, not to mention more or less substantial gaps as one moves from less serious to more serious crimes.[33] No doubt, divergence also comes from disparate circumstances. A society with little water will probably impose greater criminal penalties for the destruction of a well; cattle rustling (or “duffing”) was treated with severe penalties in the Old West as it was in many countries, and not because the thieves were harder to apprehend. These examples of downstream divergence are best described as responding to different shared ethical sentiments or political pressures, although strained efficiency arguments can be made. Either way, law and politicians obviously respond to outcries, though we might think of these as examples of local ethical sentiments that are fairly predictable.

This optimism suggests that we ought to find divergence even on basic principles where there is neither a common ethical intuition nor empirical evidence or theoretical support for one legal tactic.[34] Many examples will come to mind, but two should suffice. Consider the choice of voting systems. There might be theoretical and even ethical reasons to expect democracy, but divergence begins almost immediately when it comes to its form. We cannot identify the best voting system and of course we find great diversity in this area.[35] The example suffers from the fact that there is a great deal of copying among jurisdictions, but even if we subscribe to the idea of looking for convergence through spontaneous ordering,[36] the divergence is impressive. Convergence is thus limited to questions that are essential for democratic systems, and this fits nicely with the idea that we find convergence where efficiency considerations (broadly defined in this case) and shared ethical sentiments converge.

The same might be said for how democracies function. Consider the decision of a city’s mayor to divert some funds from the anticipated purchase of police cars to the idea of putting some officers on bicycles. The intuition is that these officers could then better patrol a recreational area or interact with citizens. Bicycles might also help keep some officers physically fit, and citizens might simply like them or be inspired to be more fit themselves. The decision is almost impossible to evaluate. Crime or fitness may have increased or decreased after the introduction of bicycles, but so many other factors could cause these changes, and it would be absurd to attribute a dramatic change in crime rates to a small change in the mixture of police vehicles in a large city. It may be ethically and politically irresponsible to run an experiment in which the number of bicycles is randomly altered, and in any event even a sophisticated use of artificial intelligence will find it difficult to overcome the problem of omitted variables.[37] In practice, there is divergence among jurisdictions where efficiency is difficult to determine, and where there is unlikely to be a shared ethical intuition. I suspect that when a serious crime occurs in a location accessible by bike but not by car, there is the intuition that some officers on bicycles would be a good idea. For this or other reasons, there may be convergence by imitation so that we expect at least a few bicycles in every large police force.

Finally, there are subjects where other forces are likely to overwhelm the boundaries suggested here between convergence and divergence. Convergence may, for example, come about because it is of lower cost than innovation and divergence. One can hire officials or draft laws at lower cost if they have been trained or written elsewhere in a particular mode. On the other hand, divergence may be attractive because there is a market for it. Following Professor Charles Tiebout’s well-known hypothesis,[38] a jurisdiction may opt for more or less spending on a good, or on a different legal approach, in order to attract businesses or citizens that prefer that law in the mix they will encounter in the adopting jurisdiction. This form of strategic, market-like diversification might be more apparent the less fundamental the laws, but in some cases it is seen upstream with respect to basic principles, as in the promise by some jurisdictions not to have an income tax. This source of divergence seems unlikely for tort law. A business might choose not to sell a product in an area known to award very high damages in cases of products liability, but it is unlikely that a jurisdiction will gain much by choosing to apply the negligence principle, or an exemption from any liability claim at all, to products, if only because mobile firms normally expect that many of their products will be used in other jurisdictions. One jurisdiction might care more about income redistribution than another, but I prefer to think of this as a subset of what this Article has called ethical intuitionsand thus expect divergence. Though, I note that while academics associate strict liability in tort law with redistribution to poorer consumers, strict liability in fact is often capped at absurdly low amounts that promise to leave wealth in the hands of the owners of many corporations. In any event, Tieboutian logic in favor of diversity is probably better associated with a divergence in jurisdictions’ spending decisions than with threats of liability.[39]

Conclusion

Complete convergence among legal systems is implausible for several reasons. Decisionmakers have reason to copy the laws and practices of other jurisdictionsif only to avoid criticism when things go wrongbut also to distinguish themselves, and then hope for the best. Somewhat similarly, judges have good reasons to follow precedent, but also to diverge on occasion, whether openly or by asserting that a case is one of first impression. This Article has suggested a different, but coexisting, reason for convergence and divergence in tort law, as well as in other far-flung areas of the law. Convergence is associated with efficiency alongside shared ethical sentiments. Where a variety of legal techniques seem equally likely to be efficient, or where ethical intuitions do not match identifiable efficient laws, divergence is expected. A second part of the theory advanced here is that the details of laws are less likely to be uniquely efficient and also less likely to match shared ethical sensibilities. As such, there is almost always divergence as legal systems take fundamental principles and then experiment with, or simply use their experiences or political and social characteristics to fashion, details on the ground. An empirically minded optimist might look at the examples provided here and suggest that divergence offers lawmakers natural experiments, and that these will soon enough lead to more convergence further downstream. I have suggested, and will extend the argument in future work, that this intuition about the impact of empirical work is too optimistic, because as we move downstream it becomes harder to assemble useful empirical evidence. Rules may come to dominate the terrain,[40] but we should continue to expect divergence in the detailsor more technically, in areas where we cannot identify the most efficient legal rule and where there is no widely shared ethical sentiment. These claims about convergence and divergence were demonstrated in this Article with cases drawn from tort law, and in future work I hope to show not only that these claims hold true for many other areas of law, but also that they are necessarily true for the reasons hinted at here.

 


[*] *. William B. Graham Distinguished Service Professor, University of Chicago Law School. I am grateful for comments received at a University of Chicago Law School workshop, from participants in the conference memorialized in this issue of the Southern California Law Review, and over the years from Richard Epstein and Ariel Porat. Better colleagues would be impossible to find.

 [1]. Note that these intuitions can come from very different reasoning processes. Twenty citizens are likely to agree that murderers should be disabled, but they might have twenty different reasons for this view or even for the question of what incarceration will accomplish.

 [2]. As the claim is expanded beyond tort law, it is easier to find exceptions to the idea advanced here. Exceptions may well prove the rule, but it is useful or simply safer to think of the thesis developed here as limited to torts, and to expand the argument to other areas of law in the future.

 [3]. It is worth insisting at the outset that characterizing laws as binary, convergent, divergent, or multifactor is not, as we will see, the same as marking them as rules or standards. There is of course the danger that the upstream-downstream distinction is too malleable. But in many cases that support the theory offered here, the distinction seems unassailable. A country is upstream from a city; deterring theft and murder is upstream from the number of years of imprisonment a thief or murderer is ordered to serve.

 [4]. See William M. Landes & Richard A. Posner, The Economic Structure of Tort Law 3, 88 (1987) (noting that by the end of the nineteenth century, tort law “had assumed essentially its modern shape” in which the default standard of liability was negligence, and further elaborating on the role of contributory negligence within a negligence standard).

 [5]. See William K. Jones, Strict Liability for Hazardous Enterprise, 92 Colum. L. Rev. 1705, 1712 (1992).

 [6]. The prevalence of categories is a deep but manageable question, and it suggests the harder problem of justifying the placement of the negligence convention (and the convergence around it) far upstream in legal systems. The very development of a legal system, not to mention the establishment of a judiciary, can be placed yet further upstream. The characterization of rules and standards as either upstream or downstream is arguably a matter of taste and semantics, and it is not explored here; my claim about the descent from upstream to downstream, and from convergence to divergence, is more interesting than is identifying a starting point for, and the precise boundary of, convergence.

 [7]. See generally Merve Emre, The Personality Brokers: The Strange History of Myers-Briggs and the Birth of Personality Testing (2018) (describing the selling of the widely used Myers-Briggs personality test, replete with binary self-characterizations).

 [8]. Note that while I use public choice theory in explaining the binary character of many legal rules, this Article minimizes the role of public choice in developing rules and standards, and in bringing about convergence and divergence more generally. Powerful interest groups surely have great impact on law, and probably more on downstream than upstream decisions, but they hardly explain convergence and divergence quite generally. For example, something close to strict liability has become common for defective products, and that is hardly at the behest of well-organized interest groups. In other areas of law, like patents, powerful groups simply do not know in advance what rules will benefit them.

 [9]. See Saul Levmore, Rethinking Comparative Law: Variety and Uniformity in Ancient and Modern Tort Law, 61 Tul. L. Rev. 235, 235–87 (1986).

 [10]. This theory should be traced to Leo Katz, Why the Law Is So Perverse 6–7 (2011). On the implications for the binary quality of some law then developed, see generally Saul Levmore, Public Choice and Law’s Either/Or Inclination, 79 U. Chi. L. Rev. 1663 (2012) (reviewing Katz’s extraordinary book).

 [11]. See Henry M. Robert et al., Robert’s Rules of Order 42528 (11th ed. 2011).

 [12]. I ignore remands, but these too will eventually lead to a binary decision if they are returned to an appellate court. Note that when a lower court determines damages or other results, these can be binary, but the decision is made by a single judge who is not subject to cycling, as discussed presently. See Judiciary Act of 1891, ch. 517, 26 Stat. 826, 829.

 [13]. See Duncan Black, On the Rationale of Group Decision-Making, 56 J. Pol. Econ. 23, 24 (1948).

 [14]. See William M. Landes & Richard A. Posner, The Positive Economic Theory of Tort Law, 15 Ga. L. Rev. 851, 919 (1981). As a matter of efficiency, the old approach was just fine, and indeed strict liability with a defense of contributory negligence was favored by some legal academics and economists. See, e.g., A. Mitchell Polinsky, Strict Liability vs. Negligence in a Market Setting, 70 Am. Econ. Rev. 363, 367 (1980); Richard A. Posner, Strict Liability: A Comment, 2 J. Legal Stud. 205, 207 (1973).

 [15]. Note the similarity to the divergence found in the law regarding the good-faith purchase of stolen property. Saul Levmore, Variety and Uniformity in the Treatment of the Good-Faith Purchaser, 16 J. Legal Stud. 43, 44–45 (1987).

 [16]. Inasmuch as a driver needs to meet the age requirement and also pass a driving test, the rules might be described as multifactor and not binary. But I will opt for binary because there is no chance that someone would prefer an underage driver who had failed the exam. There are two requirements, but little danger of cycling. Note that this argument assumes that it took years of experience before cycling became apparent and law therefore accommodated the shared ethical intuition in favor of comparative negligence. These evolutionary stories are plausible but sufficiently doubtful. As such, I do not want to make them a centerpiece of the theory offered here.

 [17]. See A. Chalmers Mole & Lyman P. Wilson, A Study of Comparative Negligence, 17 Cornell L. Rev. 333, 341–46 (1932). To be fair, there are situations in which a single decisionmaker can face something like a cycling problem, but this twist does not alter the present argument. See Katz, supra note 10, at 25–68.

 [18]. See Landes & Posner, supra note 14, at 91920              . A related question is why change comes so slowly in some areas than in others. Why did American jurisdictions take so long to move to comparative negligence? One possibility is that judges felt free to sneak in comparative negligence by lowering damages within binary regimes. And, of course, in other areas of law where we now see convergence, U.S. law moved first.

 [19]. More detailed definitions of upstream and downstream—terms that are used rather loosely here—will emerge below. They are, inevitably, a matter of taste. “Upstream” laws are sometimes, but not always, those that pre-exist their downstream offspring; a legal system might decide to abandon contributory negligence, and then over time it might gravitate from one form of comparative negligence to another. More fundamentally, a system might install a legislature or judiciary and then be equipped to choose negligence or strict liability for wrongs done to others.

 [20]. This important example shows that the title of this Article can be misleading. The theory might better be titled “Convergence Where Efficiency and Shared Ethical Intuitions Are in Sync,” but this is less catchy and fails to suggest that we can explain divergence as well as convergence. In any event, in most areas of law, and certainly in most of tort law, the efficiency/ethical intuition match is found upstream.

 [21]. I could also include the choice between all-or-nothing and probabilistic-recovery rules. Ethical intuitions favor probabilistic recovery; a defendant who is found rather certainly to have caused a harm is commonly regarded as someone who should pay more for a given harm than one who is only 51 percent likely to have caused the injury or been negligent in doing so. There is, however, good reason to celebrate all-or-nothing directives as error-minimizing in most circumstances. I set this consideration aside both because I have addressed it in earlier work and because error minimization is not a synonym for efficiency. See Saul Levmore, Probabilistic Recoveries, Restitution, and Recurring Wrongs, 19 J. Legal Stud. 691, 692 (1990).

 [22]. See generally P.S. Atiyah, Tort Law and the Alternatives: Some Anglo-American Comparisons, 1987 Duke L.J. 1002 (noting variety in such areas as workers compensation, products liability, mass torts, and pain and suffering claims).

 [23]. Consider, for example, divergence in cases of products liability. While the United States and most European jurisdictions have adopted a strict liability approach, Canada has augmented the traditional negligence-based construction with additional remedies through contract. See Council Directive 85/374, 1985 O.J. (L 210) 29–33 (EC), amended by Directive 1999/34, 1999 O.J. (L 141) 20–21 (EC); David S. Morritt & Sonia L. Bjorkquist, Product Liability in Canada: Principles and Practice North of the Border, 27 Wm. Mitchell L. Rev. 177, 180–81 (2000).

 [24]. In general, civil law countries impose a “duty” to rescue. See, e.g., Edward A. Tomlinson, The French Experience with Duty to Rescue: A Dubious Case for Criminal Enforcement, 20 N.Y.L. Sch. J. Int’l & Comp. L. 451, 452 (2000). For example, both the French civil and criminal codes provide for a duty to rescue, with the criminal code prescribing five years’ imprisonment and a fine of 75,000 euros when individuals withhold aid from a person in danger which could be performed without risk to the rescuer or third parties. Code civil [C. civ.] [Civil Code] art. 1382 (Fr.); Code pénal [C. pén.] [Penal Code] art. 223-6 (Fr.). The Polish criminal code imposes a similar duty but limits it expressly to situations threatening an immediate danger of loss of life or serious bodily injury and imposes a penalty of up to three years’ imprisonment without an associated fine. Kodeks karny [K. K.] [Criminal Code] 1997, art. 162, sec. 1 (Pol.). The Argentine criminal code also limits liability, but bases its limitations on the identity of the would-be rescuer: specifically, it singles out those who “abandonado a su suerte” (“abandon to their fate”) an incapacitated individual in their care, or whom they have themselves incapacitated. Código Penal [Cód. Pen.] [Criminal Code] art. 106 (Arg.). The Argentine code imposes a sliding penalty of between two and fifteen years’ imprisonment based on the harm to the victim but joins Poland in foregoing additional civil penalties. Id. In sharp contrast to its civil law peers, the United States largely maintains that bystanders, though not caregivers or other singled-out parties, will not be liable for failures to rescue—joining in this respect other common law countries, including England. See Damien Schiff, Samaritans: Good, Bad and Ugly: A Comparative Law Analysis, 11 Roger Williams U. L. Rev. 77, 87 (2005); Marin Roger Scordato, Understanding the Absence of a Duty to Reasonably Rescue in American Tort Law, 82 Tul. L. Rev. 1447, 1452 (2008). On the other hand, it is common in U.S. jurisdictions to find liability for a failure to rescue when the would-be rescuer is in a “special relationship” with the one in need of rescue, as explained in the works cited in infra note 25. Thus Argentinian law, for instance, is not so different from judge-made laws in U.S. jurisdictions.

 [25]. See Saul Levmore, Waiting for Rescue: An Essay on the Evolution and Incentive Structure of the Law of Affirmative Obligations, 72 Va. L. Rev. 879, 881 (1986); see also Richard A. Epstein, A Theory of Strict Liability, 2 J. Legal Stud. 151, 190 (1973); Eric H. Grush, Note, The Inefficiency of the No-Duty-to-Rescue Rule and a Proposed “Similar Risk” Alternative, 146 U. Pa. L. Rev. 881, 883900 (1998); Richard L. Hasen, The Efficient Duty to Rescue, 15 Int’l Rev. L. Econ. 141, 141–42 (1995); Ernest J. Weinrib, The Case for a Duty to Rescue, 90 Yale L.J. 247, 269, 282 (1980).

 [26]. See Weinrib, supra note 25, at 279–93.

 [27]. See William M. Landes & Richard A. Posner, Salvors, Finders, Good Samaritans, and Other Rescuers: An Economic Study of Law and Altruism, 7 J. Legal Stud. 83, 119–28 (1978); Levmore, supra note 25, at 883–84.

 [28]. An objection to ex post selection of examples can of course be made to virtually all theorizing, whether in law or in medicine or any use of artificial intelligence. It is a danger that can only be overcome with more examples and with the promise that many of the examples offered here were chosen after the theory was stated.

 [29]. For example, substantial divergence has historically been present between United States and English jurisdictions, with the former choosing to hold children and the insane liable for tortious acts, and the latter denying their ability to be culpable in cases of tort. See Francis H. Bohlen, Liability in Tort of Infants and Insane Persons, 23 Mich. L. Rev. 9, 9–10 (1924). Still other jurisdictions, including Germany, Argentina, France, and Brazil, have adopted variations on the English view. See James W. Ellis, Tort Responsibility of Mentally Disabled Persons, 1981 Am. B. Found. Res. J. 1079, 1083.

 [30]. Eric Silver, Punishment or Treatment?: Comparing the Lengths of Confinement of Successful and Unsuccessful Insanity Defendants, 19 L. & Hum. Behav. 375, 377 (1995).

 [31]. See, e.g., A.R.H. v. W.H.S., 876 S.W.2d 687, 689 (Mo. Ct. App. 1994) (distinguishing verdicts following various claims of negligent supervision, in particular by weighing the ability of greater supervision to prevent harm); Kuhns v. Brugger, 135 A.2d 395, 401–02 (Pa. 1957) (describing the various considerations to be accounted for in determining juvenile negligence).

 [32]. Note that the definitions of upstream and downstream seem unobjectionable here. Upstream laws (or practices) are not necessarily earlier in time, but rather fundamental building blocks.

 [33]. See Saul Levmore & Ariel Porat, Threats and Criminal Deterrence in Several Dimensions, 2017 U. Ill. L. Rev. 1333, 1347–50. Nor is there reason to think that Artificial Intelligence will yield optimal prison sentences. See generally Saul Levmore & Frank Fagan, The Impact of Artificial Intelligence on Rules, Standards, and Judicial Discretion, 93 S. Cal. L. Rev. (forthcoming 2019).

 [34]. Some downstream divergence can be traced to a complete inability to know what a rule accomplishes. Thus, we are not surprised that there is divergence in religious beliefs or even in burial practices—and it is obvious that practitioners are unable to discern the efficiency (or after-life effects) of different rules.

 [35]. For an overview of electoral systems, and an analysis of the axioms driving their selection, see generally Pippa Norris, Choosing Electoral Systems: Proportional, Majoritarian and Mixed Systems, 18 Int’l Pol. Sci. Rev. 297 (1997).

 [36]. See generally Richard A. Epstein, How Spontaneous? How Regulated?: The Evolution of Property Rights Systems, 100 Iowa L. Rev. 2341 (2015) (discussing the relationship between spontaneous order and natural law).

 [37]. Levmore & Fagan, supra note 33.

 [38]. For Professor Tiebout’s seminal article on this hypothesis, see generally Charles M. Tiebout, A Pure Theory of Local Expenditures, 64 J. Pol. Econ. 416 (1956) (theorizing that individuals will move to communities with public goods provisions that suit their personal preferences and vice versa).

 [39]. See generally Saul Levmore, Interest Groups and the Durability of Law, in The Timing of Lawmaking 171 (Saul Levmore & Frank Fagan eds., 2017) (emphasizing lawmakers’ interest in appealing to a particular population’s preferences and doing so in a way that will last for some time).

 [40]. See Levmore & Fagan, supra note 33.

 

The Enduring Distinction between Business Entities and Security Interests – Article by Ofer Eldar & Andrew Verstein

From Volume 92, Number 2 (January 2019)
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The Enduring Distinction between Business Entities and Security Interests

Ofer Eldar & Andrew Verstein[*]

What are business entities for? What are security interests for? The prevailing answer in legal scholarship is that both bodies of law exist to partition assets for the benefit of designated creditors. But if both bodies of law partition assets, then what distinguishes them? In fact, these bodies of law appear to be converging as increasing flexibility irons out any differences. Indeed, many legal products, such as securitization vehicles, insurance products known as captive insurance, and mutual funds, employ entities to create distinct asset pools. Moreover, recent legal innovations, including “protected cells” (which were created to facilitate such products), further blur the boundaries between security interests and entities, suggesting that convergence has already arrived.

This Article identifies and defends a central distinction between business entities and security interests. We argue that while both bodies of law support asset partitioning, they do so with different priority schemes. Security interests construct asset pools subject to fixed priority, meaning that the debtor is unable to pledge the same collateral to new creditors in a way that changes the existing priority scheme. Conversely, entities are associated with floating priority, whereby the debtor retains the freedom to pledge the same assets to other creditors with the same or even higher priority than existing ones.

The distinction is valuable in understanding financial products such as securitization, captive insurance, and mutual funds. We show that such products are driven by an appetite for assets pools with a fixed priority scheme, and recent legal innovations are primarily designed to meet this need. This distinction is consistent with the intuitive view of entities as managed going concerns and security interests as mere interests in assets. The distinction is also enduring. Despite the apparent convergence of forms, we predict that the distinction we offer will survive legal and technological innovations.

              TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction

I. Entities and Security Interests as
Property Law

II. Our Proposed Distinction: Fixed
versus Floating Priority

A. Only Security Interests Allow Fixed Priority
over an Asset Pool

1. Covenants

2. Structural Priority

3. Charter Provision

4. Creditor Control

B. Only Entities Allow Floating Priority over
an Asset Pool

1. Ex Post Consent

2. Ex Ante Consent

3. Single Creditor

C. The Relative Benefits (and Costs) of Floating
and Fixed Priority

III. Other Potential Distinctions and Why
They Do Not Work

A. Fixed Pools of Assets

B. Filings by Creditors

C. In Rem Rights Against Third Parties

D. Governance Structure

E. Limited Liability

F. Legal Personality

G. Bankruptcy Protection

IV. Explaining the Structure of
Financial Products

A. Securitization

B. Captive Insurance

C. Mutual Funds

V. The Evolution of New Legal Forms

VI. Policy Implications

A. Judicial Treatment of the New Legal Forms

B. Bankruptcy Remoteness for Security Interests

VII. Enduring Legal and Technological
Innovations

Conclusion

 

Introduction

The last decades have brought about significant innovation in the use of business entities in financial structures. While entities have long been used to control risk and organize production, business planners gradually began using them primarily as vessels to hold assets. A prime example of such innovation is securitization. In a standard securitization, a sponsor corporation transfers some of its assets to an entity, which borrows money from creditors and passes the money back to the sponsor as consideration for the assets. In many ways, securitization resembles a secured loan directly to the sponsor. However, an entity is interposed to hold the assets in order to assure creditors of their special claim to the assets.[1] The creative use of entities to pool assets is not limited to securitization vehicles,[2] but also includes other products, such as investment funds[3] and insurance.[4] All of these industries have experienced dramatic growth in recent years amounting to many trillions of dollars.[5] A hallmark of each of these important financial innovations is the partitioning of assets into different pools for the benefit of designated creditors, each with different risk profiles, contained within an entity.

The growing use of entities as a mechanism for pledging a pool of assets has been accompanied by a shift in academic thinking about the role of entities. Historically, law and economics scholars viewed entities primarily as a “nexus of contracts” between a fictional entity and investors, customers, and employees[6] and entity law as a type of standard form contract among such disparate groups.[7] However, the dominant view of late has emphasized the function of entities in patterning creditor rights in ways that no bundle of contracts could practicably achieve.[8] This asset partitioning role is a form of property law because it is good against the world and cannot be accomplished through bilateral contracts.[9] As with the concurrent innovation in business practice, this “property” theory defines the essential role of entities as a legal tool for partitioning assets into distinct pools for the benefit of some creditors relative to others.[10]

Both commercial and scholarly treatment of entities have been enriched by the asset partitioning theory. Business planners use entities in alternative forms of secured lending, and scholars rationalize entities as a species of property law. Yet it is not entirely clear why entities are actually necessary in such settings. Security interests also give creditors priority over identified pools of assets and would seem to provide a suitable foundation for asset-backed finance. Why not just use security interests for the same purpose? Conversely, if entities can substitute for security interests, why ever bother with security interests? The literature has long recognized the potential substitutability of entities and security interests; however, scholars have largely left open the question of whether there is any essential distinction between the two legal forms that would make one optimal relative to the other.[11]  A looming possibility is that there is no essential distinction between entities and security interests and that these two legal forms will ultimately converge.[12]

Recent legal innovations may seem to suggest that this moment of convergence is fast approaching. New legal forms are emerging, which blur the distinction between security interests and entities. For example, a “protected cell company” can issue multiple tranches of notes with each issuance secured by a different pool of assets placed within a protected cell.[13] A single entity consists of multiple protected cells, each cell securing obligations to different classes of creditors. The cells exhibit some entity-like features (for example, they can own property and enter into contracts) without others (for example, they have no board of directors or charter). Not surprisingly, “cells,” “series,” “segregated portfolios,” and other forms are used to economize the costs of creating multiple entities in products where entities are used effectively as security interests (for example, securitization vehicles, investment funds, and captive insurance). They are arguably best understood as new forms of security interest, which share many of the features associated with entities. Regardless of whether these new products are “really” entities or security interests, they have made the distinction between entities and security interests largely elusive.

Despite these developments, this Article challenges the notion that entities and security interests are becoming indistinguishable by offering a novel theory of the distinction between them. We adopt the property theory of entities, but we develop it by preventing the collapse it implies between security interests and business entities. We argue that while both security interest law and entity law create asset partitions, they differ with respect to the priority schemes operating on those pools.

Specifically, we argue that the functional difference between security interests and entities is that entities create floating priority over asset pools while security interests opt the parties into a fixed priority scheme.[14] By floating priority scheme, we mean that the administrator of the assets is generally permitted to pledge the same assets to other creditors with the same or even higher priority than existing ones. Conversely, a fixed priority scheme means that it is not possible for the administrator to pledge the assets in a manner that changes the existing priority scheme, which typically affords a prior claim to the secured party over any other creditors.

From a theoretical perspective, the distinction we offer has five main attractive features. First, it fits well with doctrinal law, which insists that security interests, but not entities, establish fixed priority.[15] Second, it is consistent with the intuitive view of entities as managed going concerns and security interests as mere interests in assets. Third, it is functional in that it illuminates the economic benefits and costs of each priority scheme. Fixed priority reduces the creditors’ costs of evaluating assets, but restricts managerial discretion, whereas floating priority decreases the former, but increases the latter.[16] Fourth, the distinction is essential in the sense that it is not possible to create asset pools with floating priority using only security interests and contractual mechanisms, and likewise, it is impracticable to create asset pools with fixed priority using only entities and contract.[17] Fifth, the distinction is enduring. It not only survives the recent evolution of new legal forms, but we predict it will also survive other innovations that will likely blur the distinction between contract law and property law, such as blockchain technology.

In addition to our theoretical contribution, the distinction between fixed and floating priority has several important practical and explanatory implications. First, it is useful for understanding how entities and security interests are used in different financial structures, primarily securitizations, investment funds, and captive insurance. Taking securitization as an example, much of the literature has focused on the use of entities in such structures. This literature emphasizes that entities are necessary in those structures because they are “bankruptcy remote.”[18] Yet the literature on securitizations seems to have underappreciated the necessity of security interests to securitizations. While most securitizations use entities, all use security interests. This is because without fixed priority, the economic rationale for securitizationsparticularly reducing the costs of evaluating assetswould largely disappear. More surprisingly, we show that demand for fixed priority explains the structure of other financial products, such as mutual funds and captive insurance.

Second, the distinction we propose allows us to better understand the recent evolution of new legal forms. We show that with few exceptions, these forms are better characterized as security interests, and that their evolution is mainly driven by an appetite for fixed priority schemes. In particular, most jurisdictions limit the use of cells to particular financial products (especially securitizations, investment funds, and captive insurance), and through regulation of such products, the administrator of the assets cannot change the priority scheme of the creditors secured by the cells. In this way, we claim that the evolution of the new form does not undermine the distinction between fixed and floating priority, but rather reinforces it.

Third, our account may inform judicial decisionmaking. With the evolution of innovative financial structures and flexible legal forms, courts are called on to characterize these flexible forms and define their scopes. Are the cells entities? Security interests? Without functional principles for such cases, legal results will be either arbitrary or formalistic.[19] Our analysis can guide courts in adjudicating cases that involve such determinations.

Fourth, our analysis suggests that there may be scope for further flexibility in legal forms, primarily security interests. In particular, we recommend according greater bankruptcy remoteness to security interests, at least for certain financial transactions such as securitizations. Such a reform could introduce greater legal certainty at a lower cost.

Our Article proceeds as follows. Part I explains the functional similarities between entities and security interests as asset partitioning technologies and shows how each can often serve as a substitute for the other. Part II explains our thesis that the feature distinguishing entities and security interests is that the former provides a floating priority scheme and the latter provides a fixed priority scheme. Part III discusses alternative candidate distinctions and explains why they are not satisfactory. Part IV lays out the explanatory implications of our view, showing how it sheds light on existing financial products. Part V discusses the evolution of new legal forms, such as protected cell companies. Part VI presents some policy implications. Part VII expresses our view that the analytical distinction we make will survive legal and technological innovations.

I.  Entities and Security Interests as Property Law

Before embarking on the task of articulating a distinction, it is important to highlight the functional similarities of entities and security interests as property law. By property law, we mean that these bodies of law create entitlements that are binding against the world rather than just against those who agree to them. Property law is essential to facilitating asset partitioning, which means shielding a pool of assets from the claims of creditors of other pools of assets.[20]

To illustrate the idea of asset partitioning, it is useful to have in mind a simple example.[21] Consider an individual (the owner”) who wishes to finance several shopping malls. For example, A1 (for “Asset 1”) might be a large outdoor luxury shopping mall in Hawaii, geared to high-end tourists.[22] A2 might be a small, local indoor mall in Oklahoma, which attracts local residents and students at a nearby university.[23] The owner’s financiers are C1 (for “Creditor 1”), C2, C3, and so forth.[24] The simplest arrangement for financing these malls is for the owner to personally own the assets and borrow from the creditors. This arrangement is depicted visually in Figure 1.

Figure 1.  No Partition

 

Alternatively, the owner could place the Hawaiian shopping mall in Entity 1 and cause Entity 1 to borrow only from C1. She could likewise place the Oklahoma mall into Entity 2, to which C2 would lend (see Figure 2). Entities make it possible for a single owner to divide her assets into distinct pools, each of which can be selectively pledged to or withheld from particular creditors.

Figure 2.  Entity Partitioning

 

Organizing the assets in this way, she isolates each creditor’s risk exposure to a specified pool and simultaneously protects each pool from the creditors of other pools. A downturn in tourism in Oahu is bad news for C1; the likely decrease in the value of the Hawaii mall makes her less likely to be repaid. However, tourism is of no concern to C2. His claim on the Oklahoma mall is just as strong as beforehe need not fear that C1 will levy on the Oklahoma mall.

This asset partitioning through the use of entities reduces the costs of appraising the credit risk of the owner and monitoring her.[25] No individual creditor need invest in the capacity to appraise and monitor the debtor’s whole corpus of operations. Instead, each creditor can specialize in one pool of assets, disregarding the others.[26] C1 can specialize in high-end malls in Hawaii, whereas C2 can focus on the local Oklahoma shops.

Security interests can achieve similar asset partitioning to that of entities, with comparable benefits.[27] Imagine that instead of using any entities, the owner borrows and owns the assets personallybut grants security interests in her assets to particular creditors. She grants C1 a security interest in A1, the Hawaiian shopping mall, and she grants C2 a security interest in A2, the Oklahoma shopping mall.

Figure 3.  Security Interest Partitioning

 

In this way, C1’s priority to the Hawaiian shopping center over C2 is assured, as is C2’s priority over C1 to the Oklahoma shopping mall.[28] Pacific tourism does not impact the value of C2’s claim. Likewise, C1 can disregard any local conditions that could affect the Oklahoma mall. As with entities, this structure isolates creditor risk exposure and allows specialization.[29] To be sure, there are some differences between entities and security interests. We discuss these in detail in Part III below.

This asset partitioning function of both entities and security interests is a species of property law because it cannot be practically accomplished through contracts alone. The reason is that contractual promises are bilateral and, unlike property law, do not bind third parties.

Without using security interests or entities, C2 might demand from the owner that C1 (and any future creditors) have no recourse to the Oklahoma mall. But even if the owner agrees to such a contractual term, she may rationally breach it to C2’s detriment. She can get a cheaper interest rate from C1 by offering recourse to all of her assets, including the Oklahoma mall. The owner can also shift assets from one business to another. For instance, the owner could sell a valuable Waikiki property and plow the proceeds into an expansion of the Oklahoma shopping mall, exposing C1 to risk that he did not bargain for. C2 can sue owner for these breaches, but he cannot invalidate C1’s claim to all of the owner’s assets, including the Oklahoma mall, or undo the sale of the Hawaii mall. Any deal between C2 and the owner was a contractual deal, and contracts bind only on those who have notice of them.

C1 would fare better if the owner granted him a security interest or placed the mall in a separate entity.[30] Efforts to move assets across asset partitions, or otherwise shift the assets away from their intended purposes, are constrained by various remedies against wrongful shifting, primarily fraudulent conveyance laws in the case of entities, and encumbrance on the property in the case of security interests.[31] Property law thus solves a multi-lateral commitment problem that contracts alone cannot.

II.  Our Proposed Distinction: Fixed versus Floating Priority

In this Part we identify and defend the respective functions served by entities and security interests that cannot be practicably reproduced by the other form. We argue that although both bodies of law can partition assets, they do so with different rules for updating priority over those assets.

When entities are used to partition assets, they do so without fixing the priority of creditors to the assets. If the pool lacks the resources to fully repay all the creditors, they share ratably in their recovery. The parties can initially agree to a payment hierarchy, so that one creditor gets higher priority than another, but the credit hierarchy is floating because the owner can always update it to undermine the priority of existing creditors by pledging the assets to additional creditors. In contrast, security interests fix priority against later efforts by the owner to grant equal (or higher) priority to other creditors. The typical fixed priority pattern is to prioritize the first perfected secured interest over other claims in the assets.[32]

The fixedness of priority is a ubiquitous feature of security interests. Not only can security interests create priority schemes over a pool of assets, but they always grant fixed priority.[33] Security interests and entities coexist in the world and in particular structures because they offer different and irreplaceable priority schemes for creditors.

In order to show that security interests and entities are truly distinct, we need to show that their functions are distinct, in that each performs an essential role that no other body of law can perform. In Section II.A, we show that one cannot create floating priority asset pools without entity law, and in Section II.B, we explain that it is impossible to create fixed priority that binds third parties without security interests.

Section II.C describes what is at stake in choosing one priority scheme over another. The distinction between fixed and floating priority is economically functional, conferring differing costs and benefits to the parties who use them. We explain the tradeoffs inherent in deploying one body of law or the other.

A.  Only Security Interests Allow Fixed Priority over an Asset Pool

We first argue that security interests, but not entities, can create fixed priority. To draw again on the shopping mall example, we claim that if C2 wishes to have first priority over the Oklahoma mall, only security interests make this possible. If the owner instead partitions her assets by placing the Oklahoma mall in a separate entity, but does not give C2 a security interest over the mall, C2 would not be able to achieve fixed priority over it. We examine four possible techniques to create fixed priority without security interests, none of which succeed.

1.  Covenants

A plainly insufficient strategy is simply to have the owner promise not to take on new creditors as peers to C2. The trouble is that these promises are binding only on the owner, and not any other creditor (such as C3) who lends to the owner. What C2 would like to do, and what contract law does not allow, is to cite the owner’s promise in litigation against C3 to undermine C3’s claim on the assets. C2 may monitor the owner to make sure that her priority is respected, but such monitoring is likely to be very costly, and unrealistic for all but the largest creditors.

2.  Structural Priority

It may be argued that perhaps structural priority, the stacking of entities into nested tiers, can fix the priorities among creditors.[34] Imagine that owner wishes to finance the Oklahoma mall, with a $10 senior loan from C2 and a $10 junior loan from C3. The owner can achieve this result by forming Entity 3, of which she is the sole shareholder, and which owns nothing but shares of Entity 2. Entity 2 is then made the owner of the business assets. In principle, C2 will be repaid if the assets produce $10 because the money is generated by an entity that owes no one except for C2. Only if Entity 2 makes enough money to cover its debts to C2, can it pay dividends up to Entity 3which can use that money to pay C3. As depicted in Figure 4, this structure creates a payment hierarchy.[35]

Figure 4.  Structural Priority

However, structural priority is an imperfect substitute for fixing priorities. Entity 2 can simply take on additional creditors as peers to C2. C2 retains priority over C3, but not over any other future creditors of Entity 2. Covenants not to take on additional creditors are not credible in the same way as discussed above.

3.  Charter Provision

Some scholars have argued that an entity’s charter should be able to affect creditor relations. For example, a corporation’s charter might be amended to specify that it can no longer borrow, or can borrow only junior terms, and to award recovery rights against third parties who frustrate these objectives.[36] C2 could then sue to invalidate as ultra vires any transaction at odds with a priority-fixing charter provision, such as a loan from C3. Unfortunately for C2, courts do not invalidate ultra vires transactions.[37] C3’s interest would remain valid even if it violated a charter provision.[38] Moreover, a charter provision limiting the firm’s ability to borrow is generally not enforceable.[39]

4.  Creditor Control

Another idea would be for C2 to take control of Entity 2, so that C2’s approval would be required for any new borrowing. C2 could then decline to authorize any credit that would undermine C2’s senior priority. C2 could take this control in a number of ways, but one of them would be for the owner to assign her ownership interest in Entity 2 to C2. As controlling shareholder, C2 could select a trusted board that will cater to his or her interests.

However, control is not a practical solution. First, it is at best a solution for just one creditor; it is not feasible for every creditor in the hierarchy to take an absolute assignment and install a board of directors. Second, the controlling creditor exposes itself to liability.[40] Third, creditor control is likely to be inefficient. Usually, the owner has the best incentives and expertise to select and discipline managers of the assets.

Fourth, creditor control sets in motion a problem of debt liquidity. C2 knows better than anyone else whether she has been effective in enforcing the priority scheme. Perhaps C2 has allowed a senior or peer claim to arise, out of error or in exchange for side-payment. When C2 wishes to sell her interest to a new investor, that new investor will not know whether C2 truly has the senior priority she claims to have.[41] The new investor will discount C2’s interest accordingly, in a way that would not occur if C2’s priority was public knowledge.[42]

B.  Only Entities Allow Floating Priority over an Asset Pool

We have argued that entities cannot create fixed priority, and we now show that the complementary limitation applies to security interests, such that floating priority over asset pools would be impracticable without entities. Thus, the only way for the owner to create floating priority as to the Oklahoma mall is for her to place it within an entity, as in Figure 2. Figure 5 demonstrates that, in principle, security interests (sans entity) can achieve asset partitioning. However, security interests necessarily deny the owner the power to raise additional funds by pledging the collateral to later creditors (C3, C4, and so forth). To prove our claim, we consider three non-entity techniques for creating floating priority over asset pools. All three fail.

 

Figure 5.  Security Interest Partion with Multiple Creditors

 

1.  Ex Post Consent

The owner could freely add creditors to Asset 2 if the existing creditors always agree to subordinate themselves when the owner wishes to pledge the same asset to a new creditor (C4). Then the Oklahoma mall will serve as ratable collateral to C2, C3, and C4, all of whom will recover ahead of C1. Yet securing creditor-by-creditor consent is impractical for large ventures with millions of creditors (including all customers, suppliers, and investors). Each new creditor would necessitate unique subordination agreements from the entire existing network. Moreover, it is unrealistic to assume that creditors will assent to subordination. Some might like to freeride on other creditors, retaining their priority even as other creditors accept subordination. Others might simply hold out, demanding payment in exchange for consent. As many creditors make these types of strategic calculations, the costs of obtaining ex post consent will likely be preclusive.

Transaction costs continue to mount since each new creditor will have to expend resources verifying that subordination of all previous creditors has been accomplished. If the owner fails to secure a valid subordination from C2, then C2 will retain higher priority over C4. To actually protect her interest, C4 would have to vet each purported subordination agreement to make sure that it is valid and effective, and she would have to check whether any creditors’ subordination agreements are missing from the stack. Thus, ex post consent creates a staggering due diligence burden for later creditors.

2.  Ex Ante Consent

The owner may bargain with a potential creditor for the right of the owner to add new peer creditors that will share with him equal priority to the assets. For example, imagine that at the time of contracting, C2 agreed to subordinate herself to any other creditor who met certain specified conditions. Among those conditions would be acceptance of an identical subordination agreement. Thus, C2 would hold the first lien on the Oklahoma mall, but would be a peer to C3 if C3 agreed to subordinate herself to all similarly agreeing creditors. When C4 arrives, she will have an incentive to adopt a similar clause. If she does so, then C2 and C3 will automatically relinquish their higher priority. If she fails to adopt such an agreement, the prior subordination agreements will not apply to her, and she will therefore fall behind C2 and C3. If all of them comply, the result is that each creditor would share ratably in the Oklahoma mall.

Yet this solution also falls apart in light of the same problems that plagued the ex post solution. It is possible that C4 will not want to join the consortium. Failing to do so will place her lower in priority than C2 and C3but it will preserve her status against all later creditors.[43] The fact that some creditors could rationally opt out of the arrangement resuscitates diligence problems, as later creditors demand assurances that all earlier creditors have opted in to the equality scheme.

3.  Single Creditor

Another more complicated ex ante technique would be to try to run all of a project’s financing through a single creditor (C2).[44] C2 takes a first lien over the Oklahoma mall to secure all present and all future claims by C2, even claims acquired by assignment from subsequent creditors nominated by the owner. When the owner borrows from C3, she nominates C3’s claim as eligible for assignment. C3 assigns the claim to C2 (in exchange for a non-recourse claim against C2 secured by the very claim assigned to C2). The new loan now stands as equal priority to C2’s original claim because the security interest covers all claims held by C2. This seems to create floating priority because the owner has the power to change the priority of the creditors by assigning new claims to C2. Figure 6 depicts this arrangement.[45]

Nevertheless, this clever maneuvering is unlikely to be a good substitute for floating priority. The apparent ratable priority disappears whenever the later creditors want to make a claim. Recall that the claims against the owner are equal priority only when in C2’s hands. Suppose C2 ceases to pay C3 or C4, for example, if the owner does not pay C2 with respect to their respective claims. In this case, recovery by C3 and C4 is limited to the claims (against the owner) that they transferred to C2. Upon repossessing them, they drop back into the lower priority earned by their order of perfection. Thus, fixed priority in reinstated whenever priority ends up mattering.

Figure 6.  Security Interest Partition with Lead Creditor

 

More importantly, courts resist schemes such as the one depicted in Figure 6. In In re E.A. Fretz Co., a creditor attempted to create floating priority by entering into security agreements that purported to secure the loans not only by that creditor, but also loans by the creditor’s “present or future affiliates,” and covered debt owed by the debtor that the creditor may have obtained “by assignment or otherwise.”[46] The creditor then obtained notes from its affiliated creditors who advanced funds to the debtor.[47] The creditor claimed that all affiliated creditors were covered by the security interest, such that they shared ratably in the secured assets (and ahead of thirdparty creditors).

However, the Fifth Circuit held that notwithstanding the security agreements, the subsidiaries could not benefit from the parent’s prioritized security interest.[48] The court held that Article 9 does not permit “‘floating secured parties,’ that is, an open-ended class of creditors with unsecured and unperfected interests who . . . can assign their claims to a more senior lienor and magically secure and perfect their interests under an omnibus security agreement and financing statement.”[49] The court reasoned that allowing such conduct would disrupt commercial transactions to an unwarranted and unnecessary degree[,][50] presumably because it would undermine the fixed scheme created by security interests.

C.  The Relative Benefits (and Costs) of Floating and Fixed Priority

In this Section, we elaborate on the key benefits and costs associated with fixed and floating priorities. Ultimately, the optimal priority scheme depends on a trade-off between reducing the costs of evaluation through fixed priority and the benefits of maintaining managerial discretion to finance the business.

As discussed above, reducing creditors’ costs of evaluating assets is probably the most often cited benefit of asset-partitioning.[51] Fixed priority reduces these costs even further. Using again our simplified example, suppose the Oklahoma shopping mall is placed within Entity 2 owned by the owner, and C2 lends to Entity 2, as in Figure 2. Compare this with a situation whereby C2 lends to the owner and gets a security interest in the shopping mall (A2), as in Figure 3. In both cases, C2 will have priority over C1. However, in the first case, C2’s claim to the shopping mall in the event of default will be diluted by the claims of any other creditors to Entity 2, say C3, C4, and so forth. On the other hand, if C2 has a security interest, she can generally collect on the shopping mall, without worrying about any other creditors, who will have to claim against the other assets of the owner or whatever value is left in A2 once C2 is satisfied. As a result, C2 does not need to spend as much resources on evaluating the creditworthiness of the owner and the owner’s management of the business. In contrast, if the owner can borrow from other creditors through Entity 2, C2 must expend the costs of assessing ex ante the quality of the management by the owner and monitor the business to make sure that the owner doesn’t excessively leverage Entity 2. C2 must also check whether the owner uses the proceeds of all loans (not just the loan from C2) for productive purposes. If C2 fails to do so, the value of her claim against Entity 2 will be diluted.

Against the savings in evaluation costs, parties must tradeoff the value of managerial discretion. Under floating priority, the owners retain the right to take on new creditors with the same priority. Fixed priority imposes constraints on the owner’s subsequent borrowings. Subsequent lenders will be more hesitant to lend if they stand lower in priority than earlier secured creditors, or will demand higher interest rates. This can be inefficient if it hampers a firm’s ability to raise funds for productive activity.

For many operating companies, the managers (on behalf of the owner) need flexibility to respond to changing circumstancesadjusting the company’s assets and liabilities accordingly. It could be very costly for the business to give up this flexibility in terms of future borrowing. The creditors in this case are effectively lending against the goingconcern value of the company, and such value is a function of managerial discretion. In fact, even the creditors would be harmed by unduly impairing the ability of managers to obtain more financing, because such financing could be essential for enhancing the goingconcern value of the business.

As one extreme example, consider the value of flexibility for a leveraged buyout (“LBO”). In an LBO, the stock of the company is sold to a new buyer, typically a private equity firm, which obtains financing from a creditor using as security all the assets of the business. Thus, an LBO involves a comprehensive updating of the priority of all existing creditors by subordinating them to a single creditor. If all priorities were fixed, it would be difficult to effect an LBO. Creditors would be reluctant to finance these risky transactions if they stood last in line behind all existing creditors. Yet LBOs have historically yielded significant profits for shareholders and increased efficiency of firms.[52] Floating priority reserves for managers the option to undertake an LBO, which may be a valuable option for some companies.

Fixed priority is more valuable in two main circumstances. The first is when the value of managerial discretion is limited. The simplest example is a home mortgage. Creditors could finance individual homes by placing the house in an entity without a security interest and extending the loan to the entity. However, they do not use this alternative form of asset partitioning. Instead, mortgages (that is, security interests) are ubiquitous in residential finance transactions. The reason is in part that managerial discretion is a bug, not a feature, in these consumer transactions. The owner of an entity would be able to pledge the house to other creditors, a decision unlikely to be valuable for the bank-creditor. Homeowners are unlikely to be skilled business people. To the contrary, a homebuyer is more likely to engage in undue risk or personal consumption. The costs to the creditor of monitoring the other loans of the homeowner would be extremely high. Without security interests, debtors would be tempted to take on negative expected value projects, pledging existing collateral for increasingly risky ventures.[53]

The second circumstance is when debt liquidity is critical. If debt can be sold in the secondary market, the owner can obtain better credit terms. Debt is more liquid when its priority is fixed. The reason is that if buyers had to undertake expensive appraisal and monitoring of the creditworthiness of the owner, the transaction costs of buying the debt would be higher. Consider a creditor that buys a home mortgage from the original lender (or more likely, buys many home mortgages from many lenders). The home mortgage would be difficult to assign if the buyer in the secondary market needs to accrue substantial costs in monitoring the homeowner.

Secondary sales are subject to an adverse selection problem, which is the risk that the sellers are only selling the worst debt and keeping the best for themselves. For example, buyers may be concerned that the owner has pledged the house to additional creditors. If the priorities to the underlying assets cannot be undermined by the owner, then buyers need not investigate whether the owner has taken such an action. At least one study confirms that that security interests improve liquidity, by showing that secured bonds have higher liquidity than unsecured bonds, controlling for various bond characteristics, even including the rating of the bonds.[54]

III.  Other Potential Distinctions and Why They Do Not Work

We showed in Part II that the distinction between fixed and floating priority may serve as the distinction between entities and security interests. An essential distinction must provide a meaningful economic function that cannot be accomplished by a creative use of the other legal form and other bodies of laws, primarily contract and agency law. In this Part we show that other potential distinctions do not satisfy these criteria. Nevertheless, we briefly explain why such characteristics are more likely to follow from or accompany legal pools with fixed or floating priority, as applicable: many familiar features of both bodies of law work to support the essential distinction. Thus, these other potential distinctions are often complements to our fixed/floating distinction.

A.  Fixed Pools of Assets

Security interests typically attach to identified assets, such as a home or a shopping mall. This is reflected in the U.C.C., which prohibits a blanket pledge of all the assets of any description and requires a more specific description of the particular assets which are covered by the security agreement.[55]

However, it is unlikely that specificity of the pool of assets is the distinguishing feature of security interests. For one thing, security interests allow floating asset pools. The U.C.C. does allow floating liens over assets that cover both present and future (“afteracquired”) assets.[56] Creditors also commonly take interests in the proceeds of the assets, meaning the cash for which items are sold and whatever that cash is spent on.[57] Moreover, other jurisdictions go even further by allowing security interests to float over the whole business.[58] On the other hand, some entity-based transactions such as securitizations are designed to restrict any change in the pool of assets.[59]

It is not surprising, though, that security interests are associated with more specific or clearly defined sets of assets. Creditors who seek fixed priority are taking steps to support specialized monitoring and facilitate valuation in a secondary market. Generally, if the pool of assets is subject to drastic changes, the monitoring efficiencies associated with fixed priority may be lost.

B.  Filings by Creditors

Adding secured creditors may be cumbersome. For example, Article 9 typically requires filing a new financing statement that lists the new creditor by name.[60] Entity-based pools can take on new creditors without filing. However, filing obligations are unlikely to be material.[61] Scholars have noted that, in practice, the cost of filing affects the decision of whether to secure a loan “only in very rare cases.”[62] Further, as information technology improves, recording and verification costs are likely to decrease.[63] Moreover, even entities must make frequent filings.[64]

Although filing cannot serve as a principled distinction between the two bodies of law, requiring it makes sense for security interests, but not entities.[65] Filing through a registry gives notice to creditors about those who have fixed priority to the relevant asset pool. This information is likely relatively stable. Conversely, information about the identity of unsecured creditors who have floating priority is likely to be unhelpful to other creditors because the manager of the assets can change their identity at any time.

C.  In Rem Rights Against Third Parties

Security interest law gives secured parties a remedy against third parties.[66] When a lien attaches to an asset, that lien follows the asset even if it is sold. If the debtor defaults, the creditor can foreclose on the asset,[67] even if it is in the hands of new, potentially innocent owners.[68] Both discourage unauthorized shifting of encumbered assets and protect the creditor if such shifting occurs.[69] This type of right against third parties is typically referred to as the “in rem” quality of property law, as opposed to “in personam” rights. The latter are created by contract law and are binding only on the contracting parties and, sometimes, those on notice of the contracts.

Yet the advantages of security interests in this respect are relative rather than absolute. Entity law can also give an asset pool’s creditors a claim against third parties, so it is also in rem. When assets are owned by an entity, efforts to sell or pledge them are subject to fraudulent conveyance law, which invalidates transfers that are intended to frustrate creditors.[70] It also invalidates transfers for less than reasonable value when the debtor becomes insolvent.[71] True, rights granted by fraudulent conveyance law may be less intrusive to third parties than those granted by security interest law because they only disrupt bad-faith transfers or too-good-to-be true transactions. But this is only a difference in degree rather than a unique function of either entities or security interests.

To the degree that security interests provide creditors a more dependable claim against third parties who come to possess the collateral, this is best thought of as a detail of our account rather than a competitor to it. Security interests create fixed priority schemes, in which managers are not permitted to lower the relative status of a creditor as to certain collateral. Just as managers may not impair the rights of a secured creditor by promising another creditor higher priority, managers may not impair them by selling the assets free of liens and encumbrances. The fact that security interests “follow” property into the hands of third parties is an entailment of fixed priority. A rule fixing creditor priority against subsequent creditors fixes it against purchasers, a fortiori.

Likewise, it is not surprising that the remedy against shifting assets in entities is usually less exacting than that for security interests. When the manager has discretion to update the pool of creditors, it is harder to define the scope of the assets, and therefore it is more difficult to determine which asset transfers are detrimental to creditors. Conversely, when the assets are well defined (as is more likely when creditors have fixed priority), it is efficient to give the secured creditors a direct claim to the assets without a legal process that examines the motivation behind the transfer of those assets.

D.  Governance Structure

Entities typically require the appointment of dedicated decisionmakers and prescribe the duties and powers of such decisionmakers.[72] For example, corporations must appoint a board, and the board has fiduciary duties to the owners. Nonetheless, it is fairly easy to opt out of these rules, even in a standard corporation.[73] Moreover, entities, such as the general partnership and the member-managed Limited Liability Company (“LLC”), do not even have default centralized management or detailed governance provisions.[74] Many financial structures exist in which entities are used as shells without any meaningful governance structure, and the management of assets within the entity is outsourced to an outside manager, for example, a mutual fund manager or a servicer of securitized loans.[75] Moreover, a security agreement could contractually provide for the appointment of a manager for the secured assets and specify the manager’s duties and responsibilities. Accordingly, governance provisions can be constructed without an entity.

That said, governance structure is understandably more likely in entities. Asset pools with floating priority require management with discretion to update the priority of the creditors. It makes sense to impose on those managers some default set of duties to play their part in good faith. Detailed governance rules are less important for administering assets whose creditors have fixed priority because no updating is required.

E.  Limited Liability

Limited liability protects owners from the contract and tort claimants of the enterprise.[76] It is the most commonly cited benefit conferred by the use of legal entities.[77] In contrast, secured creditors typically have recourse to the unsecured assets of the owner.[78]

Nevertheless, limited liability is an imperfect distinction. First, an owner can obtain most forms of limited liability by simply bargaining for a waiver or non-recourse provision from creditors.[79] Second, limited liability is far from universal in entities. General partnerships (and general partners of limited partnerships) lack it altogether. Guarantees by individual owners or parent corporations, which effectively nullify limited liability, are pervasive across industries.[80] Moreover, limited liability does not apply to owners who personally control the business or when the entity’s personnel act on the owner’s behalf.[81] Some entities have some advantage in limiting liability to involuntary creditors who have no contractual relationship with the owner.[82] However, firms that have very few tort creditors (such as financial firms) nonetheless make extensive use of subsidiaries.[83] Even in industrial companies where torts could matter,[84] companies operated for hundreds of years without limited liability.[85]

Though the functional distinction of entities relative to security interests cannot boil down to limited liability, our theory nevertheless helps explain why entities often provide limited liability and security interests do not. Security interest-defined pools typically do not have managers; an owner actively managing the assets of such a pool is unlikely to be shielded by limited liability. Moreover, owners of an entity benefit more from limited liability because they would otherwise be liable for some unauthorized actions taken by the separate managers of the assets, who due to floating priority, have discretion to undertake a wide range of potentially risky transactions.

F.  Legal Personality

Entity law confers separate legal personality on asset pools, which can then own assets in their own name, sue, and be sued. However, legal personality on its own does not serve a meaningful economic function. For example, legal personality allows Entity 1 to sue individuals who damage the Hawaii mall, but that same suit could have been brought by the owner if she owned the mall in her individual capacity (as in Figure 3).

Another variant of that argument is that the bankruptcy process cannot attach to asset pools without legal personality.[86] Bankruptcy is arguably unique in that it collectively settles the claims of all creditors of the entity.[87] However, there is an equivalent process that can be applied to security interests: receivership. A receiver appointed following a motion by secured creditors may take control of some or all of a debtor’s assets.[88] The priority of claims in a receivership proceeding is similar to that applied in bankruptcy.[89] Although unsecured creditors generally do not take an active role in the receivership, they may be parties to receiverships,[90] and the receiver must protect their interests.[91] Thus, the law provides security-based pools a functionally similar process to that which is based on legal personality.

While legal personhood cannot serve as the functional distinction, it nevertheless makes sense for entities to have personhood because personhood is often useful for asset pools with a dedicated management. It makes less sense to sue an asset pool in its own name if the manager is also the owner of that pool, as in a typical security interest partition. Likewise, there is little gained by letting an asset pool sue in its own name if it is managed by an owner who is already able to sue in her own name. On the other hand, it likely most efficient to allocate the power to sue in the name of assets to entities, as they typically have dedicated management that is best positioned to deploy and protect the assets.

G.  Bankruptcy Protection

Although entities and security interests perform the same asset partitioning role, it may be argued that entities have the additional advantage of bankruptcy protection.[92] If an entity’s owner becomes insolvent, the owner’s personal creditors cannot usually force bankruptcy or liquidation of the entity’s assets; at best, they can take the owner’s ownership interests over the entity. In entity structures like those in Figure 2, C2’s collateral is unaffected if the Hawaii mall goes bust. In contrast, the unsecured creditors of an owner can drag the secured assets into liquidation by filing for the bankruptcy of the owner. In Figure 3, C1 could force the owner into bankruptcy along with all her assets, such as the Oklahoma mall. So C2 must evaluate the financial health of the owner and the viability of the Hawaii mall, rather than just the Oklahoma mall.

Nonetheless, we believe that bankruptcy protection cannot serve as the distinction between security interests and entities. First, we believe that it is not accurate to say that entities provide bankruptcy protection.[93] Rather they provide what practitioners call “bankruptcy remoteness.”[94] Entities may make the risk more remote, but there are many circumstances under which one entity is drawn into another’s bankruptcy. For instance, the sale of the receivables might be recharacterized as a loan or a security interest, in which case the assets would not be protected from bankruptcy.[95] The bankruptcy process can be extended to include a set of entities that operate as a group under the doctrine of substantive consolidation.[96] In fact, most public corporations run their various businesses in a way that makes consolidation almost inevitable.[97] Even in a securitization, there is a risk that solvent entities will be impaired by a bankrupt owner. Indeed, this is what happened in the highly publicized In re General Growth Properties Inc. case,[98] on which our figures throughout the paper are based.[99] In that case, the court drew solvent entities (each owning different shopping malls) into the bankruptcy proceedings of their owner (a real estate investment company).[100] General Growth filed for bankruptcy along with a number of its special purpose entities (“SPEs”), some of which were still performing.[101]

Just as entities’ bankruptcy protection is not absolute, security interests’ protection is not trivial,[102] especially for financial transactions that can be structured to take advantage of foreign law.[103] Under English law before 2002, and even after 2002 for certain transactions, holders of a specific type of security interest called the floating charge have the right to effectively block the bankruptcy (called the “administration” in the U.K.) of a company.[104] Instead, the senior creditor may appoint an administrative receivership, under which the security is protected and payments continue even as junior creditors’ claims are addressed. These expansive rights protect one pool from liquidation despite the owners’ financial difficulties.

Covered bondsanother instrument widely used in Europeprovide significant bankruptcy protection without meaningful use of an entity.[105] Covered bonds are similar to secured bonds, granting the creditors priority over obligations that remain on the balance sheet of the issuer. However, covered bonds also enjoy bankruptcy remoteness from the issuer.[106] The other creditors of the issuing entity do not get to interrupt payments to the covered bond in the event of insolvency. Covered bonds achieve this bankruptcy remoteness by way of enabling statutes, rather than by relying primarily on entities.

Moreover, bankruptcy protection is material only when the bankruptcy process disrupts the pre-existing priorities to the asset pools. The bankruptcy process does not necessarily harm the interests of secured creditors. Typically, secured creditors must be paid in full before any unsecured creditors may be paid anything at all,[107] they may be compensated for disruptions due to the bankruptcy process,[108] and senior creditors exercise significant control over the bankruptcy process.[109] To the degree that bankruptcy is disruptive to asset partitioning, this may be a contingent feature of recent American law,[110] rather than an enduring feature.[111] Indeed, it is possible that what partly motivated the emergence of securitization transactions in the 1980s, as an alternative to standard secured lending, is the contraction of the rights of secured creditors in bankruptcy following the 1978 Act to the benefit of unsecured creditors.[112]

Finally, it is worth noting that not all entities offer bankruptcy protection, so the defining feature of an entity cannot be bankruptcy protection. Creditors of a bankrupt partner in a partnership have the power to force liquidation and winding-up (which is equivalent to a bankruptcy) of the partnership by foreclosing on the partner’s interest in the partnership.[113]

While bankruptcy protection does not prove an adequate basis to distinguish these bodies of law, it is somewhat easier to obtain it with entities than security interests. Why? Unlike the other candidate distinctions above, we believe that the policy reasons behind this are questionable.[114] We address this issue below in Part V.

IV.  Explaining the Structure of Financial Products

With the growth in financial innovation, segregating asset pools is a common objective of many financial products. We focus on three areas of financial innovation that have experienced substantial growth in recent decades: securitization, captive insurance, and mutual funds. The basic choice business planers face in creating these asset pools is whether to place them in separate entities or simply give creditors a security interest over these assets. These two options are depicted in Figures 7 and 8.

Figure 7.  Entity Partitioning

     

Figure 8.  Security Interest Partitioning

In essence, this choice is substantially the same as the choice faced by the owner in regards to her shopping malls as we discussed above in Figure 2 and Figure 3. The main difference is that with the professionalization and standardization of these products, the assets are often managed by a distinct management company and are not necessarily owned by the originator of the assets as in the case of the owner’s shopping malls. We have also removed the pictures (of malls) so that Figures 7 and 8 can better capture the common structure in numerous structures, from securitized operating companies to insurance to investment funds.

These areas all involve the use of numerous entities, largely as a form of security interest. The proliferation of entities in these products thus might seem to lend support to the view that entities serve the same function as security interests, and the two forms are functional substitutes.

However, as we show below, in all these financial products, the key structural element is actually a security interest or other law that essentially fixes the priority of the creditors. Without fixed priority, these products would not be viable. The main reason entities are typically used in these structures is because in the United States, security interests are not bankruptcy remote; much recent financial innovation reflects a frustration with this feature. In Part V, we will discuss how even more recent innovations such as protected cell regimes attempt to address this deficiency in security interests.

A.  Securitization

In a securitization, the sponsor corporation sets aside a pool of assets.[115] The company sells those assets to a newly formed special purpose entity (“SPE”).[116] The SPE raises the purchase money by issuing bonds commonly known as asset-backed securities (ABS, or MBS when the asset is a mortgage). Many companies use securitization as their principal mode of financing. We return here to the notable example of General Growth Properties. General Growth owned numerous SPEs, which held shopping malls financed by loans and bonds. Each SPE owned one shopping mall (or a group of them), and the parent entity essentially acted as a management company that specialized in securitizing the assets. The structure was described in Part I, Figure 2, and it is essentially the same structure depicted in Figure 7, except that the SPEs are not necessarily owned by the originator of the assets, but may be independent of it.[117]

The economic rationale for securitization is that the notes are supposed to be informationally insensitive, or safe,[118] so that the noteholders’ costs of evaluating and monitoring the assets are low. This is reflected in the nature of the assets, which are supposed to have predictable cash flows and homogenous risk. There is limited value in managerial discretion at the SPE level, as the SPE is not an operating company.

Securitization practitioners take many steps to ensure low evaluation costs and low managerial discretion. The SPE’s organizational documents and the terms of the notes limit the SPE’s activities to holding the assets and making payments on the notes; managers are not permitted to incur any other debt or pledge the assets to secure the debt of another firm.[119] In the case of General Growth, for example, each SPE held a shopping mall, but the SPE’s board had no discretion to buy more assets, or issue debt at its own discretion; rather, management is outsourced to a management company that simply collects the income and rents out the shops.[120]

However, as discussed above, these contractual provisions, including those set in the SPE’s organizational documents, are insufficient because they are not binding on third parties.[121] Thus, it is crucial for the bondholders to have a security interest in the receivables and, without exception, bondholders in all securitizations do receive a security interest in the assets. The security interest is typically held by an indenture trustee on behalf of the bondholders.[122] This ensures that the bondholders have a fixed priority to the assets. If the SPE issues more debt, that debt will be automatically subordinated to the claims of the original noteholders. If the bondholders had only floating priority with respect to the assets, the SPE would be able to add more creditors with equal priority to the noteholders.

If fixed priority is the goal, why use a special entity? It is not as though the entity is doing “real” work; the entire structure is intended to strip all operational control from the SPEs managers. Nor is it costless to use entities. Each entity has to satisfy the relevant securities regulations, including the filing of a separate prospectus.[123] Parties are willing to bear these costs because entities are “bankruptcy remote.”[124] Bankruptcy remoteness, like fixed priority, is important for creating informationally insensitive notes, and empirical evidence suggests that it is priced into the value of the notes on the market.[125] When the same company manages many different securitization vehicles, the bondholders in one issuance (represented by C1 in Figure 7 and Figure 8) must ensure that the bondholders in the other issuances (i.e. C2) will not be able to drag the pledged assets (i.e. A1) into the bankruptcy of the management company. Because each pool of assets is held by a separate entity, there is less likelihood that it will be included in the bankruptcy of the management company.[126]

If security interests in the United States were bankruptcy remote, there would be no reason to use entities in this process.[127] In this case, the informational efficiencies could be achieved with mere security interests, as in Figure 8. In fact, a type of securitization called whole business securitizations, which is common in England, achieves bankruptcy remoteness without meaningful use of an entity. Rather, it relies on a form of security interest known as the floating charge, which enjoys bankruptcy protection.[128] In this type of securitization, the securitized assets are not transferred to a bankruptcy-remote SPE, but stay with the company.[129] The bondholders are protected from the bankruptcy of the sponsor corporation because due to the floating charge, they indirectly have the right to appoint an administrative receiver and take control of the assets if an unsecured creditor or the company applies for administration (the English equivalent for bankruptcy).[130] The administrative receivership procedure is designed to ensure that the securitized assets continue to operate for the benefit of the creditors, even if the business becomes bankrupt.

There are other examples of security interests thriving with bankruptcy protection, even without an essential link to entities. “Covered bonds” have been much touted as a safer alternative to securitization.[131] Covered bonds are widespread in Europe,[132] and they amount to secured bonds except that they possess appreciable protection from the bankruptcy of the issuer.[133] For financial institutions, this protection is granted by legislative fiat.[134] With this protection, entities are not crucial to the asset partitioning effort. However, statutory covered bonds are usually only issued by financial institutions. When issued by other companies, they face the same obstacles as we described in Part II and make use of entities for the same reasons.

This demonstrates that a security interest that has fixed priority and bankruptcy remoteness could in theory obviate the need for entity-based asset partitioning in securitizations. The fact that entities are substantially absent when security interests suffice further supports the claim that entities are being used only incidentally, as part of a strategy to ensure that fixed priority is maintained in the event of a bankruptcy.

B.  Captive Insurance

Captive insurance is a form of self-insurance, whereby a firm sets aside reserves in order to pre-fund a specific risk, such as product liability, professional liability, or health insurance.[135] Self-insurance is typically used when a firm has homogeneous risk exposures, such that its aggregate, expected losses are reasonably stable and predictable. It is generally cheaper than standard insurance, mainly because the insurance can be better tailored to the needs of the insured, as opposed to standard insurance that reflects industry risk.[136]

In theory, firms can self-insure simply by saving up a reserve fund, but without creating a separate pool of assets. However, when the funds remain under the discretion of the insureds, potential claimants and regulators will not view the reserve as being credibly committed to funding the identified risk.[137] One way to improve the credibility of self-insurance is to form captive insurance companies. The insured firm will set up a separate entity-subsidiary (a “captive”) with capital from the insured. This capital, along with the insurance premium, is used to satisfy potential claims.[138] The management of the subsidiary-entity is contracted out to an insurance management company, which manages many of these entities on behalf of the insureds.

This structure is basically the same as that depicted in Figure 7, in that the assets pledged to the creditorsthat is, the insuredsare placed in separate entities. Similar to securitizations, the assets that the management company manages are partitioned such that each creditorthat is, the insuredhas a priority in his reserve funds over other creditors of the insurance management company.

But, as in securitizations, the use of entities just to partition the assets is not sufficient. One problem with a purely entity-based approach is that entities create floating priority, but insurance customers need fixed priority. There is little value here to managerial discretion since the insured just wants the money safely held for a rainy day, rather than deployed to seek business opportunities. Nor do captive insurance creditors wish to incur any costs in monitoring the use of the assets by the captive insurance company.

To create this fixed priority, the insured needs to have a security interest in the assets of the captive insurance entity, which gives the insured priority over those assets.[139] Moreover, each of the captive entities must be a licensed insurance company, which is typically subject to numerous regulatory restrictions on its ability to incur any indebtedness. For example, under Delaware captive insurance regulation, the captive company is not permitted to incur material debts, make material loans or extensions of credit without regulatory approval, or enter into major transactions without regulatory approval.[140] These limitations, together with a security interest, would appear to fix the priority of the insured to the assets of the captive entity.

But again, if security interests and regulatory restrictions already achieve fixed priority, why do we need entities? For example, the insurance management company could simply own each reserve account on behalf of the insureds and each insured would have a security interest in its account (see Figure 8). In fact, some captive insurance companies have used this structure in order to avoid obtaining a separate insurance license for each entity.

However, without entities, the captive might not be adequately protected from the bankruptcy of the insurance management company. In particular, there would be a risk that claims by other insureds could render the management company insolvent and effect the liquidation of all the captives.[141] The fact that the management company promised C1 priority recourse against A1 (the contents of its cell) is not necessarily binding on C2, or any other creditors of the management company.

Insurance management companies have tried to avoid the costs of setting up separate entities to save the fees for insurance licenses while overcoming the limitations on a security interest approach by creating “rental captives.”[142] In rental captives, the management company issues each insured non-voting preference shares, and the proceeds of the issue are allocated to a specific account, which is also known as a “contractual cell.” Under the insurance policy, the insured is limited to claiming only from the segregated funds in the relevant account. The insured also has a security interest over his account.[143] Moreover, the insured as a preference shareholder in the insurance company enters into a shareholder agreement that (1) specifically limits claims to its respective fund, (2) states that the insured will have no recourse to any other company assets or the funds of other insureds, and (3) provides that such limitations also apply in the liquidation of the captive insurance company.[144]

Through this contractual arrangement, insurance management companies effectively tried to create bankruptcy remoteness without entities. However, this structure faces the same challenges we described in Part II. It essentially requires monitoring by each insured to make sure that the insurance company enters into similar arrangements with all other insuredsotherwise the other insureds could potentially file for the bankruptcy of the company or make claims to assets outside their segregated accounts. Moreover, there remains uncertainty whether in a bankruptcy of the insurance company, the bankruptcy court would respect the security interests of each insured and the relevant contractual limitations.

As in the case of securitizations, security interests with bankruptcy remoteness would make entities redundant in this structure. In fact, as we discuss in Part V, the contractual cells served as the basis for protected cell legislation, which largely addressed the deficiencies of the contractual approach, and provided effective bankruptcy remoteness to the cells.

C.  Mutual Funds

Mutual funds are pools of investment securities that issue only redeemable common stock, which is sold widely to the public and is composed entirely of debt or minority equity holdings in many companies. A unique feature of mutual funds is that the shareholders in these funds cannot sell their shares, but they can always redeem their shares for cash equal to their pro rata share of the net asset value of the fund.[145] Mutual funds must register with the SEC and are regulated by the Investment Companies Act of 1940 (“ICA”).[146] We will focus on open-ended funds, the most common type of mutual funds. The typical structure is for each fund to be formed as an entity, as in Figure 8. The management of all these entities is outsourced to a separate fund management company that manages the investments made by many funds, as with securitizations and captive insurance.[147]

Previous literature has emphasized the use of entities for creating mutual funds.[148] However, the organization and regulation of mutual funds effectively creates fixed priority. The ICA prescribes that such funds can only issue common shares and not senior debt securities, and that they can only take out loans from banks if the ratio of net assets to bank-loan principal is equal to or exceeds 3:1.[149] Thus, although mutual funds can take on some debt, the only true creditors of the funds are essentially its equity investors, and they are for the most part the only claimants on the fund’s assets. These investors have the same prioritythat is, they each have a claim on their pro rata share. The fund cannot issue any other shares that rank higher to them. In fact, the fund cannot issue shares that rank equally to the current investors in their pro rata share. If the fund issues new shares, the new investor has to contribute additional funds, as each investor maintains his or her claim to his or her share of the net asset value of the fund.[150]

The explanation for creating this fixed priority is essentially to lower the evaluation costs for the investors.[151] As is well known, most households now hold a substantial portion of their assets in mutual funds. These investors tend to be very passive and rarely, if ever, engage in any active monitoring or lawsuits.[152] If the fund is underperforming, these investors often just exit by redeeming their shares and possibly buy shares in another fund. If mutual funds had floating priority by allowing the managers to freely issue debt instruments, the investors would need to monitor more carefully, because such issuances would have priority over common equity, and shareholders would be at a risk of losing their pro rata share of the net asset value.

If investors want fixed priority, then why conjure up an entity for each investment fund? The management company could in principle hold all the securities in the name of a single entity, give the investors in each fund a security interest,[153] and require investors to enter into a contract that segregates the assets of each fund.[154] This structure, which is essentially the one depicted in Figure 8, would have the benefit of saving the transaction costs of setting up new entities, including duplication and expense resulting from multiple boards, contracts with service providers, and regulatory filings.[155]

The main purpose for using entities to form funds is bankruptcy remoteness.[156] Each funds investors need to be assured that their fund will not be affected by the claims of other funds investors and other creditors of the fund managers. As with captive insurance, it may in theory be possible to require the investors to enter into a multi-lateral contract, whereby each agrees to limit the liability of the management company to the assets in the relevant fund account. But again, there is no guarantee that the security interest and contract would be respected in a bankruptcy of the management company. Furthermore, the investors in each fund would always need to be alert to the creation of additional funds by the manager and get assurance that the new funds are subject to the same limitations on liability. Accordingly, without security interests that have bankruptcy remoteness, it is much easier to use entities to create mutual funds.

V.  The Evolution of New Legal Forms

The purpose of many financial products is effectively to give fixed priority to a group of creditors. Security interests provide fixed priority, but they must be alloyed with entities because security interests do not adequately protect pools from the owner’s bankruptcy. If security interests developed to allow bankruptcy remoteness, they could supplant the role that entities play in these structures. In fact, recent legal innovations appear to be specifically designed to address this void.

Although there has been significant academic focus on the evolution of entity law,[157] the evolution of novel security interests has been largely overlooked. These forms evolved primarily from the late 1990s in off-shore jurisdictions, but they have also been adopted in many U.S. states, including Delaware.[158] The key feature of these forms is that they allow certain entities to subdivide their assets, pledging individual pools of assets to individual creditors. These forms first appeared as a solution to the high costs of setting up entities for captive insurance purposes, which also include the fees for insurance licenses for each captive entity.[159] But they have been increasingly used to set up mutual funds, securitization products, and even real estate firms.

These entities are often called protected cell companies and the individual pools are often called cells or protected cells, although some jurisdictions use other names, such as segregated portfolio companies and segregated portfolios, respectively.[160] In the US, business planners may also use the series trust and series LLC, which allow these entities to form separate asset pools called series. Figure 9 shows the structure of entities that have the power to create these instruments. The entity itself may be a protected cell company or a series LLC. The assets are placed in the cells or the series, and they are pledged for the benefit of specific creditors, just like in the case of entities and security interests. For convenience, we will refer to all types of such asset pools as cells, but our claims will also apply to other types, such as the series or segregated portfolios.

Figure 9.  Protected Cell Partitioning

 

The asset pools within the entity (the cells) exhibit properties of both bodies of asset partitioning law. Like entities, they do not require creditors to define the assets in the pool or file a financing statement (in other words, the assets are floating), and they usually limit the liability of creditors to the assets of the cell. On the other hand, similar to security interests, they do not have a dedicated management or elaborate governance rules (other than those that regulate the asset segregation), and with few exceptions, they do not have separate legal personality.

Nonetheless, most of these legal forms are better viewed as security interests, because managers for most of these legal forms lack the ability to update creditor priority within each cell, and hence the cells exhibit fixed priority. Many of these forms are limited to specific uses for either captive insurance, investment funds, or securitizations. As such, they are subject to legal mandates, including industry-specific regulations that limit managerial discretion to alter creditor priority. These regulations also provide cells with a much greater degree of bankruptcy remoteness than standard security interests, because the creditors of the cells usually have no recourse to any others cells, including in the event that the company as a whole becomes bankrupt. In this way, they address the deficiencies associated with security interests that make them inadequate for the key financial products described above.

We describe three examples, one for each of the three financial products discussed in Part IV. Consider first the protected cells regimes, of which Delaware’s can serve as an example. Its cell regime is limited to captive insurance companies.[161] The law clearly provides that “[t]he assets of a protected cell shall not be chargeable with liabilities of any other protected cell or . . . of the sponsored captive insurance company generally[,]” unless stipulated in the participation agreement.[162] The priority of creditors of each cell is also fixed. The reason is that protected cell companies are not permitted to incur material debts, and the cells are subject to the same restrictions on indebtedness as the captive insurance companies themselves.[163] Furthermore, the liability of each participant insured by a captive insurance company is limited to its share in the assets of a protected cell,[164] and participants may not be added without permission from the regulator.[165] Moreover, the captive insurance company is not permitted to transfer any assets of a protected cell without the participants’ consent or regulatory approvals.[166]

In this way, the law effectively makes the cells bankruptcy remote. To be sure, there is formally no bankruptcy protection in the sense that if the company itself is liquidated or rehabilitated, presumably the cells will be as well. However, captive insurance companies have largely no material creditors, and each of the insured as creditors of cells only have recourse to the cells themselves.[167] Thus, it is difficult to envisage a situation where the default of one cell could lead to the default of the company and the other cells. Moreover, protected cells may be subject to their own liquidation proceedings without impairing the other cells.[168] Finally, if the protected cell company itself is in default and is being liquidated, [t]he assets of a protected cell may not be used to pay any expenses or claims other than those attributable to such protected cell.[169] Accordingly, even if the company is liquidated, the cells are protected from the liabilities of the protected cell company, and thus the rights of each cells’ creditors are unlikely to be jeopardized.

Protected cells are increasingly used to structure investment funds as umbrella funds.[170] In the U.K. version of umbrella fund legislation, protected cells are specifically designed to form open-ended mutual funds under the OpenEnded Investment Companies Regulations. Each cell may constitute a separate sub-fund, and the sub-funds are subject to the same regulations as funds.[171] Under the regulations, “the assets of a sub-fund belong exclusively to that sub-fund and shall not be used to discharge the liabilities of or claims against the umbrella company or any other person or body, or any other sub-fund, and shall not be available for any such purpose . . . .”[172] The regulation further mandates that the liabilities of a particular sub-fund can be paid only out of the assets of that sub-fund[173] and declares all contrary provisions void.[174]

The priority of each cell is again fixed under the regulations, which subject each fund and sub-fund to restrictions on indebtedness and prescribe the rights of investors to the fund’s assets. Specifically, the funds may only borrow on a temporary basis (defined generally as under three months),[175] and such borrowing may never exceed 10 percent of the value of the funds property.[176] Moreover, fund investors are entitled to a proportionate share of the net asset value of the underlying assets when they decide to redeem their shares.[177]

As mentioned above, the cells enjoy substantial bankruptcy remoteness. Given the strict limitation on liabilities, it is hard to envision a realistic situation in which the creditors of each cell could file for the winding-up of the company, because their claims are limited to the cell and the non-cellular assets are subject to substantial limitations on indebtedness. Moreover, each sub-fund can be wound up without impacting the umbrella company.[178]

Lastly, Luxembourg as well as other jurisdictions has established a regime for the formation of securitization funds managed by a management company.[179] Each securitization fund is supposed to serve as a vehicle for securitizing separate pools of assets. The rules for such funds, including those regarding the rights and obligations of the management, must be laid out in the management regulations of the fund,[180] and these management regulations must be filed with the trade and company registry.[181] The securitization fund is liable only for obligations imposed or contracted for under its management regulations.[182] The fund is not liable for the obligations of the management company or its investors.[183] Securitization funds may further be subdivided into separate pools called compartments, and separate management regulations may apply to each compartment.[184] Neither creditors of the management company nor the investors have rights of recourse against assets in the securitization fund.[185] The statute further requires that funds write into their management regulations “the circumstances in which the fund or one of its compartments will be in, or may be put into, liquidation.[186] This makes it possible to provide for the separate liquidation of each securitization fund without risking the liquidation of the management company,[187] and in fact, regulators have treated this structure as if it guarantees the bankruptcy remoteness of the funds.[188]

Although the above forms are essentially security interests with greater bankruptcy remoteness, we do not believe that all new forms should be understood the same way. Others appear to be new forms of entities. An important example is the series LLC, which is an LLC that can partition its assets and liabilities among distinct series.[189]

Unlike the forms described above, the series LLC is not limited to specific purposes, such as captive insurance and securitizations. The LLC operating agreement may provide classes of members and managers with different rights and duties.[190] Each series may have a different business purpose and different rights, powers, and duties with respect to the assets held in each series.[191] The assets of each series appear to be segregated in much the same way as those in protected cells,[192] and they likewise seem to be bankruptcy remote.[193] In particular, the series in principle have floating priority because the manager of the LLC has discretion to update the priority of the creditors of each series.

The series LLC is therefore much like an entity. Although one might think that the series LLC may be popular as a way to economize the costs of forming many LLCs, it does not appear to be widely used.[194] The reason is likely that investors have little appetite for yet another enterprise with floating priority. As we explained in Section II.C, floating priority entails high costs of investigation and monitoring, which likely outweigh the costs of forming a new entity. Thus, the series has little advantage over the parent entity (that is, the LLC) that created the series. By contrast, cellular structures with fixed priority are widely used in securitization, captive insurance, and investment funds, suggesting great appetite for innovation based on the core element of a security interest.

The forgoing has attempted to shed light on the purpose and nature of novel business forms, without dwelling on the nature of legal personality. Although it is tempting to deduce that a legal form is an entity because it has legal personality (or that it is not an entity because it lacks personality), such inferences are not helpful in illuminating the function of legal forms. This is in part because legal personality is not consistently and rationally organized in the statutes creating novel forms. For example, most laws state that such cells do not have legal personality, but others do, and some are silent on the point.[195] Legislatures’ decisions about whether to allocate legal personality to each pool of assets seem to be largely arbitrary and unrelated to the specific attributes of the legal form. This further reinforces the claim we made in Section III.F that legal personality cannot serve as a distinguishing principle between entities and security interests. It also highlights the importance of functional analysis for legal policy, as we discuss in the following Part.

VI.  Policy Implications

A.  Judicial Treatment of the New Legal Forms

Courts are increasingly confronted with complicated questions involving novel business forms. Without functional criteria to guide them, judicial decisions are likely to be formalistic or arbitrary. Early cases tended to fixate on the legal personality, rather than the economic objectives of the legal forms chosen by the parties who set up the relevant enterprise. In particular, courts have undermined the asset partitioning of cell structures based on the notion that they lack legal personality. In doing so, they frustrate the very purpose of these forms, which is to establish fixed priority combined with bankruptcy remoteness. By recognizing fixed and floating priority as the critical choices parties make, our account can help guide courts with these difficult determinations.

Consider one of the only American cases addressing the treatment of cells.[196] Pac Re, a Protected Cell Company (PCC), agreed on behalf of one of its cells (5-AT) to reinsure AmTrust. When an insurance claim was made, Pac Re argued that only the relevant cell was liable. AmTrust disagreed and compelled arbitration for recourse to all of Pac Re’s assets.[197] “The result of the arbitration is that Pac Re, not just its 5-AT captive cell, must pay AmTrust a whole lot of money.”[198] Why?

AmTrust’s victory was not compelled by clear statutory language: the insurance statute was unclear about whether creditors of a protected cell could proceed against the PCC,[199] though it was explicit that individual cells were not liable for the debts of the PCC or other cells.[200] The contract was likewise unclear about whether the cell’s debts could be satisfied from the PCC’s assets.[201] Ultimately, a federal district court concluded that the PCC was not liable for the debts of its cell.[202] However, the court still sent Pac Re to arbitration because the contract compelled arbitration for some person, and Pac Re was the only legal person around; the cell had no legal personality separate from the PCC.[203] Once Pac Re was before the tribunal, the arbitrators reinstated liability and required it to pay out almost $8 million on behalf of Cell 5-AT.[204]

It seems unlikely that this result is what commercial parties would have wanted. Parties use cells in order to isolate a pool of assets from all other debts and assets. Historically, parties did this by forming a separate entity but moved to cells in order to economize on the administrative and regulatory costs of forming entities. Pac Re seemingly gives cell-based captives less effective asset partitioning than entity-based captives. In the aftermath of the decision, credit rating agency Fitch noted that full recourse “could potentially cause disruption or financial stress for the protected cells in that PCC”[205] because the creditworthiness of all cells within the PCC became central to the status of the cell.

The business model of captive insurance is based on the fixed priority each insured has to each cell. Each insurance customer seeks to avoid the risk that new claimants might arise as peer or superior in status.[206] If the creditors of one cell can potentially levy on the assets of other cells in the group, then the customers of other cells must worry about the promises the insurance management company makes.

Pac Re potentially converts other cells’ fixed priority to floating priority by rejecting Pac Re’s statutory and functionalist argument. The court instead waxed jurisprudential about the nature of legal personhood and found that Pac Re rather than Cell 5-AT was the appropriate defendant in the lawsuit.[207] More troublingly, however, the court appears to suggest that legal personhood is dispositive of whether the segregation of the cells’ assets should be respected: “[T]hat a protected cell should be segregated and isolated from the core and any other protected cells in the PCC misses the mark in this lawsuit because a protected cell is not a separate legal person.”[208]

Legal personality is an inadequate lynchpin for this kind of decision in a world in which entity-like functions are frequently exercised by forms whose personhood is unclear.[209] The question of who should be named in a lawsuitan assets pool’s owner, its manager, or the pool itselfis analytically separate from the question of what assets are available to satisfy claims. Courts must be mindful of parties’ asset partitioning choices and the priority structures they adopt. Determining the permeability of these partitions on the basis of legal personality or other beside-the-point criteria is misguided.

B.  Bankruptcy Remoteness for Security Interests

We have shown that there is substantial appetite for fixed priorities with bankruptcy remoteness. The law has long permitted this arrangement, but it has generally required the use of two instruments: a security interest and an entity. This is reflected in the structure of the financial products we discussed in Part IV. With more respect for the security interests the entities would be superfluous in such structures.

The law would be improved if it respected the bankruptcy remoteness of security interests in such contexts without requiring the interposition of an entity. Any time that parties are capable of establishing fixed priority and bankruptcy remoteness, there should be an option for them to achieve that effect without actually forming an entity. As long as all creditors have proper notice of the asset partitions, there is little need to require parties to form a separate entity.[210] Specifically, this means that non-recourse secured claims on assets would be respected in bankruptcy to the same degree that non-recourse claims on a subsidiary (or a SPE) that contains the asset would be respected.[211]

At minimum, this reform would have the modest effect of saving the transaction costs of creating new entities. These costs are not trivial when business planners pledge numerous asset pools to numerous creditors, in circumstances where creditors seek safe assets that are easy to evaluate, and the value of managerial discretion is low. It is also possible that such a reform would have more wide-reaching beneficial effects. In particular, a growing number of businesses consist of numerous entities.[212] Thus, our proposal could in principle reduce organizational complexity by making entities redundant for some financial products.[213] It is also possible that pooling assets within security interests would further mitigate wrongful asset-shifting.[214]

How should this reform be effected? One way to do this is by identifying specific structures or transactions which would benefit from the combination of fixed priority and bankruptcy remoteness. This is essentially the approach of specialized legislation for captives, mutual funds, and securitizations. Another option is to create a set of general conditions, potentially applicable to any security interest. For example, a statutory safe harbor could be introduced for any non-recourse security interests;[215] qualifying secured claims would enjoy substantial protectionssuch as release from bankruptcy’s automatic stay[216] and exemption from the collection efforts of unsecured creditors[217]which would have arisen through entity-based financing.

The latter proposal raises the concern that permitting secured parties to opt for greater bankruptcy protection would transfer wealth away from non-adjusting creditors, such as tort victims, and accordingly drive firms to create and externalize too much risk. There is a rich debate on the costs and benefits of a regime that privileges one group of creditors above another, and we do not intend to settle it in this paper.[218] However, our proposal is limited to contexts where entity-based bankruptcy remoteness is already feasible. Whether such protections are efficient or not, it is of little importance whether the means is a security interest or an entity.

Should we go even further and allocate bankruptcy remoteness to all security interests? That is, even security interests that retain the creditor’s deficiency claims to the other assets of the owner? Doing so would amount to a major change in bankruptcy policy, given that most assets entering into bankruptcy are subject to secured claims.[219] Here too, there is extensive literature debating whether parties should be able to opt out of bankruptcy or customize its terms.[220] So far, the trend has been in the opposite direction,[221] but new technologies raise new questions. As we show in the next Part, even if these new technologies do not result in a contractarian bankruptcy system, they may increase quantity and variety of property-like law in commercial life.

VII.  Enduring Legal and Technological Innovations

One question for future research is how enduring this distinction will be. Do future innovations in business form threaten it? Blockchain infrastructure is a means of witnessing and recording transactions on “distributed, open and unalterable ledgers.”[222] This technology facilitates “smart contracts,” which are computer scripts that execute transactions, such as mutual promises between contracting parties, now and in the future.[223] Blockchain technology records transactions and makes those records publicly available to those with access to the blockchain network. Because of this widespread notification, privately created contracts bind third parties who are members of the network.[224] In so doing, blockchain technology essentially blurs the distinction between contract law and property law because it facilitates instruments that can be highly customized yet resilient against third-party claims.[225]

How might blockchain technology and the collapse of the contract/property divide affect the distinction between entities and security interests? Blockchain technology might substitute for security interests because it can create fixed priorities to specific assets that bind third parties.[226] Blockchain technology might also substitute for legal entities because it can allow an owner to designate a set of assets for the benefit of certain creditors, while reserving in the smart contract the right to update creditor priority as time goes on.[227]

While it is difficult to predict the future, we think that modern innovations will not undermine the priority-based distinction. The property-like functions in blockchain systems will still come in floating and fixed priority variants. Parties will stipulate whether they want a given creditor’s claim on a pool to be utterly certain or to be subject to demotion in order to accommodate later creditors. This choice is the essential choice between security interest and entity, and parties will tailor their blockchain commitments in ways that reflect that fundamental choice.

Their choice will reflect the same considerations we identified: evaluation costs and the value of management. Where parties want to lower their evaluation costs, they will select smart contractual commitments with fixed priority in the assets, which the owner cannot override. Other parties will bargain to give the owner more flexibility to pledge the asset to other creditors and update the priority scheme over time.[228] This arrangement will make more sense when the owner’s freedom is likely to support efficient uses of the assets.

New commercial technology may challenge many familiar concepts, including the orthodox division between contract law and property law. Nevertheless, we speculate that the species of entity and security interest will survive long after the genus of property has dissolved.

Conclusion

Recent years have witnessed a Cambrian explosion in the variety of business forms. The financial crisis of 2007 familiarized most Americans with the words “securitization” and “special purpose entity.” Mutual funds have become a dominant force in capital markets, and exotic insurance products are becoming part of mainstream business. The menu of legal forms has evolved to allow maximum flexibility in partitioning assets. The most advanced permutation in this process is the introduction of novel forms, such as Protected Cell Companies, Segregated Portfolios, Series LLCs, and a myriad of other instruments. After many decades of simplicity, why an explosion of complexity?

We argue that this trend is largely driven by an appetite for fixed priority. Security interests provide this function and entities do not. The rise of financial products like securitization, long associated with entities (such as the “special purpose entity”), is best understood as demand for security interests. The security interests that underlie these products are designed to minimize the costs of evaluating the assets. Most forms of security interests, however, face some difficulty avoiding costly bankruptcy, whereas entities tend to enjoy greater bankruptcy remoteness. Because the lack of bankruptcy remoteness may destroy fixed priority in the event of a bankruptcy, sophisticated parties have found ways to buttress their structures with the supplemental use of entities and, recently, by utilizing legal instruments that purport to provide the fixed claims of security interests alongside bankruptcy remoteness.

Incidentally, our theory also reinforces the view of entities as not just mere interests in assets. Ultimately, entities require some managerial discretion to update the priorities of the creditors (though not necessarily a dedicated or centralized manager). The benefit of maintaining such discretion is to allow the firm flexibility in raising funds for productive activity. Creditors lend to entities when they wish to rely on managed going concerns, whereas creditors who seek to minimize the costs of evaluation require a security interest to minimize managerial discretion to update their priority. Our theory also helps explain the proliferation of these new legal forms: they are not just opportunities to arbitrage insurance regulation, nor are they the inevitable consequence of a commitment to private ordering among chartering jurisdictions. Instead, they are efforts to maintain security interests’ fixed priority without necessarily accepting all of the terms (and bankruptcy costs) associated with security interests. This understanding can inform courts as they evaluate cases by identifying the parties’ objectives, and it can help legislatures support optimal private ordering. In particular, we argue that when courts allocate priorities among creditors, they should base their decisions on the priorities prescribed by the relevant law, rather than entity status.

Furthermore, we show that there may be reasons to allow non-recourse security interests the benefit of bankruptcy remoteness, even without the fiction of a new legal person.

Finally, our proposed distinction is enduring. Even as new contracting technologies are inventedsuch as smart contracts and blockchainand even as bankruptcy laws evolve, parties will still have different appetites for fixed and floating priority.

 

 


[*] *. Ofer Eldar is Associate Professor of Law, Duke University School of Law. Andrew Verstein is Associate Professor of Law, Wake Forest University School of Law. For comments and helpful conversations, we are grateful to Anthony Casey, Deborah Demott, Elisabeth De Fontenay, Russell Gold, Mike Green, Ezra Friedman, Mitu Gulati, Henry Hansmann, Raina Haque, Omer Kimhi, Kim Krawiec, Lynn M. LoPucki, John Morley, Barak Richman, Michael Simkovic, Richard Squire, Steven Schwarcz, Ron Wright, and participants at the faculty workshop at Duke University School of Law, Northwestern University’s Soshnick Colloquium, and the Wake Forest Faculty Development Lunch.

 [1]. See Gary Gorton & Andrew Metrick, Securitization, in 2A Handbook of the Economics of Finance: Corporate Finance 1, 1–70 (George M. Constantinides, Milton Harris & René M. Stulz eds., 2013); Steven L. Schwarcz, The Alchemy of Asset Securitization, 1 Stan. J.L. Bus. & Fin. 133, 135 (1994).

 [2]. Other securitization vehicles include collateralized loan obligations (“CLOs”) and collateralized debt obligations (“CDOs”). Both of these forms carve up loans into tranches of securities with different levels of risk. See Christopher Whittall, Hunt for Yield Fuels Boom in Another Complex, Risky Security, Wall St. J. (Oct. 22, 2017, 6:16 PM), https://www.wsj.com/articles/hunt-for-yield-fuels-boom-in-clos-1508673601 (stating that collateralized loan obligations accounted for $247 billion in the first nine months of 2017); Experts Explain: What Is a CDO?, Wall St. J.: Video (July 25, 2011, 12:26 PM), https://on.wsj.com/2zT30XV.

 [3]. See infra Section IV.C.

 [4]. See infra Section IV.B.

 [5]. See, e.g., Ralph S.J. Koijen & Motohiro Yogo, Shadow Insurance, 84 Econometrica 1265, 1265 (2016) (finding that shadow reinsurance grew to $364 billion in 2012); Morgan Stanley, An Overview of Global Securitized Markets (2018), https://www.morganstanley.com/im/publication
/insights/investment-insights/ii_anoverviewoftheglobalsecuritizedmarkets_us.pdf (reporting that in 2018 the global securitization market totaled $10.4 trillion); Total Net Assets of U.S.-Registered Mutual Funds Worldwide from 1998 to 2017, Statista, https://www.statista.com/statistics/255518/mutual-fund-assets-held-by-investment-companies-in-the-united-states (last visited Jan. 28, 2019) (reporting that in 2017, mutual funds held $18.75 trillion).

 [6]. See Jonathan R. Macey, Corporate Governance: Promises Kept, Promises Broken 22 (2008); Michael C. Jensen & William H. Meckling, Theory of the Firm: Managerial Behavior, Agency Costs and Ownership Structure, 3 J. Fin. Econ. 305, 310–11 (1976).

 [7].               Frank H. Easterbrook & Daniel R. Fischel, The Economic Structure of Corporate Law 15 (1991).                           

 [8]. Margaret M. Blair, Corporate Personhood and the Corporate Persona, 2013 U. Ill. L. Rev. 785, 796 (2013); Anthony J. Casey, The New Corporate Web: Tailored Entity Partitions and Creditors’ Selective Enforcement, 124 Yale L.J. 2680, 2680 (2015); Henry Hansmann & Reinier Kraakman, The Essential Role of Organizational Law, 110 Yale L.J. 387, 390 (2000) [hereinafter Hansmann & Kraakman, Essential Role]; Henry Hansmann, Renier Kraakman & Richard Squire, Law and the Rise of the Firm, 119 Harv. L. Rev. 1333, 1340 (2005) [hereinafter Hansmann et al., Law and the Rise of the Firm]; Edward M. Iacobucci & George G. Triantis, Economic and Legal Boundaries of Firms, 93 Va. L. Rev. 515, 517 (2007); Ron Harris & Asher Meir, Non-Recourse Mortgages – A Fresh Start, 21 Am. Bankr. Inst. L. Rev. 119, 137 n. 91 (2013); Paul G. Mahoney, Contract or Concession? An Essay on the History of Corporate Law, 34 Ga. L. Rev. 873, 876 (2000); Henry E. Smith, Intellectual Property as Property: Delineating Entitlements in Information, 116 Yale L.J. 1742, 1759 (2007); Richard Squire, The Case for Symmetry in Creditors’ Rights, 118 Yale L.J. 806, 808 (2009).

 [9]. Property rights are said to be enforceable “against the world,” whereas contract rights are enforceable only against parties to the contract or, in some cases, on notice of it. See Thomas W. Merrill & Henry E. Smith, The Property/Contract Interface, 101 Colum. L. Rev. 773, 780–89 (2001).

 [10]. See infra Part I.

 [11]. See Hansmann & Kraakman, Essential Role, supra note 8, at 417 (acknowledging that security interests “offer a potential substitute” for entities’ priority of claims); George G. Triantis, Organizations as Internal Capital Markets: The Legal Boundaries of Firms, Collateral, and Trusts in Commercial and Charitable Enterprises, 117 Harv. L. Rev. 1102, 1138 (2004) (“Like corporations, security interests . . . can achieve the monitoring-specialization economies highlighted in the Hansmann-Kraakman hypothesis. Indeed, these monitoring efficiencies served for some time as the leading academic justification for the priority rights of secured credit.” (footnote omitted)).

 [12]. See Hansmann & Kraakman, Essential Role, supra note 8, at 423 (“It is possible that the law of security interests will continue to evolve . . . . If so, the line between organizational law and the law of secured interests may become quite indistinct . . . .”); Triantis, supra note 11, at 1119 (“It leaves to later work the intriguing task of comparing the efficiency of various mechanisms and describing the conditions under which, for example, a project should be financed by secured credit rather than as a separate corporate entity under project finance.”).

 [13]. See infra Part V.

 [14]. We are not the first to notice that security interests permit fixed creditor priority. See, e.g., Randal C. Picker, Security Interests, Misbehavior, and Common Pools, 59 U. Chi. L. Rev. 645, 650 (1992). However, we are the first to identify fixed creditor priority as the essential function that distinguishes security interest law from entity law and to draw out its vital contribution to certain economic transactions.

 [15]. See, e.g., Republic Nat’l of Dall. v. Fitzgerald (In re E.A. Fretz Co.), 565 F.2d 366, 369 (5th Cir. 1978); infra text accompanying note 50.

 [16]. By evaluating assets, we mean to encompass both the costs of appraising the assets and the costs of monitoring the debtor’s use of the assets. See infra Section II.C.

 [17]. Although we argue for a unique essential role for each domain, and therefore a single essential distinction, we do not believe that either body of law plays only a single role. See Ronald J. Mann, Explaining the Pattern of Secured Credit, 110 Harv. L. Rev. 625, 633 (1997). In fact, both provide a mixture of mandatory and default terms. Although we argue that most are not essential to the bodies of law and could be obtained through alternative means, parties may well find security interests or entities to be a salient or convenient path.

 [18]. That is, placing the assets within a special purpose entity (“SPE”) reduces the possibility that the sponsor corporation’s bankruptcy will affect the SPE’s creditors and claims. See Gorton & Metrick, supra note 1, at 9; Schwarcz, supra note 1, at 35. See generally Kenneth M. Ayotte & Stav Gaon, Asset-Backed Securities: Costs and Benefits of “Bankruptcy Remoteness”, 24 Rev. Fin. Stud. 1299 (2011) (finding a pricing premium for bankruptcy remote instruments).

 [19]. See infra Section VI.A.

 [20]. See Hansmann & Kraakman, Essential Role, supra note 8, at 390.

 [21]. Our example is loosely based on the business model of General Growth Properties, an enterprise that operated about over 200 shopping malls financed mainly through securitization vehicles, as described in its highly publicized bankruptcy. See generally In re Gen. Growth Props. Inc., 409 B.R. 43 (Bankr. S.D.N.Y. 2009) (deciding motions in General Growth Properties’ bankruptcy case).

 [22]. This example is based on the Ala Moana mall, a former General Growth property that is located near Waikiki Beach in Honolulu, Hawaii. It is the largest outdoor shopping mall in the world, and home to luxury shops such as Gucci and Chanel. See Retail Space for Lease at Ala Moana Center, Brookfield Props., https://www.brookfieldpropertiesretail.com/properties/property-details/ala-moana-center.html (last visited Jan. 28, 2019); Declaration of James A. Mesterharm Pursuant to Local Bankruptcy Rule 1007-2 in Support of First Day Motions at 66, In re Gen. Growth Props., Inc., No. 09-11977, 409 B.R. 43 (Bankr. S.D.N.Y. 2009), ECF No. 13 [hereinafter Mesterharm Declaration].

 [23]. This example is based on another one of General Growth’s shopping malls, called Sooner Mall, which is located in Norman, Oklahoma. See Retail Space for Lease at Sooner Mall, Brookfield Props., https://www.brookfieldpropertiesretail.com/properties/property-details/sooner-mall.html (last visited Jan. 28, 2019); Mesterharm Declaration, supra note 22, at 59.

 [24]. These financiers are not limited to banks; trade creditors, such as suppliers, often become creditors as they wait for payment for services rendered or for goods delivered.

 [25]. Hansmann & Kraakman, Essential Role, supra note 8, at 390.

 [26]. Id. at 399–404. Partitioning can also prevent redundant and insufficient monitoring. See Picker, supra note 14, at 660; Saul Levmore, Monitors and Freeriders in Commercial and Corporate Settings, 92 Yale L.J. 49, 51–53, 57–59 (1982).

 [27]. Thomas H. Jackson & Anthony T. Kronman, Secured Financing and Priorities Among Creditors, 88 Yale L.J. 1143, 1143 (1979). But see Alan Schwartz, Security Interests and Bankruptcy Priorities: A Review of Current Theories, 10 J. Legal Stud. 1, 9–14 (1981) (questioning the empirical foundation of the claim that junior creditors monitor).

 [28]. This is subject to the risk that whole business of the owner becomes bankrupt. See infra Section III.G.

 [29]. See, e.g., Jackson & Kronman, supra note 27, at 1156–57 n.51; Levmore, supra note 26, at 53; Picker, supra note 14, at 658.

 [30]. Triantis, supra note 11, at 1131.

 [31]. See infra Section III.C.

 [32]. U.C.C. § 9-322(a) (Am. Law Inst. & Unif. Law Comm’n 2010).

 [33]. Our fixed priority thesis does not entail that priority is immune to all change. Rather, we claim that security interests fix priority to whatever degree and in whatever way the law allows.

 [34]. For a discussion of how structural priority can establish the priorities among creditors, see Douglas G. Baird, Priority Matters: Absolute Priority, Relative Priority, and the Costs of Bankruptcy, 165 U. Pa. L. Rev. 785, 820–21 (2017).

 [35]. Casey, supra note 8, at 2740 n.180.

 [36]. See generally Barry E. Adler & Marcel Kahan, The Technology of Creditor Protection, 161 U. Penn. L. Rev. 1773 (2013) (discussing ways to award recovery rights against third parties).

 [37]. Del. Code Ann. tit 8, § 124 (2018) (making ultra vires acts enforceable). Charters can create priority among shareholders, for example when preferred stockholders gain a preference over common stockholders. However, this is only binding on participants to the corporate contract who were on notice of the potential for issuing new shares that might alter intra-shareholder priority, and it cannot alter the priorities of third parties.

 [38]. See Barry E. Adler, Financial and Political Theories of American Corporate Bankruptcy, 45 Stan. L. Rev. 311, 338 (1993) (discussing the law of apparent authority). The debt would be ultra vires, but that does not render it unenforceable. See, e.g., Del. Code Ann. tit 8, § 124 (making ultra vires acts enforceable); In re Mulco Prods., Inc., 123 A.2d 95, 103–05 (Del. Super. Ct. 1956) (describing the law of apparent authority), aff’d sub nom. Mulco Prods., Inc. v. Black, 127 A.2d 851 (Del. 1956); see also Picker, supra note 14, at 652 (discussing a debtor’s ability to assure a creditor that the debtor will not take on new debt).

 [39]. See Adler & Kahan, supra note 36, at 1795 n.63.

 [40]. Control may cause a creditor’s claims to be equitably subordinated in bankruptcy or expose the creditor to lender liability lawsuits. See Steven L. Schwarcz, The Easy Case for the Priority of Secured Claims in Bankruptcy, 47 Duke L.J. 425, 438–39 (1997).

 [41]. For the classic discussion of this information asymmetry, see generally George A. Akerlof, The Market for “Lemons”: Quality Uncertainty and the Market Mechanism, 84 Q.J. ECON. 488 (1970).

 [42]. In contrast, information on security interests is generally publicly available in the relevant registry.

 [43]. In many cases, being third in priority may be better than having equal priority with all creditors. For example, imagine that 100 creditors are each owed $10 and that the enterprise is worth only $30. If all creditors share ratably, then each will receive $0.03. However, if C3 ranks higher than ninety-seven creditors, she should be able to fully recover her claim.

 [44]. See Hansmann & Kraakman, Essential Role, supra note 8, at 419–20 (discussing the possibility and limitations of a single-creditor solution to asset partitioning); see also Robert E. Scott, A Relational Theory of Secured Financing, 86 Colum. L. Rev. 901, 948–50 (1986) (discussing single-creditor lending to small firms).

 [45]. We have also dimmed the creditor and asset that is not relevant to the discussion.

 [46]. Republic Nat’l Bank of Dall. v. Fitzgerald (In re of E. A. Fretz Co.), 565 F.2d 366, 368–69 (5th Cir. 1978).

 [47]. Id. at 368.

 [48]. Id. at 372.

 [49]. Id. at 369.

 [50]. Id. at 372. Other courts have reached similar conclusions. See, e.g., W.C. Fore Trucking Co. v. Biloxi Prestress Concrete, Inc. (In re Biloxi Prestress Concrete, Inc.), 98 F.3d 204, 209 (5th Cir. 1996); Whitlock v. Max Goodman & Sons Realty, Inc. (In re Goodman Indus., Inc.), 21 B.R. 512 (Bankr. D. Mass. 1982); In re Adirondack Timber Enter., No. 08–12553, 2010 WL 1741378, at *3–4 (Bankr. N.D.N.Y. Apr. 28, 2010). Note that cases sanctioning the use of participation agreements, whereby participant lenders may benefit from a lead lender’s prioritized security interest, are consistent with this view. See, e.g., Bayer Corp. v. MascoTech, Inc. (In re AutoStyle Plastics, Inc.), 269 F.3d 726, 744 (6th Cir. 2001). Under such agreements, only the lead lender may pursue recourse against the debtor, and participant lenders are paid by and have contractual relationships with the lead lender, not the debtor. Id. at 736. Participant lenders benefit from a lead lender’s prioritized security interest, particularly where the lead lender’s credit arrangement with the debtor is expandable, because the lead lender may claim the full amount of the debt, which it may use to pay the participant lenders. Id. at 736–37. Such arrangements thus represent security interests for floating debt, not floating priority for creditors.

 [51]. See, e.g., Casey, supra note 8, at 2684–85 (arguing that tailored asset partitions facilitate effective creditor monitoring); Hansmann & Kraakman, Essential Role, supra note 8, at 401–03; Jackson & Kronman, supra note 27, at 1156; Levmore, supra note 26, at 49–50; Richard A. Posner, The Rights of Creditors of Affiliated Corporations, 43 U. Chi. L. Rev. 499, 501–02 (1976); Gabriel Rauterberg, Agency Law as Asset Partitioning 17 (Aug. 10, 2015) (unpublished manuscript), https://papers.ssrn.com
/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=2641646.

 [52]. Michael C. Jensen, Agency Costs of Free Cash Flow, Corporate Finance, and Takeovers, 76 Am. Econ. Rev. 323, 326–27 (1986); Steven Kaplan, The Effects of Management Buyouts on Operating Performance and Value, 24 J. Fin. Econ. 217, 250–51 (1989); cf. Andrei Shleifer & Lawrence H. Summers, Breach of Trust in Hostile Takeovers, in Corporate Takeovers: Their Causes and Consequences 33, 53 (Alan J. Auerbach ed., 1988).

 [53]. See Oliver Hart & John Moore, Debt and Seniority: An Analysis of the Role of Hard Claims in Constraining Management, 85 Am. Econ. Rev. 567, 568 (1995); George G. Triantis, A Free-Cash-Flow Theory of Secured Debt and Creditor Priorities, 80 Va. L. Rev. 2155, 2155–57 (1994).

 [54]. Efraim Benmelech & Nittai Bergman, Debt, Information, and Illiquidity 18–19 (Nat’l Bureau of Econ. Research, Working Paper No. 25054, 2018), https://www.nber.org/papers/w25054.

 [55]. U.C.C. §§ 9-108(c), 9-504(2) (Am. Law Inst. & Unif. Law Comm’n 2010); see also Melissa B. Jacoby & Edward J. Janger, Ice Cube Bonds: Allocating the Price of Process in Chapter 11 Bankruptcy, 123 Yale L.J. 862, 922–24 (discussing obstacles to obtaining a security interest in all of a debtor’s property).

 [56]. U.C.C. § 9-204. Moreover, security interests in inventory do not follow the inventory if sold in the ordinary course of business, see id. § 9-320, and ordinarily security interests in deposits do not follow the cash once it is withdrawn, see id. § 9-332(a).

 [57]. See id. § 9-315.

 [58]. For example, the English floating charge is a security interest over all or substantially all of the assets of a company. See Roy Goode, Principles of Corporate Insolvency Laws 325–27 (4th ed. 2011).

 [59]. See infra Part IV.

 [60]. U.C.C. § 9-310; Hansmann & Kraakman, Essential Role, supra note 8, at 418. Article 9 allows alternative methods for perfecting a security interest. Id. § 9-310(b). For example, possession is a common means of perfection often associated with pawn shops. Id. § 9-313. Control is also often used to perfect interest in securities. Id. § 9-314. Other security interests perfect automatically, without any filing. Id. § 9-309.

 [61]. See, e.g., Barry E. Adler, An Equity-Agency Solution to the Bankruptcy-Priority Puzzle, 22 J. Legal Stud. 73, 80 (1993).

 [62]. Mann, supra note 17, at 662–63. Mann put the cost as $40 per $100,000, or one twenty-fifth of one percent of the principal loaned.

 [63]. Barry E. Adler & George Triantis, Debt Priority and Options in Bankruptcy: A Policy Intervention, 91 Am. Bankr. L.J. 563, 572 (2017).

 [64]. For example, publicly traded corporations must file an 8-K to report “material . . . agreements . . . not made in the ordinary course of business.” Additional Form 8-K Disclosure Requirements & Acceleration of Filing Date, 17 C.F.R. §§ 228–30, 239–40, 249 (2018).

 [65]. Henry Hansmann & Reinier Kraakman, Property, Contract, and Verification: The Numerus Clausus Problem and the Divisibility o                                                                                                                                                          f Rights, 31 J. Legal Stud. S373, S39395 (2002) [hereinafter Hansmann & Kraakman, Property, Contract, and Verification] (discussing the trade-off between benefit to parties of using property law against investigation cost to third parties).

 [66]. Hansmann & Kraakman, Essential Role, supra note 8, at 422; Hansmann & Kraakman, Property, Contract, and Verification, supra note 65, at S403.

 [67]. It is important not to overstate security interest laws’ powers of recovery against third parties. See 11 U.S.C. § 362(a) (2012) (barring all recovery efforts against debtors that have filed for bankruptcy); U.C.C. § 9-609 (Am. Law Inst. & Unif. Law Comm’n 2010) (prohibiting self-help where it causes a “breach of the peace”); Douglas G. Baird & Robert K. Rasmussen, Private Debt and the Missing Lever of Corporate Governance, 154 U. Pa. L. Rev. 1209, 1229 (2006) (noting practical limitations on recovery); Lynn M. LoPucki, The Unsecured Creditor’s Bargain, 80 Va. L. Rev. 1887, 1922 (1994) (discussing the long timeline of real property foreclosure laws). Moreover, self-help can also be replicated by other contractual means, such as leases. To use the example from Part I, C1 can purchase the Hawaii mall and then lease it to the owner. As in a secured transaction, the creditor pays a fixed sum and stands to recover a fixed sum unless the owner defaults, in which case the creditor owns the mall. Thus, if the owner ceases to pay, the lease is breached, and C1 can simply repossess the assets she already owns.

 [68]. U.C.C. § 9-201(a).

 [69]. Triantis, supra note 11, at 1138. The debt can continue to grow and yet benefit from the senior priority. U.C.C. §§ 9-204(c), 9-323(a) & cmt. 3. This is a strong deterrent to buying an asset subject to a lien. See Adler, supra note 61, at 78–79.

 [70]. See Statute of 13 Elizabeth, 13 Eliz. 1, ch. 4 (1571) (Eng.); Unif. Fraudulent Transfer Act (Unif. Law Comm’n 2014); Unif. Voidable Transactions Act (Unif. Law Comm’n 2018); Unif. Fraudulent Conveyance Act (Unif. Law Comm’n 2018).

 [71]. Unif. Fraudulent Transfer Act (Unif. Law Comm’n 2014); Unif. Voidable Transactions Act (Unif. Law Comm’n 2018).

 [72]. Stephen M. Bainbridge, Corporation Law and Economics 29 (2002).

 [73]. See Del. Code Ann. tit. 8, § 141(a) (2018) (allowing firms to confer the powers and duties of a board of directors on anyone provided in the charter).

 [74]. See, e.g., Revised Unif. Partnership Act § 401(f) (1997); Del. Code Ann. tit. 6, § 18-402 (2018).

 [75]. See infra Part IV.

 [76]. Hansmann and Kraakman refer to it as defensive asset partitioning. Hansmann & Kraakman, Essential Role, supra note 8, at 394; see also Hansmann et al., Law and the Rise of the Firm, supra note 8, at 1336.

 [77]. See generally Bainbridge & Henderson, Limited Liability: A Legal and Economic Analysis (2016) (explaining the importance of limited liability); The Key to Industrial Capitalism: Limited Liability, Economist (Dec. 23, 1999), https://www.economist.com/finance-and-economics
/1999/12/23/the-key-to-industrial-capitalism-limited-liability (praising limited liability).

 [78]. U.C.C. § 9-608(a)(4), 9-615(d)(2) (Am. Law Inst. & Unif. Law Comm’n 2010) (“[T]he obligor is liable for any deficiency.”). The parties can agree that C1 will have no recourse to A2, id. § 9-608 cmt. 3 (“The parties are always free to agree that an obligor will not be liable for a deficiency, even if the collateral secures an obligation . . . .”). However, American bankruptcy law gives secured parties the option of unsecured recourse to all the debtor’s assets. 11 U.S.C. § 1111(b)(1)(A) (2012); see also Iacobucci & Triantis, supra note 8, at 52932.

 [79]. Hansmann & Kraakman, Essential Role, supra note 8, at 429.

 [80]. Casey, supra note 8, at 2722.

 [81]. See United States v. Bestfoods, 524 U.S. 51, 66–68, 70–71 (1998).

 [82]. The advantage is only relative. Courts have allowed participants in reciprocal insurance schemes to limit their liability by contracts duly filed with the state insurance commissioner, even against non-consenting creditors. See, e.g., Hill v. Blanco Nat’l Bank, 179 S.W.2d 999 (Tex. Civ. App. 1944); Wysong v. Auto. Underwriters, 184 N.E. 783, 788 (Ind. 1933). See generally Andrew Verstein, Enterprise Without Entities, 116 Mich. L. Rev. 247 (2017) (discussing reciprocal insurance schemes and their role in limiting the need for entities to obtain liability protection).

 [83]. See Dafna Avraham et al., A Structural View of U.S. Bank Holding Companies, 18 Fed. Res. Bank of N.Y. Econ. Pol’y. Rev. 65, 72 (2012) (finding that seven bank holding companies own almost 15,000 subsidiaries).

 [84]. Cf. Henry Hansmann & Reinier Kraakman, Toward Unlimited Shareholder Liability for Corporate Torts, 100 Yale L.J. 1879 (1991) (questioning the desirability of limited liability for torts).

 [85]. Peter Z. Grossman, The Market for Shares of Companies with Unlimited Liability: The Case of American Express, 24 J. Legal Stud. 63, 66 (1995); Hansmann & Kraakman, Essential Role, supra note 8, at 430; Mark I. Weinstein, Don’t Buy Shares Without It: Limited Liability Comes to American Express, 37 J. Legal Stud. 189, 191–92 (2008); Mark I. Weinstein, Share Price Changes the Arrival of Limited Liability in California, 32 J. Legal Stud. 1, 1–2 (2003).

 [86]. Casey, supra note 8, at 2719–20; Iacobucci & Triantis, supra note 8, at 533.

 [87]. See Douglas G. Baird, The Uneasy Case for Corporate Reorganizations, 15 J. Legal Stud. 127, 127 (1986); Thomas H. Jackson, Bankruptcy, Non-Bankruptcy Entitlements, and the Creditors’ Bargain, 91 Yale L.J. 857, 857 (1982).

 [88]. 75 C.J.S. Receivers §§ 16, 44 (2018); Receiverships, 4 I.R.M. § 5.17.13.10 (2017). Secured creditors generally file for receivership to prevent collateral from decreasing in value or to avoid repossession. Mary Jo Heston, Alternatives to Bankruptcy: Receiverships, Assignments for Benefit of Creditors, and Informal Workout Arrangements, 2009 WL 4052825, at *5.

 [89]. Andrew C. Kassner & Howard A. Cohen, Anything but Bankruptcy!: ABCs, Receiverships and Other Alternatives, 080405 Am. Bankr. Inst. 239 (2005).

 [90]. Heston, supra note 88, at 5; see also 75 C.J.S. Receivers § 16 (without a judgment, general and contract creditors typically cannot initiate receiverships).

 [91]. Gary Marsh & Caryn E. Wang, Bankruptcy Versus Receivership—Unsecured Creditors, in Strategic Alternatives for and Against Distressed Businesses § 12:18 (2018). Note that although bankruptcy provides for the creation of an unsecured creditors’ committee, receivership does not provide this option. Id.

 [92]. Douglas G. Baird & Anthony Casey, No Exit? Withdrawal Rights and the Law of Corporate Reorganizations, 113 Colum. L. Rev. 1 (2013), Casey, supra note 8, and Hansmann & Kraakman, Essential Role, supra note 8 all refer to this as liquidation protection.

 [93]. Cf. Steven L. Schwarcz, The Conundrum of Covered Bonds, 66 Bus. Law. 561, 567 n. 43 (2011) (noting sources that distinguish between bankruptcy “remoteness” and bankruptcy “segregation”).

 [94]. Gorton & Metrick, supra note 1, at 1300; Schwarcz, supra note 1, at 135.

 [95]. See In re LTV Steel Co., 274 B.R. 278, 280–81 (Bankr. N.D. Ohio 2001); Ayotte & Gaon, supra note 18, at 7 (finding a twenty-five to twenty-nine basis point price reduction for bankruptcy remote instruments following the LTV decision, which reduced bankruptcy remoteness for many instruments). There have been state law legislative efforts to reduce these risks. See Steven L. Schwarcz, Securitization Post-Enron, 25 Cardozo L. Rev. 1539, 1546–49 (2004). However, a proposed amendment to the federal bankruptcy code (Section 912 of the Bankruptcy Reform Act) was not enacted, leaving the risks appreciable.

 [96]. Courts often undermine bankruptcy-remote structures or consolidate superficially separate subsidiaries, even when tidier structures are used. Douglas G. Baird, Substantive Consolidation Today, 47 B.C. L. Rev. 5, 5 (2005); William H. Widen, Corporate Form and Substantive Consolidation, 75 Geo. Wash. L. Rev. 237, 239 (2007) (finding that half of all large public company bankruptcies involve substantive consolidation by court order or settlement). See generally Dennis J. Connolly, John C. Weitnauer & Jonathan T. Edwards, Current Approaches to Substantive Consolidation: Owens Corning Revisited, 2009 Norton’s Ann. Surv. Bankr. L. 2 (providing a laundry list of factors courts use in determining whether substantive consolidation is appropriate). Even solvent subsidiaries can be drawn into the bankruptcy process and subjected to substantive consolidation. See, e.g., Kapila v. S & G Fin. Servs., LLC (In re S&G Fin. Servs. of S. Fla.,               Inc.), 451 B.R. 573, 579–82 (Bankr. S.D. Fla. 2011).

 [97]. Even in the context of securitizations, where the goal is to isolate the assets from the sponsor corporation, sponsors have strong incentives to bail out their SPEs if the assets are not performing. Thus, Citigroup, JPMorgan and Bank of America all bought billions of dollars’ worth of securitized assets from their SPEs when those assets failed to perform, even though they had no legal obligation to do so. Francesco Guerrera & Saskia Scholtes, Banks Come to the Aid of Card Securitisation Vehicles, Fin. Times (June 25, 2009), http://www.ft.com/content/bcf1769c-60ee-11de-aa12-00144feabdc0; see Henry Hansmann & Richard Squire, External and Internal Asset Partitioning: Corporations and Their Subsidiaries, in The Oxford Handbook of Corporate Law and Governance 17 (Jeffrey N. Gordon & Wolf-Georg Ringe eds., 2016); cf. Casey, supra note 8, at 2721–22 (noting the extensive use of cross guarantees but offering an efficiency explanation for it).

 [98]. See generally In re Gen. Growth Props. Inc., 409 B.R. 43 (Bankr. S.D.N.Y. 2009).

 [99]. The mall example from Figure 2 is drawn from the General Growth bankruptcy. See generally id.

 [100]. General Growth is essentially a securitization vehicle funded by numerous SPEs; we discuss securitization in more detail in Section IV.A.

 [101]. Nonetheless, it is important to emphasize that the court did not consolidate the SPEs and seems to have respected the priorities of the bondholders. In re Gen. Growth Props., Inc., 409 B.R. at 69. We discuss SPEs in greater detail infra Section IV.A.

 [102]. In addition, regulatory regimes may also protect asset pools from liquidation. Reciprocal insurance companies have long operated as a nexus of contract without any corporation at the core, in part because insurance regulation often bars creditors from initiating liquidation procedures. See Verstein, supra note 82, at 283 (describing how exclusive commissioner control over liquidation preserves other insurance enterprises without entities).

 [103]. See generally Charles W. Mooney, Jr., Choice-of-Law Rules for Secured Transactions: An Interest-Based and Modern Principles-Based Framework for Assessment, 22 Unif. L. Rev. 842 (2017) (offering a framework for assessing choice-of-law rules for secured transactions).

 [104]. Goode, supra note 58, at 315–77. When an application for administration is made, the holder of the floating charge is legally entitled to notice, and he can use the notice period to step in and appoint an administrative receiver. The appointment of an administrative receiver precludes the appointment of the administrator, and the administrative receiver has a duty to continue to operate the assets for the benefit of the charge holder.

 [105]. In some jurisdictions, practical considerations or the inadequacies of enabling legislation still result in the creation of a separate entity. Steven L. Schwarcz, Securitization, Structured Finance, and Covered Bonds, 39 J. Corp. L. 129, 143 (2013).

 [106]. Schwarcz, supra note 93, at 567.

 [107]. 11 U.S.C. § 1129(b)(2) (2012) (barring confirmation of a plan in deviation of absolute priority); see Czyzewski v. Jevic Holding Corp., 137 S. Ct. 973, 979 (2017).

 [108]. The Bankruptcy Code provides adequate protection to secured creditors, such as cash payments. See, e.g., 11 U.S.C. § 361; In re Coker, 216 B.R. 843, 849 (Bankr. N.D. Ala. 1997); see also 11 U.S.C. § 506(b) (providing post-petition interest payments to over-secured creditor).

 [109]. See Douglas G. Baird & Robert K. Rasmussen, Antibankruptcy, 119 Yale L.J. 648, 675–76 (2010).

 [110]. See Hansmann & Kraakman, Essential Role, supra note 8, at 421 (calling entities advantage in bankruptcy remoteness “relatively modest” and “an artifact of the weakness of U.S. bankruptcy law . . . .”). For example, United Savings Association of Texas v. Timbers of Inwood Forest Associates, Ltd., 484 U.S. 365 (1988) held that secured creditors are not owed interest payments as a result of delayed foreclosure on collateral due to the automatic stay. Creditors increasingly sought bankruptcy protection in light of this decision, but it is hardly an inevitable feature bankruptcy system.

 [111]. The rights of secured parties were even stronger prior to the 1978 reform of the Bankruptcy Code; if the collateral was an important asset, a secured creditor could effectively forestall a reorganization. James J. White, Death and Resurrection of Secured Credit, 12 Am. Bankr. Inst. L. Rev. 139, 142 (2004). Although the automatic stay prevented secured creditors from repossessing collateral, no other rights of secured creditors could be impaired. Id. While the debtor had greater rights to interfere with secured creditors’ claims under chapter X of the 1898 Act, few companies went into chapter X. Id. Before the 1898 Act was amended in the 1930s, secured creditors could in principle also repossess the assets in the course of bankruptcy proceedings. See generally Patrick A. Murphy, Restraint and Reimbursement: The Secured Creditor in Reorganization and Arrangement Proceedings, 30 Bus. Law. 15 (1974). To be sure, the bankruptcy court does have the power to protect by injunction its jurisdiction of the property of the bankrupt. Id. at 18.

 [112]. White, supra note 111, at 142, 149. The 1978 revisions to the bankruptcy code embody a preference for reorganization over liquidation in order to preserve debtor firms. Id. at 139–40.

 [113]. Revised Unif. P’ship Act § 801(6) (amended 1997), 6 U.L.A. 103 (Supp. 2000); Unif. P’ship Act § 32(2), 6 U.L.A. 804 (1995). We note though that the creditors of the partnership itself have priority over the partner’s creditors in the assets. Revised Unif. P’ship Act § 807(a). See Hansmann & Kraakman, Essential Role, supra note 8, at 394–95; Hansmann et al., Law and the Rise of the Firm, supra note 8, at 1137–39.

 [114]. See Hansmann & Kraakman, Essential Role, supra note 8, at 421 (referring to the disregard for the priorities of security creditors in bankruptcy as a “weakness of U.S. bankruptcy law”).

 [115]. For general descriptions, see generally Special Purpose Entity (SPE/SPV) and Bankruptcy Remoteness, in 5 Law of Distressed Real Estate § 56 (2018); Gorton and Metrick, supra note 1, at 1–70; Schwarcz, supra note 1, at 135.

 [116]. The SPE may be formed as any entity; usually it will be a business trust, LLC, or limited partnership, mainly for tax reasons.

 [117]. These SPEs may even be owned by nonprofit corporations whose function is to facilitate the securitization transaction.

 [118]. See Tri Vi Dang, Gary Gorton & Bengt Holmström, The Information Sensitivity of a Security (2015), http://www.columbia.edu/~td2332/Paper_Sensitivity.pdf.

 [119]. Impact of Bankruptcy on Real Estate Transactions, in 2 Law of Real Estate Financing § 13:38 (2018).

 [120]. Mesterharm Declaration, supra note 22, at 5–6.

 [121]. Supra Section II.A.2.

 [122]. This is presumably a mechanism to reduce the costs of filing notices required under Article 9 of the UCC to assign the security interests with respect to each bondholder when the notes are sold in the secondary market.

 [123]. See 17 C.F.R. § 230.190 (2018). These costs are particularly high in the context of note programs that include multiple issuances of bonds with largely identical terms and managed by the same management company, yet each backed up by a separate pool of assets. Nigel Feetham & Grant Jones, Protected Cell Companies: A Guide to their Implementation and Use 20–23 (2d ed. 2010).

 [124]. Again, we emphasize that bankruptcy protection through the use of entities is not guaranteed. See supra Section III.G.

 [125]. See Ayotte & Gaon, supra note 18, at 1299–1335 (finding a pricing premium for bankruptcy remote instruments).

 [126]. Though note that, as discussed in Section III.G, in In re General Growth Properties, Inc., 409 B.R. 43 (Bankr. S.D.N.Y. 2009), the assets of the SPEs were all included in bankruptcy of the parent company.

 [127]. Entity-based securitization became popular only in the 1980s following the general weakening of security-based rights in bankruptcy. See White, supra note 111.

 [128]. See supra notes 102–04 and accompanying text.

 [129]. Typically, these are business that have predictable cash flows, like pub companies. See Claire A. Hill, Whole Business Securitization in Emerging Markets, 12 Duke J. Comp. & Int’l L. 521, 526 (2002).

 [130]. In practice, a SPE is actually formed, but its function is to hold the security interests, including the floating charge, on behalf of the creditors, but its function is purely to coordinate among bondholders. An SPE acts as administrator of the claims and collects payments, but because the assets are not transferred to the SPE, it is not necessary for ensuring the assets are bankruptcy remote.

 [131]. See, e.g., Kathryn Judge, Fragmentation Nodes: A Study in Financial Innovation, Complexity, and Systemic Risk, 64 Stan. L. Rev. 657, 716 (2012).

 [132]. Steven L. Schwarcz, Securitization, Structured Finance, and Covered Bonds, 39 J. Corp. L. 129, 142 (2013) (“By the end of 2008, the amount of covered bonds outstanding in Europe alone was approximately €2.38 trillion, up from €1.5 trillion in 2003.”).

 [133]. Schwarcz, supra note 93, at 567.

 [134]. See Steven L. Schwarcz, Ring-Fencing, 87 S. Cal. L. Rev. 69, 74–75 (2014).

 [135]. For background on captive insurance, see generally Jay D. Adkisson & Chris M. Riser, Asset Protection: Concepts & Strategies for Protecting Your Wealth (2004); Jay D. Adkinsson, Adkisson’s Captive Insurance Companies: An Introduction to Captives, Closely-Held Insurance Companies, and Risk Retention Groups (2006); Luke Ike, Risk Management & Captive Insurance (2016); F. Hale Stewart & Beckett G. Cantley, U.S. Captive Insurance Law (2d ed. 2015); Peter J. Strauss, The Business Owner’s Definitive Guide to Captive Insurance Companies: What You Need to Know About Formation and Management (2017) (outlining fundamentals and benefits of captive insurance for business owners); Daniel Schwarcz & Steven L. Schwarcz, Regulating Systemic Risk in Insurance, 81 U. Chi. L. Rev. 1569, 1624–26 (2014).

 [136]. A commercial insurance company would charge higher premiums to cover the risks and substantial reserves would have to be held against these risks. This business rationale is similar to the rationale for mutual insurance companies. See Henry Hansmann, The Organization of Insurance Companies: Mutual Versus Stock, 1 J.L. Econ. & Org. 125, 148–49 (1985).

 [137]. Christopher L. Culp, Structured Finance and Insurance: The Art of Managing Capital and Risk 524–25 (2006).

 [138]. Due to local regulation, there may also be a need for a local insurer, called a fronting insurer, to collect the premiums and transfer them to the captive entity.

 [139]. There are various provisions in the organizational documents of the captive and the insurance policy with the insured which impose restrictions on the use of the assets by the captive entity. But as discussed in Section II.A, these provisions are not sufficient to bind third parties.

 [140]. Del. Code Ann. tit. 18, § 6922(3)–(4) (2018).

 [141]. There are other ancillary drawbacks to using only security interests. Security interests in the funds typically require a clear definition of the secured assets, U.C.C. § 9-108 (2008), and control by the insured, id. §§ 9-104, 9-327. Although perfection by control is common, the UCC does not allow perfection through control by third parties, and complications may arise when the account is subject to a security interest by more than one creditor. See Rene Ghadimi, Common Mistakes Under the UCC, Secured Lender, May–June 2009, at 35–38, https://files.skadden.com/sites%2Fdefault%2Ffiles
%2Fpublications%2FPublications1803_0. Moreover, in some jurisdictions, security interests in deposit accounts are not permitted. See Deloitte Legal, Guide to Cross-Border Secured Transactions passim (2013), www2.deloitte.com/content/dam/Deloitte/global/Documents/Legal/dttl-legal-international-guide-to-secured-transactions-2014.pdf.

 [142]. See Feetham & Jones, supra note 123, at 7–10.

 [143]. Id. at 14.

 [144]. Id. at 8–10.

 [145]. John D. Morley & Quinn Curtis, Taking Exit Rights Seriously: Why Governance and Fee Litigation Don’t Work in Mutual Funds, 120 Yale L.J. 84, 88 (2010).

 [146]. John D. Morley, The Regulation of Mutual Fund Debt, 30 Yale J. on Reg. 343, 346 (2013).

 [147]. Henry Hansmann & Ugo Mattei, The Functions of Trust Law: A Comparative Legal and Economic Analysis, 73 N.Y.U. L. Rev. 434, 438–39 (1998); John Morley, The Separation of Funds and Managers: A Theory of Investment Fund Structure and Regulation, 123 Yale L.J. 1228, 1238–39 (2014).

 [148]. Hansmann & Mattei, supra note 147; Morley & Curtis, supra note 145.

 [149]. 15 U.S.C. § 80a-18(f)(1) (2012).

 [150]. A new investor has to contribute new capital and, at the time of the investment, is entitled only to that capital. Of course, the value of the pro rata share of the new investor (as well as other investors) can fluctuate, but the investor’s priorities remain fixed.

 [151]. The second indicator of priority type—the value of managerial discretion—is more equivocal for funds. On the one hand, actively managed funds are chosen in large part because their managers’ discretion is deemed valuable. On the other hand, research on actively managed funds reveals this to be largely unjustified. Many investors therefore put their money in passive funds, where manager discretion is not valued. Either way, the assets in the funds are marketable securities with very little going concern value. The managers’ ability to create value greater than the sum of its parts may be valuable in industrial companies but not in funds.

 [152]. Morley & Curtis, supra note 145, at 119. In contrast, investors in closed-end funds, who have no discretion to withdraw their investment at any time, tend to be more active in monitoring the fund managers. The fund also has greater latitude in issuing different classes of stock and bonds. Investors in those funds tend to be more sophisticated, and hence it makes sense for the priorities in these funds to be less fixed.

 [153]. Similar to securitizations, the security interest can be in the name of an agent on behalf of investors in the fund.

 [154]. This requirement could be imposed by regulation in order to ensure that all creditors comply.

 [155]. Victoria E. Schonfeld & Thomas M. J. Kerwin, Organization of a Mutual Fund, 49 Bus. Law. 107, 116 (1993) (“Multiple legal entities, however, inevitably require duplication and expense resulting from separate boards, agreements with service providers, prospectuses, periodic reports, and other regulatory filings.”). A recent article states that “it appears likely that the vast majority of funds in existence today are formed as part of a series entity.”  Joseph A. Franco, Commoditized Governance: The Curious Case of Investment Company Shared Series Trusts, 44 J. Corp. L. 233, 246 (2019). Insofar as funds are now often formed as multiple series under a single LLC or trust, it would presumably reflect asset partitioning arising out the investment company act. See ICA § 18(f)(2), 15 U.S.C. § 80a-18(f)(2) (2012) (permitting mutual funds to issue multiple securities series if and only if each series “is preferred over all other classes or series in respect of assets specifically allocated to that class or series”).

 [156]. Hansmann & Mattei, supra note 147, at 468; Morley, supra note 147, at 1271. As in the case of captive insurance, security interests would also be a cumbersome mechanism for fixing the priority of investors in mutual funds. The investors would need to file a financing statement to register their security interest and to establish control over their respective accounts. See supra note 141.

 [157]. See, e.g., Henry Hansmann, Reinier Kraakman & Richard Squire, The New Business Entities in Evolutionary Perspective, 2005 U. Ill. L. Rev. 5, 5–14 (2005).

 [158]. Other U.S. states that have protected cell legislation where many captive insurance companies incorporate include Vermont, Utah, and Nevada. See Feetham & Jones, supra note 123, at 56–57.

 [159]. These costs can be significant for small businesses. See id. at 7–10.

 [160]. The name “cell” emerged from the terms used by insurance companies to discuss each account in a rental captive product, in structures that used only contractual terms and security interests in an attempt to create fixed priority and bankruptcy remoteness. Id.  

 [161]. The Delaware statute seems to be based on the protected cell regime that was first adopted in countries such as Guernsey, and the segregated portfolio companies in countries such as the Cayman Islands. See Feetham & Jones, supra note 123. One difference, though, is that the statutes in offshore jurisdictions seem to be available for forming mutual funds and securitization SPEs, whereas the Delaware statute is limited to captive insurance.

 [162]. Del. Code Ann. tit. 18, § 6934(3) (2018). Also, the assets, results of operations, and financial condition of each cell must be documented separately. Id. § 6934(2).

 [163]. See supra Section IV.B.

 [164]. Del. Code Ann. tit. 18, § 6932(1)–(2).

 [165]. Id. § 6934(8).

 [166]. See id. § 6934(4)–(5).

 [167]. The priority created by the cells is symmetric in the sense that no creditors have deficiency claims to assets of the company which are not placed in their respective cells. As argued by Richard Squire, asymmetric priorities can generate shifts of value from the one creditor to another, for example, where a secured creditor can also claim on the unsecured assets. Because the creditors of each cell have no recourse to assets of other cells, the priorities are symmetric and therefore are not vulnerable to such value-shifting. See Squire, supra note 8, at 861.

 [168]. Del. Code Ann. tit. 18, § 6918.

 [169]. Id. § 6938(1). The protected cell company’s minimum capital and surplus must be available to pay claims against the protected cell company. See id. § 5911.

 [170]. Feetham & Jones, supra note 123, at 23–27.

 [171]. The Open-Ended Investment Companies (Amendment) Regulations 2011, SI 2011/3049, art. 3, ¶ 2 (Eng.), (“‘[S]ub-fund’ means a separate part of the property of an umbrella company that is pooled separately.”).

 [172]. Id. ¶ 11A(1).

 [173]. Id. 11A(2).

 [174]. Id. 11A(3).

 [175]. See Fin. Conduct Auth., Collective Investment Schemes § 5.5.4 (2019), http://www.handbook.fca.org.uk/handbook/COLL.pdf.

 [176]. See id. §§ 5.5.5, 5.5.7 (prohibiting mortgages of the scheme property).

 [177]. Fin. Conduct Auth., The Perimeter Guidance Manual § 9.9.2 (2019), http://www.handbook.fca.org.uk/handbook/PERG/9.pdf.

 [178]. Jane Thornton & Jane Tuckley, Winding Up an OEIC or OEIC Sub-Fund, Practical Law UK Practice Note, 0-504-3966 (2017).

 [179]. Loi du 22 mars 2004 relative à la titrisation [Law of 22 March 2004 on Securitization], Journal Officiel du Grand-Duché de Luxembourg [Official Gazette of Luxembourg], 29 Mar. 2004, art. (6)(2) (Lux.) translated in Law of 22 March 2004 on Securitisation, Commission de Surveillance du Secteur Financier [hereinafter Law of 22 March 2004 on Securitisation]. France and Italy have similar securitization laws. See Feetham & Jones, supra note 123, at 67, 115; Decreto Legge 14 marzo 2005, n.35, G.U. Mar. 16, 2005, n.62 (It.).

 [180]. Law of 22 March 2004 on Securitisation, art. (10)(1).

 [181]. Id. art. 10(3).

 [182]. Id. art. 12.

 [183]. Id.

 [184]. Id. art. 10(2).

 [185]. Id. art. 17.

 [186]. Id. art. 10(1).

 [187]. Securitisation Undertakings, Commission de Surveillance du Secteur Financier, http://www.cssf.lu/en/supervision/ivm/securitisation (last visited Jan. 29, 2019).

 [188]. Id. (“Securitisation undertakings subject to the 2004 Law enjoy high legal certainty because the 2004 Law expressly lays down the principles of limited recourse and non petition aiming to ensure the securitisation undertaking’s bankruptcy remoteness.” (emphasis added)).

 [189]. Del. Code Ann. tit. 6, § 18-215(a)–(c) (2018).

 [190]. Id. § 18-215(e).

 [191]. Id. § 18-215(a).

 [192]. The debts, obligations, and liabilities incurred by each series are enforceable only against that series, and creditors of the series LLC itself have no recourse against the assets held within each series. Id. § 18-215(b). For the liability shields to be effective, assets of each series and the assets of the LLC itself must be kept separate and records of the assets of each series must be maintained. Id.

 [193]. To be sure, although there is no settled law on the point, the liquidation of the LLC would appear to trigger the liquidation of the series, and to this extent, the series have no bankruptcy protection. See id. § 18-215(k) (a series is dissolved upon the dissolution of series LLC under which it is organized). Also, because each series is potentially structured as a subsidiary of an operating company (as opposed to a regulated management company with limited debt), there is greater risk that a bankruptcy court will consolidate the assets of the LLC and its series. Meredith Pohl, Taking the Series LLC Seriously: Why States Should Adopt This Innovative Business Form, 17 J. Bus. & Sec. L. 207, 229 (2017) (commenting that series LLCs by their very nature include some factors strongly weighed in substantive consolidation, in that parent LLCs create their subsidiary series; documentation for series may be minimal; and different series within an LLC may run different parts of the same business). However, creditors have notice of a series LLCs limited liability, which cuts against substantive consolidation. Id.

 [194]. See Pohl, supra note 193, at 210 n.5. A separate but similar legal form is the series trust, which is generally used to partition assets in investment funds. See generally Del. Code Ann. tit. 12, § 3806(b) (explaining that statutory trust’s governing instrument may set out management pensions). Series trusts lack legal personality. See Eric A. Mazie & J. Weston Peterson, Delaware Series Trusts—Separate but Not Equal, 16 Inv. Law. 1, 3 (2009), http://www.rlf.com/files/CorpTrust01.pdf (noting that investment professionals would find it undesirable for the purposes of SEC registration if series trusts were considered separate entities).

 [195]. Feetham & Jones, supra note 123, at 53–55. Some jurisdictions have adopted legislation allowing for the formation of an Incorporated Cell Company (“ICC”), which performs the same functions as a PCC, but allocates a separate entity status to each cell. See, e.g., The Companies (Guernsey) Law 2008, pt. XXVII (addressing incorporated cells); N.C. Gen. Stat. § 58-10-510 (2018) (authorizing incorporated cells); see also Feetham & Jones, supra note 123, at 129–30. Many novel forms can hold assets in their names and take legal actions, but they do not appear to have a separate legal personality. Id. at 53–55; cf. Mont. Code Ann. § 33-28-301 (2018) (permitting cell to own property while lacking legal personality).

 [196]. Other courts have confronted foreign cells and given them no better treatment. See, e.g., Arrowood Surplus Lines Ins. Co. v. Gettysburg Nat. Indem. Co., No. 3:09CV972 (JCH), 2010 U.S. Dist. LEXIS 33727, at *3 (D. Conn. Apr. 6, 2010) (requiring a Bermuda PCC to post security on behalf of its cell in excess of the cell’s assets and finding that “[i]f the [cell] is undercapitalized, defendant has recourse against the shareholders under the terms of their agreement”).

 [197]. Pac Re 5-AT v. AmTrust N. Am., Inc., No. CV-14-131-BLG-CSO, 2015 U.S. Dist. LEXIS 65541, at *1–3 (D. Mont. May 13, 2015).

 [198]. AmTrust N. Am., Inc. v. Pac. Re, Inc., No. 15-cv-7505 (CM), 2016 U.S. Dist. LEXIS 44889, at *9 (S.D.N.Y. Mar. 25, 2016); see also id. at *7 (upholding award despite noting that the arbitrators “may have misinterpreted the applicable law . . . .”).

 [199]. Other statutory language suggests that debts of the cell are non-recourse to the parent. See Mont. Code Ann. § 33-28-301(2)(b) (2017) (“All attributions of assets and liabilities between a protected cell and the protected cell captive insurance company’s general account must be in accordance with the plan of operation and participant contracts approved by the commissioner.”).

 [200]. Id. § 33-28-301(4)–(5).

 [201]. See generally Petition to Confirm Arbitration, Ex. 1, Amtrust N. Am., Inc. v. Pac Re Inc., No. 15-cv-7505 (CM) (S.D.N.Y. May 23, 2016), ECF No. 1-1 (providing a copy of the reinsurance contract).

 [202]. Pac Re 5-AT, 2015 U.S. Dist. LEXIS 65541, at *10 (“It is clear that the liabilities and assets of a protected cell are segregated from the other cells and from the PCC.”).

 [203]. Id. at *4–5.

 [204]. AmTrust N. Am., Inc. v. Safebuilt Ins. Servs., No. 16-cv-6033 (CM), 2016 U.S. Dist. LEXIS 153399, at *4, *18 (S.D.N.Y. Nov. 3, 2016).

 [205]. Protected Cell Risk Exposed by Court Decision: Fitch, Captive Int’l (Nov. 2, 2015), http://www.captiveinternational.com/news/protected-cell-company-risk-exposed-by-court-decision-fitch-1321.

 [206]. Infra Section IV.B.

 [207]. “[A] cell is not a separate de jure legal entity, but has many de facto aspects of a legal entity.” Pac Re 5-AT, 2015 U.S. Dist. LEXIS 65541, at *10. Thus “[w]ithout a separate legal identity, and absent a statutory grant to the contrary, a protected cell does not have the capacity to sue and be sued independent of the larger PCC.” Id. at *11. Accordingly, the court concluded that the PCC was “properly before the arbitration tribunal and will appropriately be bound by the results of the arbitration.” Id. at *11.

 [208]. Id. at *10–11.

 [209]. See Alphonse v. Arch Bay Holdings, L.L.C., 548 F. App’x 979, 984 (5th Cir. 2013) (“[T]he separate juridical status of a Series LLC with respect to third party plaintiffs remains an open question.”); Hartsel v. Vanguard Grp., Inc., No. 5394-VCP, 2011 Del. Ch. LEXIS 89, at *1–4 (Del. Ch. June 15, 2011), aff’d, 38 A.3d 1254 (Del. 2012) (holding that a series trust is not a separate legal entity); Mazie & Peterson, supra note 194, at 3, 5 (noting that investment professionals would find it undesirable for the purposes of SEC registration if series trusts were considered separate entities).

 [210]. Many cell-based regimes require cells and their parent companies to clearly designate themselves as such. See, e.g., Mont. Code Ann. § 33-28-301(2)(a)(iii) (2017) (“A protected cell must have its own distinct name or designation that must include the words ‘protected cell’ or ‘incorporated cell.’”). Under Italian law, a company can set aside up to ten percent of the company’s assets for the benefit of a designated creditor, if it provides notice in the commercial registry containing its fundamental documents. Codice Civil [C. c.] art. 2447-bis, quater (It.) (providing notice subject to Article 2436).

 [211]. This proposal is therefore distinct from the safe harbor from bankruptcy law that was once proposed for asset-backed securities. That proposal, Section 912 of the Bankruptcy Reform Act of 2001 would have excluded from a debtor’s estate “any eligible asset (or proceeds thereof), to the extent that such eligible asset was transferred by the debtor, before the date of commencement of the case, to an eligible entity in connection with an asset-backed securitization, except to the extent that such asset (or proceeds or value thereof) may be recovered by the trustee under section 550 by virtue of avoidance under section 548(a).” Bankruptcy Reform Act of 2001, H.R. 333, 107th Cong. § 912. Its effect would have been to curtail state law fraudulent conveyance actions often used to challenge entity-based securitization. Section 912 would have greatly increased the effectiveness of entity-based bankruptcy remote securitizations. By contrast, our proposal would take as a given whatever degree of bankruptcy remoteness is available through entities and provide that the same protection can be available to designated security interests.

 [212]. See, e.g., Avraham, supra note 83 (finding that seven bank holding companies own almost 15,000 subsidiaries). For example, Wells Fargo had 1270 subsidiaries in 2012, but just five accounted for 92.5% of the assets.

 [213]. See Triantis, supra note 11, at 1107 (“The more an enterprise is fragmented into discrete firms, the more significant the legal constraints on capital budgeting flexibility.”).

 [214]. For example, Dharmapala and Hebous have found that subsidiary profits tend to cluster around zero. Dhammika Dharmapala & Shafik Hebous, A Bunching Approach to Measuring Multinational Profit Shifting 32 (Working Paper, Oct. 2017). One interpretation is that firms work to move profits out of profitable operating companies. Another interpretation is that many entities are shells, the assets and profits of which are at the whim of the parent company.

 [215]. Any emphasis on non-recourse debt puts our proposal on different footing than efforts to legislatively support covered bonds in the United States. Covered bonds are ordinarily full recourse to the issuer (albeit on an unsecured basis, for the deficiency). See Schwarcz, supra note 93, at 566–67. This full or “double” recourse is part of the appeal for policymakers and investors seeking a safer alternative to securitization. See Judge, supra note 131, at 717. However, non-recourse debt has desirable properties from an asset partitioning perspective. See Squire, supra note 8, at 813–14. Apart from this important distinction, our analysis is supportive of efforts to establish an American covered bond regime.

 [216]. The automatic stay blocks payments to creditors and prevents them from seizing property. 11 U.S.C. § 362 (2012). However, it permits the trustee to make cash payments to creditors when the stay results in a decrease in the value of the property. Id. § 361(1). Courts could construe this provision liberally, recognizing that the value of assets are higher if creditors can be assured uninterrupted payments. This is particularly true where the parties could certainly have circumvented the automatic stay by structuring the transaction as a loan to a subsidiary, which is not part of the debtor’s estate.

 [217]. If an asset is isolated in an entity, creditors on other pools cannot levy on it. U.C.C. § 9-610 (Am. Law Inst. & Unif. Law Comm’n 2010) permits unsecured and deficiency creditors to dispose of collateral even if subject to a senior lien.

 [218]. Some of the literature urges altering security interests to benefit sympathetic claimants. See, e.g., Lucian Arye Bebchuk & Jesse M. Fried, The Uneasy Case for the Priority of Secured Claims in Bankruptcy, 105 Yale L.J. 857, 909 (1996); David W. Leebron, Limited Liability, Tort Victims, and Creditors, 91 Colum. L. Rev. 1565, 1643–46 (1991); Lynn M. LoPucki, The Unsecured Creditor’s Bargain, 80 Va. L. Rev. 1887, 1907–10 (1994); Elizabeth Warren, An Article 9 Set-Aside for Unsecured Creditors, 51 Consumer Fin. L.Q. Rep. 323, 325 (1997). But see Alan Schwartz, A Contract Theory Approach to Business Bankruptcy, 107 Yale L.J. 1807, 1850–51 (1998) (arguing against mandatory and retributive adjustments to party-contracted priority). A similar literature exists for the liability limitations created by entities. Compare Lynn M. LoPucki, The Death of Liability, 106 Yale L.J. 1, 1930 (1996) (arguing that entity structures can be abused to externalize costs), with Stephen M. Bainbridge, Abolishing Veil Piercing, 26 J. Corp. L. 479, 513–35 (2001) (arguing against entity disregard).

 [219]. Elizabeth Warren & Jay Lawrence Westbrook, Contracting Out of Bankruptcy: An Empirical Intervention, 118 Harv. L. Rev. 1197, 1213 (2005) (approximately 70% of the assets of bankrupt commercial debtors are pledged to secured parties).

 [220]. Compare id. (arguing that substantial inefficiencies and costs undermine the case for contractualism in bankruptcy), with Schwartz, supra note 218 (arguing for fewer barriers to free contracting in bankruptcy).

 [221]. See supra note 112 and accompanying text (describing the relative reduction of rights for secured parties post-1978).

 [222].               Richard Holden & Anup Malani, Can Blockchain Solve the Holdout Problem in Contracts? 4 (Univ. Chi. Coase-Sandor Inst. for Law & Econ., Research Paper No. 846, 2017), https://ssrn.com
/abstract=3093879.

 [223]. Id. at 5.

 [224]. Even without legal enforcement, blockchain networks are usually designed to render mechanically impossible any later transactions inconsistent with earlier ones. This feature is often praised as a solution to the double spend problem, in which the same assets are promised as payment to more than one recipient. The double spend problem is a defining feature of contractual priority schemes, in which the same assets can be pledged more than once.

 [225]. See, e.g., Kevin Werbach & Nicolas Cornell, Contracts Ex Machina, 67 Duke L.J. 313, 342 (2017) (arguing that smart contracts illuminate rather than supplant contract law). For analysis of blockchain’s potential effect on other bodies of law, see generally Michael Abramowicz, Cryptoinsurance, 50 Wake Forest L. Rev. 671 (2015); Jon O. McGinnis & Kyle Roche, Bitcoin: Order Without Law in the Digital Age (Northwestern Pub. Law, Research Paper No. 17-06., 2017), https://ssrn.com/abstract=2929133; Alexander Savelyev, Contract Law 2.0: «Smart» Contracts as the Beginning of the End of Classic Contract Law 21 (Nat’l Research Univ. Higher Sch. of Econ., Working Paper No. BRP 71/LAW/2016), https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=2885241 [https://perma.cc/HS7F-PF3W].

 [226]. On blockchain technology’s encroachment on security interests, see Holden & Malani, supra note 222, at 22.

 [227]. In fact, the term “distributed autonomous organization” (“DAO”) is sometimes used to describe one form of multilateral cooperation through blockchain technology without the use of a legal entity as such. On blockchain technology’s encroachment on entities, see, for example, Carla Reyes, If Rockefeller Were a Coder, 87 Geo. Wash. L. Rev. (forthcoming 2019), https://ssrn.com/abstract
=3082915 (arguing that some blockchain-based structures are business trusts); Usha R. Rodriques, Law and the Blockchain, 104 Iowa L. Rev. 679 (2019); Nick Tomaino, The Slow Death of the Firm, Control (Oct. 21, 2017), https://thecontrol.co/the-slow-death-of-the-firm-1bd6cc81286b.

 [228]. Holden & Malani, supra note 223, at 21 (describing a diner who cannot spend her savings on dinner on September 29 because it is earmarked for her October 1 rent payment, which is inconvenient because a borrower may be happy to spend her rent money on Friday and plan to earn or borrow more money on Saturday before her debts mature on Sunday—and some landlords will be willing to leave her that latitude).

 

Fiduciary Loyalty, Inside and Out – Article by Stephen R. Galoob & Ethan J. Leib

From Volume 92, Number 1 (November 2018)
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Fiduciary Loyalty, Inside and Out

Stephen R. Galoob & Ethan J. Leib[*]

Introduction

A fiduciary is someone with a certain form of discretion, power, or authority over the legal and practical interests of a beneficiary.[1] As a result of this arrangement, the beneficiary is vulnerable to predation by the fiduciary. Fiduciary relationships trigger a suite of duties, at the core of which is the duty of loyalty. In a sense, the fiduciary relationship is oriented around the possibilities of trust and betrayal. One point of fiduciary duties is to prevent betrayal or, failing that, to assure that betrayals are rectified insofar as possible. What constitutes loyalty or betrayal in fiduciary law, however, is not always clear.

Consider Item Software (UK) Ltd. v. Fassihi.[2] Messrs Fassihi and Dehghani were corporate directors of a small software distribution company called Item Software, whose main business was selling software developed by Isograph. Dehghani was the managing director, and Fassihi was the sales marketing director. In November 1998, Dehghani decided to renegotiate the terms on which Item sold Isograph’s products. Fassihi urged Dehghani to drive a hard bargain with Isograph, so Deghani negotiated aggressively. Ultimately, the negotiations between Item and Isograph broke down, and Isograph terminated its contract with Item.

Fassihi’s advice to Dehghani, although plausibly in Item’s best interest, had the air of duplicity. Unbeknownst to Dehghani, during the negotiations Fassihi had approached Isograph with a proposal to establish an independent company to market Isograph’s products. At the same time Fassihi counseled Dehghani to engage in brinksmanship, he also urged Isograph to terminate its relationship with Item. In a subsequent lawsuit, Item alleged that Fassihi only urged Dehghani to negotiate aggressively in order to increase the prospects of undermining the negotiations and subsequently obtaining Isograph’s business for himself.

Was Fassihi disloyal? The answer, of course, depends on what loyalty means. It seems clear that Fassihi was disloyal to his partner in the ordinary sense of that term. Fassihi’s conduct bears a striking resemblance to that of Iago in Shakespeare’s Othello and of Littlefinger in George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire novels, arguably the preeminent historical and contemporary literary examples of treachery. Yet as a legal matter, whether Fassihi violated his fiduciary duty of loyalty is not as obvious. This discrepancy might be explained on the grounds that the notion of loyalty applicable in life (let alone Elizabethan tragedy and genre fiction) differs from the standard that leads to legal liability against fiduciaries like corporate directors, trustees, and attorneys.

Cases like Fassihi implicate a lively scholarly debate concerning how the legal notion of loyalty relates to the notion applicable outside the law. Although the terms of this debate are not always clear, some see a deep connection between the legal and non-legal notions of loyalty. Call this position “moralism.” For the moralist, this connection to the moral or ordinary notion of loyalty informs the legal requirements that apply to fiduciaries, as well as the determination of whether a fiduciary has violated duties to a beneficiary in any particular case. By contrast, a position we can call “amoralism” denies that there is any meaningful connection between the loyalty that applies to fiduciaries and its moral counterpart. To be sure, the amoralist does not (and cannot) deny that judges sometimes invoke moralized language to describe fiduciary concepts. However, for the amoralist, any such connection is rhetorical flourish rather than real law. We more fully describe the parameters of the debate between moralists and amoralists in Part I.

The debate between moralists and amoralists is a species of a much broader dispute about the comparative importance of legal materials and broader normative principles in theorizing the private law. Consider the connections between the morality of promise and the law of contract, or the role the concepts of “wrong” and “duty” play in tort law. Much private law litigation and scholarship concerns whether legal concepts resemble and operationalize concepts from ordinary morality. Within fiduciary law, this debate about loyalty has particularly important practical implications, since it bears on how to elaborate standards in areas where fiduciary norms already apply and on whether fiduciary norms should apply to a particular legal domain in the first place.

The debate between moralists and amoralists is long running and perhaps intractable. We propose to finesse, if not resolve, this impasse by focusing on what we term the cognitive dimension of fiduciary loyalty. On this view, whether someone satisfies the requirements of fiduciary loyalty depends, at least in part, on how she deliberates and how her deliberation is connected with her actions. Fiduciary loyalty also imposes demands on a person’s commitments: a fiduciary does not satisfy her duty of loyalty toward a person or cause if her commitments to that person or cause prove themselves too flimsy. These standards apply to loyalty both inside and outside of law. For the most part, they apply irrespective of whether the best understanding of fiduciary loyalty is moralist or amoralist. We elaborate and defend these claims in Part II, drawing on doctrines in corporate law, trust law, agency law, bankruptcy law, and the law governing lawyers that are, we argue, best explained by the cognitive dimension of fiduciary loyalty.

Part III then clarifies our conclusions regarding cognitivism and fiduciary loyalty, highlighting some of the implications of our analysis for fiduciary law. Cognitivist accounts can catalyze both doctrinal and policy innovations. Regardless of whether loyalty has an identical meaning inside and outside of legal institutions, fiduciary loyalty, like ordinary loyalty, imposes important standards on a fiduciary’s cognition. Appreciating this structural feature of loyalty will enable judges and scholars to transcend many debates about moralism and to resolve practical questions that do not turn on whether moralism is true.

I.  Loyalty In Law

What is the best way to understand the fiduciary duty of loyalty? Is the loyalty demanded of fiduciaries identical to or deeply connected with the notion of loyalty applicable in the real world? Or is fiduciary loyalty a purely juridical concept, one with no important connection to the concept as it applies outside the law? Sections I.A and I.B describe an ongoing debate between two positions that can (somewhat misleadingly) be called “moralism” and “amoralism.” Section I.C explains why breaking the impasse between moralism and amoralism is especially difficult and identifies some practical consequences of this stalemate.

A.  Moralism” About Fiduciary Loyalty

The moralist position is that fiduciary loyalty references the notion of loyalty that applies outside of legal institutions.[3] A moralist view need not contend that the legal and non-legal conceptions of loyalty are identical, only that they have some deep connection. Moralism appears in debates about the nature of fiduciary law,[4] as well as in debates about substantive areas of law that are oriented around fiduciary duties.[5] We follow the convention in describing this position as moralist, although the term itself is something of a misnomer.[6] A more accurate description would be that the legal notion of loyalty is substantially connected to the non-institutional (that is, the “ordinary” or “genuine”)[7] notion of loyalty.

Moralism raises a number of important questions about the nature of loyalty. A moralist need not resolve all of these general questions in order to analyze fiduciary loyalty. Nor need the moralist accept that every aspect of “ordinary” or “genuine” morality is automatically incorporated into fiduciary loyalty. Variants of moralism might well differ over which dimensions of ordinary morality are implicated in fiduciary law.

Moralism has a long history in fiduciary law. In the United States, the most prominent example of, and citation for, moralism is Justice Cardozo’s opinion in Meinhard v. Salmon.[8] The court there affirmed a lower court’s holding that Salmon breached a fiduciary duty to Meinhard, his co-participant in a joint venture for managing and leasing a building. Salmon failed to disclose to Meinhard a re-leasing opportunity that rightfully belonged to the joint venture. In finding that Salmon had breached his fiduciary duty, Justice Cardozo wrote that

[j]oint adventurers, like copartners, owe to one another, while the enterprise continues, the duty of the finest loyalty. Many forms of conduct permissible in a workaday world for those acting at arm’s length, are forbidden to those bound by fiduciary ties. A trustee is held to something stricter than the morals of the market place. Not honesty alone, but the punctilio of an honor the most sensitive, is then the standard of behavior. As to this there has developed a tradition that is unbending and inveterate. Uncompromising rigidity has been the attitude of courts of equity when petitioned to undermine the rule of undivided loyalty by the “disintegrating erosion” of particular exceptions. Only thus has the level of conduct for fiduciaries been kept at a level higher than that trodden by the crowd.[9]

The language of Meinhard is the high-water mark of moralism about fiduciary loyalty. The case contemplates a standard for fiduciaries that invokes (and may exceed) the requirements of moral loyalty and honor. To be sure, the standard that Cardozo’s rhetoric describes was not and is not the general legal definition of fiduciary loyalty, nor has it been incorporated into partnership law in particular.[10] However, a moralist might contend that the rhetoric of Meinhard and similar cases indicates that fiduciary loyalty tracks ordinary or genuine loyalty.

Moralism is also implicated, either expressly or implicitly, in many other judicial opinions in a variety of jurisdictions and legal contexts. Courts sometimes resemble Meinhard in embracing moralism explicitly.[11] Other courts embrace moralism implicitly by invoking moralized concepts like “utmost good faith” and “fidelity”[12] or appealing to commonsense moral precepts[13] to resolve questions of fiduciary law.

Many academic commentators deploy moralism as a descriptive or interpretive claim, a way of explaining how moral precepts matter for understanding what fiduciary law is. As part of this interpretive task, ordinary moral notions might be held to illuminate a number of features of fiduciary law. For example, a moralist might see moral precepts as elucidating the point of fiduciary duties—that is, why non-fiduciary mechanisms of accountability are insufficient for fiduciary relationships, and what special features explain the grounds of fiduciary duties. Ordinary moral precepts might also be thought to illuminate the content of fiduciary duties, not only explaining widely recognized dimensions of fiduciary duties (such as the prohibitions on a fiduciary’s conflicts of interest or profiting from the relationship), but also explaining the standards of conduct that apply to fiduciaries. A moralist could also invoke ordinary moral notions in order to explain the standards of liability that apply to fiduciaries, including the criteria for determining when fiduciary duties have been violated. Furthermore, moralism might be thought to explain the remedies for violating fiduciary duties, including the determination of which remedies are justified for fiduciary breaches as such and which remedies are appropriate in any particular case. To be sure, a moralist need not contend that ordinary morality supplies answers to all of these questions or answers any of them completely. Rather, if moralism is correct, then legal actors can (or should be able to) appeal directly to at least some aspects of ordinary morality in debates about at least some legal questions related to fiduciary law.

However, moralism may extend beyond descriptive and interpretive claims into purely normative terrain. Moralists have offered a variety of justifications for the incorporation of ordinary moral precepts into fiduciary law. For example, Tamar Frankel sees moralism as “exert[ing] pressure on the fiduciary to fulfill his obligations once he has agreed to enter into the [fiduciary] relation” and “elevating the purpose for which the fiduciary’s power is granted to a position of priority over other values which may guide the fiduciary.”[14] Another prominent justification for moralism is more instrumental: fiduciary law’s incorporation of moral notions might be defended as promoting better behavior by fiduciaries.[15] Or, perhaps, morality supplies the grounding or justification for the juridical relational duties within fiduciary law, exerting a gravitational pull on fiduciary law in marginal cases even if most of the development of fiduciary law is mainly driven by institutional, rather than moral, considerations.

Moralism, then, can be framed as both a descriptive and a normative thesis. The descriptive thesis is that moral (or other non-institutional) considerations are deeply connected to understanding what fiduciary law is, and especially to understanding fiduciary loyalty. The normative thesis is that there are good reasons for this arrangement.

B.  Amoralism” About Fiduciary Loyalty

Many judges and commentators on fiduciary law reject moralism. The common element of such amoralist views is a denial that fiduciary law makes reference to ordinary moral precepts or tracks in any deep way concepts from moral life. In particular, the amoralist contends that the ordinary understanding of loyalty cannot explain fiduciary relationships or the content of fiduciary duties in more than a superficial way. As Frank Easterbrook and Daniel Fischel put it, “[f]iduciary duties are not special duties; they have no moral footing . . . .[16] The amoralist might also deny that ordinary moral notions are relevant to important legal questions, for example when a fiduciary duty has been violated or what remedies should be available for such a violation. The amoralist would contend that the standards applicable to fiduciaries in, say, Delaware Chancery Court or a bar disciplinary hearing can differ wildly from (and contradict) the standards used in the evaluation of soldiers, friends, or literary characters.

Judges and commentators have espoused many varieties of amoralism. Some commentators deny moralism on empirical grounds. This empiricist position bases its conclusions on evidence that courts eschew or reject moralized notions in actually deciding fiduciary law cases. For example, the empiricist might point to Lord Herschell’s opinion in Bray v. Ford, which explicitly rejects a moralized understanding of fiduciary loyalty:

It is an inflexible rule of the Court of Equity that a person in a fiduciary position . . . is not, unless otherwise expressly provided, entitled to make a profit; he is not allowed to put himself in a position where his interest and duty conflict. It does not appear to me that this rule is, as has been said, founded upon principles of morality. I regard it rather as based on the consideration that, human nature being what it is, there is danger, in such circumstances, of the person holding a fiduciary position being swayed by interest rather than by duty, and thus prejudicing those whom he was bound to protect. It has, therefore, been deemed expedient to lay down this positive rule.[17]

This empirical strategy might deploy an inductive methodology of legal theorizing.[18] Furthermore, because decisions in fiduciary law routinely utilize moralized language and invoke “ordinary” understandings of loyalty, the empiricist needs to provide an explanation for why this language does not capture anything essential about fiduciary law. Perhaps, an empiricist might argue, the moralized rhetoric of fiduciary law opinions should be subordinated to assessments of how judges actually resolve particular cases, rather than the language in which they announce their resolutions.[19]

Few, if any, argue for amoralism solely on empirical grounds. Rather, most amoralists offer principled justifications for an amoralist understanding of fiduciary loyalty. One such principled version of amoralism is “pluralism.”[20] Many commentators have noted the wide variation in how fiduciary duties are formulated across legal contexts.[21] For example, the standards for determining whether an attorney has lived up to her fiduciary duties are different from the standards applicable to trustees or corporate directors.[22] Some pluralist approaches extend this insight to deny that any non-trivial propositions about fiduciary loyalty generalize across fiduciary contexts.[23] Others are willing to specify a core of fiduciary loyalty, but insist that this core must be very thin in order to apply across types of fiduciary relationships.[24]

Pluralist positions about fiduciary loyalty often import a dose of empiricism. Gold, for example, argues that the non-generalizability of fiduciary norms turns on the empirical proposition that at least some courts in some fiduciary contexts reject a moralized understanding of loyalty. Gold focuses on the case of Jordan v. Duff & Phelps,[25] in which a majority opinion (written by Judge Frank Easterbrook) deployed a hypothetical bargaining methodology to conclude that fiduciary duties were owed to an employee of a closely held corporation who owned shares in the firm. The Court found that these duties were violated when the corporation failed to disclose information about an upcoming merger prior to the employee’s resigning to take a position at another firm and selling back his shares. A dissenting opinion by Judge Richard Posner deployed the same methodology to reach the opposite result.[26] Gold argues that, while moral precepts might play some explanatory or justificatory role in some legal contexts, other jurisdictions and areas of fiduciary law do not invoke moralized explanations of fiduciary concepts.[27] Moreover, pluralism suggests that insights from one fiduciary context have no intrinsic force across contexts (for example, to different domains of fiduciary law within the same jurisdiction, as well as to the same domain of fiduciary law across jurisdictions). Pluralism might also rule out criticizing particular areas of fiduciary law jurisprudence (for example, Delaware corporate law) on the grounds that it deviates from the “essence” or “core” of fiduciary law. An extreme version of pluralism holds that that there is no essence or core of fiduciary loyalty.[28]

Another amoralist approach is an argument from incompatibilism. The incompatibilist contends that certain aspects of “moral” or “ordinary” loyalty render these ideas inapplicable to fiduciary law and prevent them from being legitimately imposed by legal institutions.[29] In light of these aberrant elements, the legal definition of fiduciary loyalty does not and should not incorporate the moral definition of loyalty. Incompatibilism is rooted in both a specific understanding of the purposes of fiduciary law and a liberal account of the limits of state power. For the incompatibilist, many aspects of “ordinary” loyalty are irrelevant to the law and, in any case, inappropriate to enforce. For example, an incompatibilist might contend that “ordinary” loyalty has an affective dimension: someone is only loyal to another person or a cause if she is disposed to have appropriate emotional responses based on how the object of her loyalty fares.[30] However, legal obligations (including those imposed as part of fiduciary law) do not and should not turn on considerations related to the manifestation of emotion or affect. Determining whether someone has lived up to a legal duty should be a question of how he acted, not what he felt. Indeed, it would be illegitimate for legal institutions to impose duties on people to feel certain ways.[31] How someone feels while discharging his fiduciary responsibilities is irrelevant to the most important normative question of fiduciary law, namely whether he actually abused his power while doing so. Thus, fiduciary loyalty diverges from “ordinary” loyalty in that the affective dimension that ex hypothesi characterizes the latter is inapplicable to the former. The incompatibilist argues for amoralism on the grounds that the moral notion of loyalty does not fit well within legal institutions generally, and within the various domains of fiduciary law specifically.

Another strain of amoralism, which we have previously called “proscriptivism,” asserts that fiduciary loyalty can be fully described in terms of the prohibitions (in particular, the no-profit and no-conflict rules) that apply to fiduciaries.[32] For the proscriptivist, fiduciary obligations do not require or prescribe any particular way of acting or deliberating. So long as the fiduciary avoids behaving in ways that violate these proscriptions, she has lived up to her fiduciary duties. Proscriptivism might be defended on empirical grounds (for example, that courts sometimes formulate fiduciary duties entirely in terms of proscriptions),[33] on normative grounds,[34] or on both.[35] The proscriptivist typically draws a clear distinction between fiduciary duties (which are solely a function of the fiduciary relationship) and “nominate” duties (which apply to both fiduciary and non-fiduciary relationships).[36] Although these nominate responsibilities might apply to the fiduciary in virtue of her fiduciary relationship, they are not core aspects of fiduciary loyalty because they do not apply uniquely to fiduciary relationships.

Several principled arguments might be offered on behalf of the proscriptivist position. For example, proscriptivism’s narrow reading of fiduciary loyalty ensures non-interference by the state, where interference might undermine the development of mutual trust between the fiduciary and beneficiary. Another argument for proscriptivism could be based on effectiveness: imposing narrow constraints on the fiduciary’s actions empowers her to exercise her discretionary power on the beneficiary’s behalf and avoid risk-aversion that would be counterproductive to advancing the interests of the beneficiary. Proscriptivism might also be justified non-instrumentally, on grounds of autonomy: limiting fiduciary duties to the no-profit and no-conflict duties prevents the state from violating the sanctity of an ongoing fiduciary relationship.

Proscriptivism’s narrow notion of fiduciary loyalty evokes Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.’s figure of the “bad man.”[37] Holmes’s bad man is rational, self-interested, and cynical. He is only motivated to conform to the law in order to avoid negative consequences that might arise from non-conformity.[38] As such, the Holmesian bad man sees potential legal sanctions as the most important aspect of law; only when the costs of non-conformity with a legal directive are higher than those associated with conformity can the bad man be expected to conform. Many theorists contend that a primary goal of law is to speak to the bad man.[39] On this approach, the clarity of a legal standard and the certainty with which it will be enforced are important questions because they would matter to the bad man’s calculations. Fiduciary law, with its moralistic rhetoric and open-ended responsibilities, might seem a difficult language in which to communicate with the bad man. However, this problem is avoided if the vagueness of fiduciary jurisprudence can be formulated more precisely. The proscriptivist offers exactly this precisification: the bad man can know exactly what behavior is expected of him (for example, “do not engage in a conflicted transaction” and “do not derive inappropriate profits from your work as a fiduciary”) and what will happen if his behavior deviates from this expectation. Proscriptivism, then, is fiduciary loyalty for the bad man.

A final type of argument for amoralism, prominent among legal economists, is “contractarianism.”[40] Contractarians contend that fiduciary loyalty should be understood as a species of contractual obligations, since both types of obligations typically arise from voluntary interactions. The version of contractarianism most relevant to amoralism sees fiduciary duties in terms of hypothetical bargaining: the standards that should apply to fiduciaries are those that would arise as part of an ideal negotiation between the fiduciary and the beneficiary.[41] Many in the law-and-economics tradition who advocate for contractarianism also contend that behavior is the fundamental unit of analysis relevant to legal norms[42] and that contractual performance is ultimately a function of behavior.[43] Therefore, many contractarians also embrace the idea that fiduciary obligations ultimately concern a fiduciary’s behavior: the duty of loyalty requires a fiduciary either to behave in specific ways or else to pay damages.[44]

As noted above, the contractarian position might be defended on empirical grounds, as some courts rationalize their fiduciary law decisions in contractarian language.[45] However, the most powerful normative argument for the contractarian approach is based on efficiency. For the contractarian, fiduciary duties arise as a response to legal relationships in which the agent is vested with discretionary power to act on behalf of the principal. This arrangement creates high agency costs and raises the prospect that (1) the agent might exercise power to benefit the agent and not the principal; and (2) alternative mechanisms of monitoring the agent’s actions will be unavailable.[46] In these contexts, fiduciary duties deter the principal from misconduct and opportunism. On the contractarian paradigm, the fiduciary duty of loyalty (which prohibits the agent’s opportunistic behavior and requires action in the interest of the principal) also has a disclosure effect: it “induce[s] the fiduciary to avoid . . . conflict[s of interest] or to disclose the material facts of how [such conflicts] might compromise the fiduciary’s judgment.”[47] The fiduciary duty of care, by contrast, applies a loose but objective standard for assessing the agent’s work on behalf of the principal.[48] The duties of loyalty and care together provide broad standards for the functioning of an efficient fiduciary relationship. Gaps in the application of the standards can be filled in by subsidiary doctrinal rules[49] and, if necessary, judicial interpretation, which should be oriented around the question of what the fiduciary and beneficiary would have agreed to ex ante as part of a hypothetical bargaining process.[50]

The contractarian position, then, provides a unified explanation of why fiduciary duties matter (namely, to reduce agency costs by deterring agential misconduct, while enabling agents to exercise discretionary authority), the content of fiduciary duties of loyalty and care, and the character of remedies for breach of fiduciary duties (which are broad and prophylactic in order to effectively deter misconduct in the wake of monitoring problems). The position is amoralist because the moral or “ordinary” notion of loyalty plays no meaningful role in any part in this contractarian story.

The above list does not exhaust the possible versions of amoralism. Nor are these types of amoralism mutually exclusive. For example, some commentators combine the contractarian and proscriptivist positions.[51] The unifying theme is that some amoralists would deny that moral precepts are generally or uniformly relevant to understanding fiduciary loyalty, while others would deny that they should be relevant, and still others would deny both propositions.

C.  Breaking the Impasse?

How does and should fiduciary law incorporate the “moral” or “ordinary” understanding of loyalty? Is fiduciary loyalty merely a technical term, applicable only within legal institutions? The divide between moralists and amoralists regarding fiduciary loyalty resembles similar divides in other areas of law over the connection between moral and legal concepts. For example, scholars of tort and criminal law debate whether the notion of causation at issue in law is identical to the metaphysical notion of causation.[52] Similarly, debates about the interpretation of the Eighth Amendment’s prohibition on “cruel and unusual” punishment turn on whether “cruelty” should be understood commonsensically or, alternatively, in a more technical way.[53] Perhaps the closest cousin to the debate between moralists and amoralists occurs in contract law, where some scholars contend that there is a deep connection between contract law and promissory morality[54] and others see no necessary connection.[55] Thus, the debate between moralists and amoralists about fiduciary law might be understood as a species of a broader genus of discussions about whether legal concepts with apparent referents in moral life have a specialized institutional meaning.[56]

As such, the debate between moralists and amoralists implicates deeper questions about legal theorizing. One barrier to resolving this debate about fiduciary loyalty is that, in many respects, the moralist and amoralist positions are so capacious that they can reach the same conclusions in most cases. It is also difficult to provide an empirical resolution to the debate, since moralists and amoralists might disagree about the relevant unit of empirical assessment. To be sure, many courts analyzing fiduciary duties employ moralist language. However, some courts reject it outright, and others deploy moralized language differently across domains of fiduciary law. It is possible that a thorough-going moralism applies in some pockets of fiduciary law in some relational contexts but not trans-substantively. Moreover, the moralized rhetoric of fiduciary law opinions strikes some amoralists as mere rhetoric, and therefore, an unreliable predictor of what courts and relevant legal actors will do in actual cases.[57]

The empirical disagreements between moralists and amoralists in turn implicate broader jurisprudential disagreements. Resolving the debate between moralists and amoralists might be simple with a relatively well-developed theory about what law is and how past cases figure into the existence of legal standards. Yet such theories of law are notoriously difficult to formulate and defend.

The impasse between moralists and amoralists also turns on a variety of contested substantive and normative issues. For example, moralists and amoralists might disagree about the fundamental point of fiduciary relationships. There is no uniformity on these issues, even among proponents of amoralist views. Although nearly all who study fiduciary law worry about predation and opportunism, these concerns do not resolve most core differences between moralism and amoralism. Breaking the impasse about the proper understanding of fiduciary loyalty would not only require overcoming the empirical, jurisprudential, and substantive disagreements between moralists and amoralists, but also transcending these same disagreements among different versions of moralism and amoralism.

Our goal in what follows, then, is not to resolve the debate between moralists and amoralists. Instead, in Part II, we expose a cognitive dimension of fiduciary loyalty that we argue is part of positive fiduciary law. Therefore, it can be appreciated from a variety of amoralist perspectives. And this cognitive dimension can provide common ground from which moralist and amoralist theories can debate substantive questions of fiduciary law, since most moralists should also be able to see the roots of a cognitive dimension of loyalty in ordinary morality.

II.  Cognitivism About Loyalty[58]

Our main goal in this Part is to demonstrate that there is a cognitive dimension to fiduciary loyalty. A cognitivist account of fiduciary loyalty posits that a fiduciary’s cognition bears on whether she satisfies her fiduciary duties. By contrast, non-cognitivist accounts (for example, the existing versions of proscriptivism and contractarianism that we discussed in Part I) interpret fiduciary loyalty entirely in terms of how a fiduciary behaves or, perhaps, a combination of the fiduciary’s behavior and the results of its action or inaction. Cognitivism is neither moralist nor amoralist per se. Rather, it provides a way to traverse the impasse between these positions.

Our case for cognitivism about fiduciary loyalty is largely indirect. In Section II.B, we identify several propositions that generalize across a wide range of fiduciary law contexts. Each of these propositions is consistent with a cognitivist account of fiduciary loyalty. Further, cognitivism provides a unified and powerful way to explain these propositions. If our reasoning is sound, then our conclusions regarding fiduciary loyalty’s cognitive dimension can be accepted by any moralist or amoralist who aims to describe the law as it is. Section II.A briefly explores the cognitive dimension of “ordinary” loyalty. Section II.B shows how a cognitivist account of loyalty explains fiduciary law as well.

A.  Cognitivism About “Ordinary” Loyalty

What is the nature of “ordinary” loyalty? What makes a person loyal? What follows from identifying a person as loyal? Centuries of reflection on these questions have not produced a consensus. Nearly every candidate for the essential consideration constitutive of loyalty has been disputed.[59] Moreover, the very moral significance of loyalty is also sharply contested among philosophers.[60]

We cannot here resolve these longstanding philosophical debates. However, some requirements relating to the cognitive dimension of loyalty appear to generalize across accounts of “ordinary” loyalty. In other words, the conclusion that a person is loyal or acted loyally is, in part, based on an assessment of her cognition. Satisfying the cognitive aspects of loyalty vis-à-vis the object of one’s loyalty is necessary, but not sufficient, to be loyal to that object. Although this cognitive dimension might not appear explicitly in accounts of loyalty that focus on affect, perceptual bias, habit, or unthinking partiality, the best candidates for a theory of loyalty (rather than, say, devotion or allegiance or fealty) have a cognitive dimension. In previous work,[61] we have identified three different cognitive aspects of loyalty: deliberation, conscientiousness, and robustness. Rather than reiterate our arguments here, a trio of examples might better illustrate them.

Consider Shakespeare’s Iago, the quintessential literary example of treachery. Iago is a longtime adviser to Othello. Jealous at Othello’s promotion of Cassio,[62] another soldier in the company, to the rank of lieutenant, Iago plots to bring about Othello’s downfall. Iago fabricates evidence and manipulates conditions in order to lead Othello to believe that Cassio is having an affair with Desdemona, Othello’s wife. At the same time, Iago purports to provide Othello and Cassio unvarnished advice about what to do, some of which is even credible. As Iago puts it, he leads each man down a “parallel course” that is “directly to his good.[63] Iago’s handiwork is so skillful that Othello seems to convince himself of each step down the road of murdering Desdemona.[64]

One insight from Iago’s perfidy is that “ordinary” loyalty imposes requirements on deliberation. If your deliberation regarding the object of your loyalty does not satisfy these requirements, then you are not loyal. At least two aspects of Iago’s disloyalty bear mentioning. First, although Iago’s behavior toward Othello (lying, manipulating evidence) is objectionable in its own right, Iago would not be so reviled if he had merely given bad advice or misled his captain. There is something about the way that Iago uses Desdemona, Cassio, and Othello that strikes many readers as particularly objectionable. Second, Iago’s disloyalty is evident long before he gives his fateful advice to Othello—indeed, long before Iago announces his treacherous orientation in an opening soliloquy.

The cognitive dimension of loyalty explains both of these aspects of Iago’s treachery. Independently of the quality of his advice to Othello, Iago’s deliberation was defective because his plan to bring about Othello’s downfall prioritized his own lust for revenge and disregarded the interests of Othello, to whom he owed duties of loyalty. This conclusion implies that loyalty imposes requirements on how someone deliberates. It also suggests that these requirements can be violated regardless of how someone actually behaves. Furthermore, Iago betrayed Othello by formulating his treacherous plan. Counseling Desdemona’s murder and engineering Cassio’s imprisonment were downstream effects of Iago’s prior betrayal.

A second insight is that “ordinary” loyalty requires conscientiousnessthat is, a certain type of connection between deliberation and actionregarding the putative object of loyalty.[65] You are not loyal to a person or idea if you lack this conscientiousness toward them. Consider the saboteur, another paradigmatic example of disloyalty. The saboteur feigns allegiance to an ostensible object of loyalty while simultaneously working to undermine it. A saboteur might have another object of loyalty (in which case she is a double agent), or she might simply work to frustrate the success of the ostensible object. The saboteur has an interest in behaving and deliberating in ways that mimic loyalty, as did Iago. Doing so might help the saboteur or the Machiavellian lieutenant evade detection and provide greater opportunities for subversion. If the saboteur is disloyal even though she behaves and deliberates exactly as a loyal person would, then loyalty must implicate more than loyal behavior and deliberation. This additional element is conscientiousness: given certain motivational profiles, someone can act disloyally despite deliberating and behaving exactly as a loyal person would have done.

Third, loyalty is a function of the robustness of one’s commitments to the object of loyalty.[66] If you are committed to a particular object, but your commitment is too flimsy, then you are not loyal to that object. Consider Petyr Baelish, nicknamed “Littlefinger,” from George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire novels and the television show Game of Thrones. Littlefinger is an ambitious nobleman from an insignificant family. In order to transcend his station, he employs techniques such as ingratiating himself with members of more powerful houses, catering to other nobles in a set of brothels that he owns, and forming secret alliances with still other nobles. Many of these efforts sow civic unrest and lead to the deaths of innocents (and, to be fair, some not-so-innocents).[67] However, as the character notes in an Iago-esque soliloquy, all are in the service of acquiring power:

Chaos isn’t a pit. Chaos is a ladder. Many who try to climb it fail and never get to try again. The fall breaks them. And some are given a chance to climb, but they refuse. They cling to the realm, or the gods, or loveillusions. Only the ladder is real. The climb is all there is.[68]

As an example of his climb, Littlefinger facilitates an alliance between the warring Tyrell and Lannister families that would be secured by intermarriage between members of both families. Later, he plots with the matriarch of the Tyrell family to arrange for the murder of Joffrey Lannister before the consummation of his marriage to Margaery Tyrell, one of the very marriages that Littlefinger brokered.

What makes Littlefinger such a powerful example of disloyalty? Although like Iago he is fueled in part by jealousy, few, if any, of Littlefinger’s plans involve the type of sustained fixation on and malice toward a specific other that characterize Shakespeare’s villain. Rather, Littlefinger is distinguished by his contingency: regardless of how committed he is to a person or cause now, he will abandon them without compunction in order to pursue a future, aggrandizing option. A strategically contingent commitment is not genuine loyalty. If the flimsiness of Littlefinger’s commitment is evidence of disloyalty, then it follows that robustness is a hallmark of “ordinary” loyalty. A loyal commitment must be capable of withstanding at least some changes in circumstances.

B.  Cognitivism in Fiduciary Law

Even if there is a cognitive dimension to ordinary loyalty, it does not follow that this dimension also applies to fiduciary loyalty. Although a number of fiduciary law concepts or doctrines (for example, “good faith,” “fidelity,” the “duty to disclose,” and even certain ways of construing the “duty of care”) seem to implicate cognitive considerations, these concepts and doctrines are not explicitly a part of every jurisdiction’s fiduciary law. Nor do they necessarily apply to every domain of fiduciary law within any particular jurisdiction. Furthermore, an amoralist might well contend (following Easterbrook and Fischel) that these doctrines are little more than window dressing.

In the remainder of this Part, we provide an indirect argument for a cognitive dimension of fiduciary loyalty. We first identify a series of propositions that describe fiduciary loyalty in a variety of legal contexts. A cognitivist account of fiduciary loyalty provides a straightforward explanation of each proposition and a unified explanation of all of the propositions together. To be sure, some of these propositions might also be explained by non-cognitivist accounts of fiduciary loyalty, especially if they are revised to account for the propositions of fiduciary law that we identify below. The explanation provided by non-cognitivist accounts is, by comparison, less complete, less parsimonious, and less persuasive.

Our analysis here, if correct, does not definitively resolve the debate between moralists and amoralists. However, it reduces the scope of disagreement between these positions. Varieties of both amoralism and moralism that aim to explain existing legal materials should accept that fiduciary loyalty has a cognitive dimension. So-called “pluralist” accounts should also embrace cognitivism to the extent that fiduciary loyalty has a cognitive dimension across jurisdictions and fiduciary contexts. Finally, our case for the cognitivist dimension of fiduciary loyalty should allay many of the most significant concerns of incompatibilists.

In what follows, we show how the law routinely acknowledges the relevance of cognitive dimensions to fiduciary obligation. Along the way, we demonstrate the explanatory power of a cognitivist account by contrasting it with two prominent versions of amoralism described in Part Iproscriptivism and contractarianismthat cannot satisfactorily explain all of the legal propositions we identify. These versions of amoralism are the most popular among jurists and commentators, and proponents of these views tend to formulate fiduciary loyalty exclusively in terms of behavior.

P1. Someone can breach her obligation of fiduciary loyalty even if the results of her actions are consistent with those of a loyal course of action and she behaves in exactly the way that a loyal fiduciary would have behaved.

Whether a fiduciary has lived up to her duty of loyalty depends on more than the results of her actions. A fiduciary’s actions can violate her fiduciary duty of loyalty even though the beneficiary is not harmed by them—that is, even when the beneficiary’s position is not made worse off by the fiduciary’s action. Likewise, a fiduciary can violate her duty of loyalty even though she behaves in exactly the way that a loyal fiduciary would have behaved.

Some might doubt that P1 actually describes U.S. law. For example, in many U.S. jurisdictions and the Restatement (Second) of Torts, the tort of breach of fiduciary duty imposes a harm requirement: the fiduciary is only liable to the beneficiary for “harm resulting from a breach of [fiduciary] duty . . . .[69] However, it does not follow that loss causation is part of the fiduciary duty itself, such that a fiduciary whose treachery is harmless has lived up to the duty of loyalty. Rather, harm is best seen as an independent, redress-related inquiry that arises in specific legal domains. In other words, the question of harm might be relevant to whether the fiduciary is liable in tort or for professional malpractice, but it is not integral to the notion of fiduciary loyalty itself.[70]

A fiduciary’s harmless disloyalty violates her fiduciary duty. Put differently, harmless disloyalty can have the same legal significance as harmful disloyalty. This principle of fiduciary law applies at least within the law governing lawyers,[71] agency law,[72] and trust law.[73] To illustrate, consider an example from the law governing lawyers. Elliot Friedman was an attorney acting for a group of plaintiffs in a tort suit that sought compensation for victims of a sunken vessel near Kodiak Island, Alaska.[74] Friedman put $81,000 of settlement money from one defendant into a trust account for his plaintiff-client while awaiting a payment of $662,400 from other defendants. Although Friedman had authority to put that first contribution into his client’s trust account, the rest of the plaintiffs could not agree how the remaining contributions should be distributed within the plaintiff group. Indeed, it took approximately a year to come to terms about the distribution of the settlement monies and to collect the whole sum. Four days after the first contribution was made, and without permission from the other plaintiffs or their attorneys, however, Friedman wrote himself a check for $15,000 to cover some of his fees and outlaid costs. Subsequently, he wrote a check for $10,000 to his client and paid himself another $3,000 in fees out of the trust account.

In disciplining Friedman, the hearing committee “noted that Friedman correctly believed [his client] would be entitled to substantially more than the amount he had advanced to it and that [Friedman’s] total fees . . . exceeded the fees he paid himself” out of the original $81,000 deposit.[75] The Alaska Supreme Court noted that “no client of Friedman’s suffered actual injury [and] [t]he potential for financial injury . . . was minimal, because Friedman had sufficient personal funds to cover any demand for money any client or [plaintiff] might have made.”[76] Yet even though the results for Friedman’s clients were the same as if he had not misappropriated funds from them, the Friedman court found that Friedman had breached his fiduciary obligations to his clients.[77] There is nothing remarkable about this conclusion. Friedman took money from a trust account too soon, and this action was no less a breach of trust because it (fortuitously) did not harm his clients.

The fiduciary’s course of action can also violate fiduciary loyalty even when it is identical to the behavior that a loyal fiduciary would have undertaken. Consider the case of In re Nine Systems Corp. Shareholders Litigation, in which the Delaware Chancery Court was asked to evaluate a board’s discharge of its fiduciary duties in connection with the recapitalization of a media start-up company.[78] The 2002 recapitalizationwhich valued the company at $4 millionenabled controlling shareholders to increase their equity in the company, diluting the plaintiffs’ ownership interest from 26% of the company to 2% of it. When the company was sold in 2006 for $175 million, plaintiffs sought $130 million in damages on the grounds that, because the 2002 recapitalization was unfair, the board’s approval of this transaction constituted a breach of fiduciary duties.

The Nine Systems court held that, although the price paid during the 2002 recapitalization was fair, the directors still breached their fiduciary duties because they did not follow a fair process. According to the court, the board and independent sources were insufficiently involved in the valuation, which was done as a “back of the envelope” calculation with “handwritten scribbles.”[79] The plaintiffs were not fully aware of the recapitalization until after it was implemented. As such, they were unable to participate in the valuation process. The only director who sought to dissent from the recapitalization (who was also the sole independent director) was deliberately excluded from deliberations: the controlling group chose to hold meetings on the Sabbath or other Jewish holidays when they knew he could not attend because of his religious commitments.[80]

The court found that the value of the company in 2002 was actually close to $0.[81] Thus, the 2006 transaction was even more generous to plaintiffs than a loyal fiduciary would have provided to them. However, the directors were still found to have breached their fiduciary duties by engaging in an inadequate procedure.[82] An animating idea in Vice Chancellor Noble’s opinion in Nine Systems is that behavior otherwise identical to that of a careful and loyal fiduciary can be deficient due to defects in “process.”[83]

A cognitivist account of fiduciary loyalty can explain why both aspects of P1 make sense. Harmless treachery violates fiduciary loyalty, not merely because the beneficiary is made worse off by it (as in Friedman) or because a loyal fiduciary would have behaved differently (as in Nine Systems). Rather, some aspects of fiduciary loyalty cannot be reduced to results or behavior. Cognitivism posits an irreducibly cognitive aspect of fiduciary loyalty: fiduciary loyalty, like ordinary loyalty, imposes standards on how the fiduciary should deliberate about what to do. These deliberative requirements are freestanding. Failure to satisfy them is sufficient to constitute a violation of fiduciary loyalty. The cognitivist can thus provide a unified explanation why Friedman violated his fiduciary duty to his clients and why the Nine Systems board violated its fiduciary duties. Both Friedman’s behavior and deliberation were defective, even though the results of his behavior did not harm his clients. The Nine Systems board’s deliberation was defective, even though the results of their actions did not harm the corporation and a loyal board might have reached exactly the same decision.

Proscriptivism cannot explain both aspects of P1. To be sure, a proscriptivist can straightforwardly account for the possibility of a harmless breach of fiduciary duties by invoking the prophylactic nature of fiduciary duties.[84] On proscriptivism, Friedman’s performance was deficient (even if his clients were not harmed) because he violated the no-conflict and no-profit rules. However, the proscriptivist cannot easily explain how fiduciary loyalty could be violated when a fiduciary behaves in exactly the way that a loyal fiduciary would. The Nine Systems board had no conflict of interest and did not extract any direct profit from the 2002 recapitalization. Nevertheless, it violated its duty of loyalty because its deliberative process was defective. The proscriptivist cannot explain a violation that does not involve a transgression of either the no-profit or no-conflict rules. Even if a fiduciary’s decisional process could be reframed as a kind of conduct, proscriptivism could not capture the significance of a deliberative command as cognitivist accounts can.

The contractarian position also has difficulty explaining both aspects of P1. For the contractarian, gaps in the fiduciary relationship should be filled ex post by inquiring what the parties would have bargained for ex ante. This hypothetical bargaining methodology might explain why a fiduciary might violate the duty of loyalty even when she behaves in the way that a loyal fiduciary would. In Nine Systems, for example, the board’s decision procedure regarding the 2002 recapitalization might have been judged unnecessarily risky, since it imperiled the interests of minority shareholders in a way that increased the possibility that the value of their shares would be diminished in some future transaction. This exposure to risk could be appreciated from the contractarian’s ex ante perspective.[85] However, the contractarian cannot easily explain the possibility of a harmless violation of fiduciary loyalty in general, or the Friedman case in particular. Friedman’s clients were not harmed by his temporary misappropriation; moreover, because Friedman’s personal wealth exceeded the amount of the settlement funds, they could not have been harmed by his pre-payment (so long as Friedman would have been liable to cover any losses from his personal account). Under the contractarian picture of hypothetical bargaining, if there is no prospect of harm from an action, then that action cannot be part of the content of fiduciary duties. Cognitivist accounts, then, can more straightforwardly explain both aspects of P1 than either proscriptivism or contractarianism.

P2. Ceteris paribus, a fiduciary whose deliberation and behavior are both deficient more seriously violates fiduciary loyalty than one whose behavior or deliberation alone is deficient.

At first, the cognitivist position appears difficult to reconcile with the seemingly “strict” nature of fiduciary liability. In criminal law, violations usually require both a prohibited course of action and a specified mental state. By contrast, breach of fiduciary duty is sometimes said to be a matter of “per se” or strict liability: the fiduciary’s behavior is sufficient to support the conclusion that she has breached her duty.[86] Given the prophylactic nature of fiduciary rules, establishing a fiduciary’s culpable mental state is generally not required to show that she is subject to liability. Likewise, a fiduciary who behaves in a prohibited way cannot generally evade liability on the grounds that the fiduciary’s mental state was innocent or that the fiduciary made an honest mistake.

Despite this apparent tension, however, the strict nature of fiduciary liability is consistent with the cognitivist picture of fiduciary loyalty. That deviant behavior is sufficient for fiduciary liability does not imply that it is also necessary. Even if good intentions don’t exculpate otherwise deviant behavior, bad intentions (of a certain type, at least) might inculpate otherwise innocuous behavior.[87] To draw a parallel with criminal law, the existence of some strict liability crimes does not rule out the possibility that other, more serious crimes might have a mental state component.

Across a range of legal contexts, courts differentiate breaches of fiduciary liability in which the fiduciary lacks a culpable mental state from those in which the fiduciary has a mens rea. Both types of case involve a breach of fiduciary duty. However, courts deem the latter type of breach to be more serious and assign more substantial collateral consequences to it than the former. This logic is captured in P2.

As a first example, take the Friedman case considered above. Although the Friedman court noted that “fiduciary violations do not require subjective awareness of wrongdoing,”[88] Friedman’s “mental state,”[89] his “conscious intention,”[90] his “state of mind,”[91] and his “dishonest” and “selfish motive”[92] were relevant to determining how serious his breach of fiduciary duty was. This framework is consistent with both ABA standards and the Restatement (Third) of the Law Governing Lawyers. Indeed, some analysts conclude that considerations of fault generally explain how courts and other bodies enforce the rules of professional responsibility that govern lawyers, even if many rules of professional conduct can be violated without regard to a lawyer’s culpability.[93] Thus, although “fault” is not required to find a breach of fiduciary obligation as a matter of fiduciary law, it is relevant to considerations about how to classify specific violations of fiduciary duty.

Courts provide a similar (and indirect) kind of scrutiny to the intentional stance of fiduciaries in U.S. bankruptcy law. The U.S. Supreme Court has interpreted § 523(a)(4) of the Federal Bankruptcy Code[94]which lists “defalcation while acting in a fiduciary capacity” as a non-dischargeable debtto include a “culpable state of mind requirement.”[95] Notwithstanding that the underlying debt may have been imposed with indifference to the state of mind of the fiduciary, the dischargeability of that debt in bankruptcy turns on whether the fiduciary’s actions “involve[d] knowledge of, or gross recklessness in respect to, the improper nature of the relevant fiduciary behavior.”[96] As far as the Court is concerned, “conscious[] disregard[]” of a risk of violating a fiduciary duty is enough to trigger non-dischargeability.[97] This conclusion supports P2, in that a breach of fiduciary obligation with mens rea is more serious and has a different legal status than a negligent or unwitting breach.

In both the United States[98] and other jurisdictions,[99] an assessment of the fiduciary’s state of mind bears on important questions, such as the availability of defenses and the seriousness of collateral consequences of the fiduciary’s breach, even if a fiduciary can violate the duty of loyalty without a culpable mental state. As the attorney discipline and fiduciary defalcation standards illustrate, the more culpable the fiduciary’s mental state, the more serious the breach of her fiduciary duty will be.

P2 is clearly consistent with cognitivism. The cognitivist can contend that behavior and cognition are both aspects of fiduciary duty. Deficient behavior is sufficient to constitute a breach of fiduciary duty, regardless of whether it is the product of deficient cognition. Thus, the cognitivist can explain the “strict” character of fiduciary liability in terms of institutional considerations—for example, that the discretion fiduciaries have in paradigmatic fiduciary relationships complicates any effort to distinguish malicious actions from benign ones. Fiduciary rules primarily implicate assessments of a fiduciary’s behavior because legal institutions are ill-equipped to conduct routine retrospective assessments of the complex judgments and mental states that constitute fiduciary loyalty. Yet despite the ostensibly behaviorist orientation of many fiduciary rules, actions involving both prohibited behavior and a discernable mens rea are treated as more serious than actions involving only prohibited behavior.

Non-cognitivist accounts of fiduciary loyalty have greater difficulty explaining P2. Existing versions of proscriptivism not only define fiduciary liability entirely in terms of the no-profit and no-conflict rules, but also define both of these prohibitions largely in terms of behavior. As we explained in Part I, construing fiduciary loyalty in terms of behavior is part of what makes proscriptivism akin to fiduciary law for the Holmesian bad man. In light of its implicit behaviorism, proscriptivism cannot attribute any significance to mental states in answering questions related to fiduciary law. Therefore, proscriptivism rules out in advance the possibility of the mens rea-based standards described by P2.[100] P2 also seems inconsistent with existing versions of contractarianism. Contractarians usually see issues of fault and mens rea as irrelevant to questions regarding breach of contract.[101] To the extent that P2 identifies ways that mental states matter to specific questions of fiduciary law, it is inconsistent with existing versions of proscriptivism and contractarianism.[102] Any path to explaining P2 would seem to invoke cognitivism then.

P3. Efforts toward betrayal can violate fiduciary loyalty, regardless of whether these efforts are completed or successful.

In western criminal law, an “inchoate” or incomplete crime is one for which a person can be liable, despite not engaging in prohibited behavior or bringing about a prohibited result. Inchoate crimes include attempt, solicitation, and conspiracy. The most powerful justifications for inchoate crimes presuppose that the criminal law is concerned with a person’s cognition: attempting, soliciting, or conspiring to engage in prohibited behavior or bring about a prohibited result indicates a defendant’s culpably defective deliberation.[103]

As in criminal law, fiduciary law prohibits inchoate efforts to betray a principal. A fiduciary’s attempt to betray a principal—for example, where the fiduciary, with the goal of betraying the principal, takes some significant action towards realizing that goalconstitutes a violation of her fiduciary duty. Solicitations of betrayalfor example, where the fiduciary has the goal of betraying the principal and seeks the help of another in order to realize that goalalso violate the fiduciary’s duty of loyalty. The same conclusion also applies to conspiracies to betray, in which the fiduciary and another agree on a course of action to betray the principal. P3 captures each of these inchoate ways of violating fiduciary loyalty.

Existing fiduciary law supports the idea that attempts, solicitations, or conspiracies to betray the principal can constitute a violation of fiduciary duty. For example, the Restatement (Third) of Law Governing Lawyers announces that “a lawyer is . . . subject to professional discipline . . . for attempting to commit a violation” of the lawyer’s obligations to her client[104] and the American Bar Association’s Model Rule of Professional Conduct 8.4(a) deems it professional misconduct for a lawyer to “violate or attempt to violate the Rules of Professional Conduct.”[105] Likewise, inchoate efforts at betrayal (including solicitations and conspiracies) have been found to violate the duty of loyalty in a variety of other domains of U.S. fiduciary law, for example in agency law,[106] corporate law,[107] and elsewhere.[108] The same conclusions also apply to the law governing fiduciaries in other jurisdictions.[109]

The criminal law of many jurisdictions distinguishes between attempts to commit a crime and “mere preparation” towards committing a crime. The former are criminally prohibited, while the latter are not. In both, a defendant has a plan or conscious objective to act in a prohibited way or bring about a prohibited result. However, “merely preparatory” plans are remote and therefore not appropriately criminalized.[110] Here, fiduciary law diverges from criminal law: some “merely preparatory” efforts of a fiduciary to betray her principal can still constitute a violation of fiduciary loyalty.[111]

To summarize, P3 indicates that a broader variety of activity that does not involve prohibited behavior can nevertheless violate fiduciary loyalty. As in criminal law, fiduciary loyalty can be violated by inchoate attempts, solicitations, or conspiracies. However, unlike criminal law, fiduciary loyalty can be violated by a fiduciary’s “merely preparatory” actions toward betraying the principal.

A cognitivist account of fiduciary loyalty can straightforwardly explain P3. If fiduciary norms concern the fiduciary’s cognition (in particular, her deliberation and conscientiousness), then certain patterns of deficient or deviant cognition can constitute violations of fiduciary norms.[112] Cognitivism can explain why a fiduciary’s deviant behavior is unnecessary to violate fiduciary norms, even if it is sufficient to do so. Trying to betray someone is a way of betraying them, even if the treachery does not succeed and, indeed, even if it does not proceed very far down the path toward success.

Proscriptivism, by contrast, cannot easily explain P3. Proscriptivism interprets the no-conflict and no-profit rules in terms of results. Proscriptivism thus reduces the requirements of fiduciary loyalty to two rules: the fiduciary cannot “act[] with a conflict between duty and interest” and she cannot “mak[e] a profit off of the fiduciary position.”[113] If the fiduciary does not have a conflict of interest, then she does not violate the no-conflict rule. Likewise, if the fiduciary does not make an inappropriate profit from a relationship, then she does not violate the no-profit rule. The clarity of these standards is another basis for our assertion that proscriptivism is fiduciary law for the Holmesian bad man: the fiduciary and others can easily determine whether there has been a violation of fiduciary duty at any time. Yet requiring prohibited results in order to find a violation of fiduciary loyalty is inconsistent with P3, since this requirement rules out the possibility that fiduciary loyalty can be violated by attempted, solicited, conspired, or prepared treachery.

To be sure, proscriptivism might be revised to capture P3. In particular, a proscriptivist might expand the understanding of the no-profit and no-conflict rules to prohibit both successful and inchoate violations. Such a cognitivist revision to proscriptivism seems more defensible than existing versions. After all, whatever makes it wrong for a fiduciary to take profits from a beneficiary would also make it wrong to try or conspire to take these profits. Indeed, we conjecture that courts in jurisdictions that explicitly endorse proscriptivism (“even in Australia,” to paraphrase a popular children’s book from our youth)[114] would adopt something like this cognitivist formulation if confronted with cases of inchoate treachery. But these revisions would reduce the clarity that makes proscriptivism so appealing as fiduciary law for the bad man.

Contractarianism also has difficulty explaining P3. There is no cause of action for an attempted breach of contract; an unsuccessful effort to breach a contract is not a breach.[115] If fiduciary loyalty were merely a species of contract law, then we would expect that fiduciary loyalty could not be breached through attempts. Yet P3 denies exactly this implication. A contractarian might respond to this criticism by construing a prohibition on attempted betrayals as an implicit term that would be agreed upon as part of a hypothetical bargaining process. But this move would concede that fiduciary norms are not fully explicable in terms of contractual norms, that a fiduciary’s deliberation and cognition matter more than a typical contractual counterparty’s do. Moreover, recognizing a cognitive dimension of fiduciary duties would violate one of the basic tenets of the law-and-economics tradition out of which contractarianism arises—namely, that behavior is the fundamental unit of analysis. In sum, both proscriptivism and contractarianism have difficulty explaining P3 because they are not formulated in cognitivist terms.

P4. At least some connections between a fiduciary’s deliberation and action can constitute violations of fiduciary loyalty.

P1, P2, and P3 address some of the deliberative demands the law imposes on fiduciaries. Aside from these deliberative demands, fiduciary loyalty can also implicate the fiduciary’s motivations.[116] In other words, it is possible for a fiduciary to behave and deliberate in appropriate ways, yet to violate her fiduciary duty of loyalty because of inappropriate motivations. Which motivations can violate the duty of loyalty? It is difficult to answer this question in the abstract. However, the point can be illustrated by focusing on some paradigmatic examples.

One type of inappropriate motivation is that of the double agent. A double agent pledges her allegiance to a principal, while simultaneously operating on behalf of another (adverse) principal.[117] Because of the prophylactic nature of the conflicts of interest rules applicable to fiduciaries, the double agent obviously violates fiduciary loyalty regardless of how she deliberates and behaves. That said, perhaps the best explanation for the prophylactic nature of the conflict of interest rule rests on the subtle influence of motivation. The fiduciary’s conflicted interest raises the possibility of changes in her actions, changes so subtle that others (and even the fiduciary herself) might not appreciate them.

Like the double agent, the classic self-dealer clearly violates the fiduciary duty of loyalty. Given the prophylactic character of the no-profit rule, no further assessment of the fiduciary’s motivations or behavior is needed to reach this conclusion. Here too, the prophylactic character of the rules might be justified by a worry about the difficulty of discerning what, exactly, motivates any particular course of action by a fiduciary.

Yet the double agent and the self-dealer do not exhaust the parameters of disloyalty. Consider the saboteur, who acts in order to undermine the projects of her principal rather than to promote her own interests or those of a third party. The saboteur seems at least as treacherous as the double agent. As the U.S. Supreme Court once recognized, “[h]e who is loyal is by definition not a spy or a saboteur.”[118] The main difference between the cases concerns the structure of the treacherous motivation: the double agent subverts in order to advance the interests of a third party, while the saboteur might lack such an ulterior inspiration. There is no good reason, however, for fiduciary law to treat the saboteur differently from the double agent. To be sure, the prophylactic nature of conflict of interest rules makes proving someone to be a double agent easier than proving her to be a saboteur. Yet across a range of fiduciary law domains[119] and jurisdictions,[120] sabotage constitutes a violation of fiduciary duty.

Consider Commonwealth v. Washington,[121] a case concerning effective assistance of counsel under the Sixth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution. Vinson Washington was convicted of robbery and first-degree murder and sentenced to death. On appeal, Washington argued that his counsel at trial was constitutionally ineffective, a claim that requires showing that counsel’s performance was deficient and also that this deficient performance prejudiced the defendant—in particular, that there was a “reasonable probability that the outcome of the trial would have been different” if the defendant had “been represented by adequate counsel.”[122] Washington alleged that his trial counsel hated him.[123] This antipathy, Washington contended, prompted the trial counsel to sabotage Washington’s defense, which (according to Washington) violated counsel’s duty of loyalty toward Washington.[124] Washington argued first that “prejudice” should be presumed “upon proof of animosity between an attorney and client”[125] and (alternatively) that Washington actually suffered prejudice because trial counsel’s animosity led him to perform deficiently on Washington’s behalf.[126] The state countered that Washington’s trial counsel vigorously represented his interests at trial, for example, by extensively cross-examining key witnesses and arguing that Washington’s confession was invalid.[127]

The Washington Court accepted Washington’s argument in part. The animosity of Washington’s trial counsel was not directly relevant to his ineffective assistance claim, as “[t]he Sixth Amendment does not govern the feelings that flow between an attorney and his client.”[128] However, proof of such animosity was relevant to the extent that it indicated trial counsel’s sabotage: “[i]f counsel abrogates his obligation to his client because of personal animosity that the accused will be deprived of his right to a fair trial, such action will support a claim for a violation of the Sixth Amendment,” so long as a client can establish both a direct connection between “the animosity expressed by counsel and the actions of counsel taken on behalf of [the client]” and that “but for the actions of counsel, the outcome of the matter would have been different.”[129] The Washington Court rejected the state’s argument that an entirely objective standard should determine whether the attorney has met his duty of loyalty to the client. Rather, the sabotage alleged in this case (if true) would indicate “a total disintegration of the function of trial counsel, implying a violation of the ethical standards of the profession, a dereliction of counsel’s duty to the court, and a profound failure to the client.”[130] The lesson of Washington is that sabotage violates fiduciary loyalty, while hatred alone is not necessarily inconsistent with fiduciary loyalty. Washington, then, not only illustrates the (legitimate) relevance of cognition to fiduciary obligation, but also shows how cognitive inquiries might devolve into the (illegitimate) policing of the fiduciary’s affect and emotions.

If the saboteur violates a fiduciary duty, then fiduciary law imposes standards regarding the fiduciary’s conscientiousness. However, courts could disagree in how to classify the problem that such a lack of conscientiousness presents. On a more direct analytic route, sabotage might be seen as a violation of fiduciary loyalty itself. This is consistent with the famous Delaware case of Stone v. Ritter, in which the court found the duty of good faith applicable to fiduciaries to be part of the classic fiduciary duty of loyalty.[131]

There are, however, more circuitous routes to ground the legal liability of the saboteur. One such indirect route evaluates the saboteur in light of the rules that implement fiduciary loyalty by “elaborat[ing] the application of loyalty . . . to recurring circumstances.”[132] The saboteur’s lack of conscientiousness could be considered to violate one or more of these implementing rules. Recall Item Software (UK) Ltd. v. Fassihi,[133] discussed in the Introduction. Fassihi, while a director of Item Software, encouraged Dehghani, Item Software’s managing director, to negotiate very aggressively with Isograph. Like Iago, Fassihi had an ulterior motive: to sabotage these negotiations in order to swoop in and obtain Isograph’s business for Fassihi’s own (future) company. The trial court found that Fassihi’s advice was colorable; Fassihi, like Iago, counseled his compatriot down a “parallel course, directly to his good.” In any event, Fassihi’s advice did not influence Dehghani’s conduct. Yet the Fassihi Court upheld the trial court’s finding that Fassihi’s efforts did not violate his duty of loyalty toward Item Software. Rather, Fassihi was liable for violating his fiduciary “duty to confess” by “failing to disclose his intention and attempt to compete with” Item Software.[134] The Fassihi Court took a circuitous strategy because the fiduciary’s conscientiousness was evaluated as part of an implementing rule (namely, the “duty to confess”), rather than as part of the duty of loyalty itself.

The postulation of a fiduciary “duty to confess” has made the Fassihi decision controversial.[135] The decision in Fassihi might have been justified more straightforwardly on the grounds that Fassihi’s efforts violated the “fundamental duty to which a director is subject, that is the duty to act in what he in good faith considers to be the best interests of the company.”[136] In other words, the Fassihi Court could have ruled (consistent with P3) that Fassihi’s unsuccessful attempt to usurp business from Item Software by recommending harsh negotiating tactics against Isograph was a breach of loyalty, even though (consistent with P4) Fassihi’s actual recommendation for this course of advice would not have violated his fiduciary duty if it had been motivated to advance the interests of Item Software.

We do not mean to champion either the direct or circuitous routes for evaluating the conscientiousness of fiduciaries. Under either strategy, whether the fiduciary has lived up to her duty depends not only on how she behaves and deliberates, but also on how that behavior and deliberation fit together. On either strategy, P4 is best explained in terms of a fiduciary’s conscientiousness. The double agent and the saboteur violate their fiduciary duty because the structure of their motivation is inappropriate. The former acts to serve another master, while the latter acts to subvert the beneficiary.

This argument leaves open an important question. If a fiduciary lacks conscientiousness when she acts for inappropriate reasons, then what are appropriate reasons for a fiduciary to act? An unsatisfying (Potter Stewart-esque) response is that one needn’t articulate the parameters of the right kind of reasons for action in order to prove that actions for the wrong kind of reasons are problematic. In any event, courts typically define the right kinds of reasons for action broadly, for example in terms of “good faith” or “honest efforts to advance the beneficiary’s interest.” This broad definition might be justified by the institutional limits to discerning a fiduciary’s motives, as well as from concern with inhibiting the discretion or flexibility of the fiduciary. The conscientiousness norm operates whatever shape the implementing rules take.

What of a fiduciary who has animosity towards his beneficiary? As discussed above in connection with Commonwealth v. Washington, hating a beneficiary seems reconcilable with acting in good faith to advance their interests. Animosity would matter only when it exerts motivational force. That said, evidence of sabotage is difficult to detect, especially after the fact. Many discretionary actions are open to multiple interpretations, some of which are consistent with fiduciary loyalty and others of which are not. A lawyer’s failure to investigate a potential alibi witness might be a strategic decision, or it might be a way for the lawyer to ensure that a reviled client gets what he deserves. Therefore, even though a fiduciary’s hatred of the beneficiary is insufficient to establish a violation of fiduciary loyalty, it is a good place to look for evidence of sabotage, which does violate fiduciary loyalty.

What of a fiduciary whose posture resembles what Harry Frankfurt called wantonness, a complete ambivalence for the interests or ends of the beneficiary?[137] Although genuine wantonness is difficult to find in the world, such a thoroughgoing disregard would seem to violate fiduciary loyalty. Consider the Restatement (Third) of Agency’s discussion of the “General Fiduciary Principle” in section 8.01.[138] Comment (b) posits that “[w]hen an agent’s agreement with a principal confers discretion on the agent to take action in the agent’s sole discretion, the agent has a duty to exercise the discretion in good faith,” regardless of whether the agreement specifies such a duty.[139] As an example, the Restatement contemplates a scenario in which a fiduciary exercises discretionary authority by “flipping a coin,” rather than seeking out information most relevant to the decision. Such an action would violate the fiduciary’s duty to act in good faith, even though the agent would have satisfied this obligation by acting in the same way after “making an honest attempt to make an informed decision” about how to act.[140]

Another example of wantonness as a violation of fiduciary loyalty arises in Delaware corporate law. As Delaware judge Leo Strine and his co-authors put it, “good faith has long been used as the key element in defining the state of mind that must motivate a loyal fiduciary.”[141] A Delaware corporation may not waive damages for actions that are taken “not in good faith.”[142] And as the Delaware Supreme Court has held, the “failure to act in good faith may result in liability because the requirement to act in good faith is a . . . condition of the . . . duty of loyalty.[143] The notion of good faith under Delaware law works not only to target those (like the saboteur) who are “motivated by a dishonest purpose or ill will towards the corporation and/or its shareholders,” but also two other defective motivational arrangements: fiduciaries acting for “(1) a purpose other than advancing the best interests of the corporation; or [their] (2) intentional disregard of [their] fiduciary duties to the corporation.”[144]

Some of the legal standards for assessing the duty of good faith arose from litigation surrounding the severance pay that the Walt Disney Company negotiated with its outgoing CEO Michael Ovitz. Shareholders argued that, when deciding on Ovitz’s contract, the board was not acting in the best interests of the corporation so much as doing a favor for Michael Eisner, the CEO who hired Ovitz.[145] In Disney, the relevant directors were not accused of having proscribed conflicts of interest, but were instead alleged to have been bad faith stewards of the corporation’s best interests.[146] At issue, however, was not “classic” or “subjective bad faith” requiring ill will or intent to do harm.[147] Rather, the bad faith involved was the directors’ “intentionally act[ing] with a purpose other than that of advancing the best interest of the corporation.”[148] The court found it actionable as a breach of fiduciary duty when directors “adopt[] a ‘we don’t care about the risks’ attitude.”[149] When directors make “material decisions without adequate information and without adequate deliberation,”[150] they are in derogation of their fiduciary obligation. To be sure, the legal elaboration of the duty of good faith under Delaware corporate law is highly complex.[151] Yet the Disney Court’s “we don’t care about the risks” standard identifies the same wantonness that is also condemned in the Restatement (Third) of Agency’s example of coin flipping. In both cases, the (hypothesized) motivational posture violates the conscientiousness that fiduciary loyalty requires.

To summarize, a cognitivist account of fiduciary loyalty can explain why a fiduciary’s motivation matters to the performance of her fiduciary duties, either directly through appraisal in terms of a duty of loyalty or more circuitously through appraisal in terms of some implementing rule or doctrine, such as the duty to confess orperhapsthe duty of good faith. Cognitivism can also begin to explain which motivations are inappropriate: sabotage definitely, wantonness probably, and hatred only insofar as it motivates actions that are inconsistent with the beneficiary’s interests or ends.

On the other hand, P4 is difficult to reconcile with either the contractarian or proscriptivist positions. Extant versions of both views define loyalty solely in terms of how a fiduciary behaves. Thus, both views would deny that the sorts of motivational considerations described in P4 are relevant to assessing whether a fiduciary has violated the duty of loyalty.

The contractarian might further respond to our critique by denying that P4 is analytically distinct—that is, by asserting that each of our examples of conscientiousness can be accounted for by positing that a distinctive motivational component to fiduciary loyalty would have been bargained for ex ante. For example, the contractarian rules out the fiduciary saboteur from a hypothetical bargaining perspective. The hidden saboteur who plans from the outset of the fiduciary relationship to undermine the beneficiary’s interests could be said to commit promissory fraud.[152] Yet the saboteur whose effort to undermine arises only after the commencement of the fiduciary relationship could not be ruled out from this ex ante perspective. Thus, the contractarian position could conclude that the hidden saboteur violates his fiduciary duties only at the cost of denying that the subsequent saboteur does so as well. Yet there seems to be no meaningful difference between the loyalty of the hidden saboteur and the loyalty of the subsequent saboteur. Nor is there any principled basis for a legal system to treat these cases differently.

Likewise, contractarianism might rule out the wanton fiduciary on the grounds that some sort of performance standard would be agreed on as part of a hypothetical bargain between the fiduciary and beneficiary. To the extent that the wanton falls short of this performance standard, he violates his fiduciary duty toward the beneficiary. Yet this contractarian strategy would have difficulty distinguishing wanton inaction—for example, inaction as a matter of coursefrom prudent inaction—for example, inaction based on a strategic calculation that it is the best option for advancing the beneficiary’s interests. In contrast to the hidden and subsequent saboteurs, the difference between wanton and prudent inaction does seem meaningful. There is very good reason for a legal system to treat these two cases differently. Yet due to its behaviorist assumptions, contractarianism could not readily explain this disparity.

Proscriptivism has similar difficulties explaining the defectiveness of both the saboteur and the wanton fiduciary, although an advocate of this position might concede that both cases violate fiduciary loyalty.[153] Neither the saboteur nor the wanton serve another master, so neither runs afoul of the no-conflict rule. Further, by hypothesis, neither the saboteur nor the wanton derives any inappropriate profit from the fiduciary relationship. If these rules exhaust the content of fiduciary loyalty, then proscriptivism must deny that either case constitutes a violation of fiduciary loyalty. This conclusion is not only normatively indefensible, but also contrary to existing fiduciary law.[154]

P5. The insensitivity or flimsiness of a fiduciary’s commitment to the beneficiary’s interests or ends can constitute a violation of fiduciary loyalty.

The fiduciary’s duty of loyalty encompasses more than how she happens to behave and deliberate, and more than whether she happens to act for the right kinds of reasons. Fiduciary duties automatically impose demands that are more robust than the default duties imposed by other types of legal norms. A fiduciary must exhibit a special sensitivity towards and a sturdy commitment to the interests or ends of the beneficiary. Fiduciary loyalty can be violated when a fiduciary is insensitive to the beneficiary’s interests or ends or when the fiduciary’s commitment to these interests or ends is too contingent.

First, fiduciary loyalty requires the fiduciary to be sensitive to the interests or ends of the beneficiary.[155] The sensitivity we have in mind here resembles an epistemic notion of sensitivity, according to which someone’s belief in a proposition is sensitive only if he would not have believed that proposition if the proposition had been false.[156] Consider the example of a non-functioning grandfather clock whose hands are stopped at 8:00. The clock’s reading is correct twice a day. It does not follow that someone observing the broken clock at 8:00 PM knows what time it is. One explanation for why not is that the clock is an insensitive mechanism. The clock’s reading does not ground knowledge, even when it is correct, because if the time had been different, the clock still would have read 8:00. Thus, sensitivity acts as a counterfactual constraint on true belief: the clock’s epistemic defects exist at both 7:00 PM and at 8:00 PM.

Courts often invoke the notion of insensitivity to explain why a fiduciary’s actions breach his or her duty of loyalty.[157] However, the parallel with epistemic sensitivity allows for a more precise articulation of the term in legal settings. In the same way that the requirements for accurate time telling vary based on changes in the external world, so too do the requirements on fiduciaries change based on changes to the situation of the beneficiary.

Some characterize these changes in terms of the open-endedness of fiduciary duties.[158] We have described this phenomenon in terms of “morphing”—the requirements applicable to a fiduciary change automatically based on changes to the interests or ends of the beneficiary.[159] On either formulation, fiduciary loyalty can be violated by a fiduciary’s failure to monitor relevant changes to the interests or ends of the beneficiary.[160] For example, in In re Caremark International Inc. Derivative Litigation, the Delaware Court of Chancery found that director-fiduciaries must monitor the ongoing operations of a company and must “exercise appropriate attention” to what is going on within the corporation in order to fulfill their duty of loyalty.[161] Thus, the duty of loyalty can also be violated by a fiduciary’s failure to update his understanding of his responsibilities that apply to him based on such changes, or by a failure to revise his course of action based on the changes to the beneficiary’s interests or ends.[162] Moreover, as with epistemic insensitivity, there can be purely counterfactual violations of fiduciary duties—that is, violations of fiduciary loyalty based on defects of performance that are based on features that are not realized in the actual world but that would have been realized in close possible worlds.[163] This possibility is contemplated in the U.S. Supreme Court’s interpretation of a conflict-of-interest statute as being “more concerned with what might have happened in a given situation than with what actually happened.”[164] These requirements of sensitivity are best seen as implications of fiduciary loyalty, even if courts do not always classify all of them in this language.

A second aspect of the robustness of fiduciary duties is that they can be violated when a fiduciary’s commitment to the beneficiary is too flimsy or contingent. There is a modal constraint on the fiduciary duty of loyalty. For example, while the fiduciary need not stick with the beneficiary through thick and thin, he may not simply leave the beneficiary in order to pursue a more lucrative relationship. The flimsiness of the fiduciary’s commitment to the beneficiary can therefore constitute a violation of the duty of loyalty.[165]

The so-called “hot potato” doctrine in the field of professional responsibility[166] illustrates how sturdiness is an aspect of fiduciary loyalty. Suppose that Alice Attorney, a general practitioner, represents Claude Client on a routine estate planning matter. Pete Patron retains Alice for a potentially lucrative tort suit against number of defendants, including Claude. The ABA’s Model Rules of Professional Conduct (“Model Rules”) prevent an attorney from representing one client when that representation will be “directly adverse to another client,” even if (as in our scenario) the representation of one client is substantially unrelated to the representation of the other, unless both clients consent.[167] On the current-client conflict rule, then, Alice could not represent Pete in the tort suit unless Claude consented to the representation. However, a more lenient rule applies to suits against a former client: so long as the lawyer’s representation of the current client is not substantially related to the lawyer’s representation of the former client, the lawyer may represent the current client even if the former client does not consent to the arrangement.[168] On this former-client conflict rule, then, Alice could represent Pete in the tort suit without needing Claude’s consent if Claude were Alice’s former (rather than current) client. Finally, the Model Rules provide wide latitude for terminating the representation of a client: a lawyer may conclude a representation for any reason, so long as the termination of a representation does not have a “material adverse effect” on the interests of a client.[169] The intersection of all three of these rules suggests that Alice could obviate the need for Claude’s consent to her representation of Pete in the tort suit by dropping Claude “like a hot potato”[170]—that is, by terminating her representation of Claude and thereby converting a current-client conflict into a former-client conflict.

Many courts resolve these “hot potato” scenarios by prohibiting the lawyer from “firing” the current client in order to represent the more lucrative client, even though this move (however unseemly) is licit under the professional conduct rules. This restriction is typically justified in terms of the lawyer’s overarching duty of loyalty to the client. Although the language of many opinions in these cases is phrased in terms of “undivided loyalty,” the most relevant factors cited by courts concern the flimsiness of the lawyer’s commitment to the less-remunerative client. For example, one court argued that a lawyer’s termination of a relationship only triggers the former-client conflict rule if “the lawyer’s primary motivation for terminating” the representation “was not his desire to represent” a new, more lucrative client.[171]

A cognitivist account can straightforwardly explain why both insensitivity and flimsiness violate fiduciary loyalty. Insensitivity is problematic, regardless of whether it leads to problematic results, because it violates an independent requirement of fiduciary loyalty. The flimsiness of a fiduciary’s commitment is also problematic, independent of performance, because it suggests a similar defect regarding these considerations.

On the other hand, contractarian accounts cannot explain why insensitivity is problematic. As noted above, extant versions of contractarianism define loyalty in terms of behavior and expected results. Although contractarianism might deem insensitivity to be problematic insofar as it leads a fiduciary to engage in problematic behavior or produce substandard results, it cannot constitute a violation of fiduciary loyalty on its own. Yet P5 contemplates that insensitivity is sufficient to violate fiduciary loyalty. Furthermore, it is difficult to reconcile a modal constraint like insensitivity within the contractarian framework. In contract law, unrealized contingencies do not typically constitute breaches of contractual duty. From the perspective of an ex ante bargain, such contingencies might be seen as priced into the bargain. Therefore, a contractarian couldn’t easily explain why purely counterfactual considerations (like unrealized but “possible” conflicts of interest) could constitute a breach of a contractual duty. Yet the insight behind insensitivity is that purely counterfactual considerations can be sufficient to constitute a breach of the fiduciary duty of loyalty.

Proscriptivism faces similar challenges accounting for P5. Mere insensitivity cannot violate a fiduciary duty if no explicit fiduciary rule requires sensitivity or prohibits insensitivity. Proscriptivism cannot explain why the flimsiness of a commitment might run afoul of fiduciary duties, since the relevant proscriptions are framed in terms of actual events rather than in terms of modal operators.

* * *

Our case for cognitivism about fiduciary loyalty has been both empirical and interpretive, albeit largely indirect. A cognitivist account of fiduciary loyalty provides a unified explanation for all of the legal propositions we have identified in this Part. Accounts of fiduciary law that deny cognitivismfor example, contractarian and proscriptivist approachesmight be able to explain some of these legal propositions, but they fail to provide a unified explanation for all of them. Moreover, the explanations offered by contractarianism and proscriptivism are ad hoc, perhaps due to the implicit commitment of these views to assess fiduciary loyalty entirely in terms of behavior. The best interpretation of fiduciary law, then, is that fiduciary loyalty has a cognitive dimension.

III.  Objections and Replies

This Part articulates and responds to several concerns about cognitivism regarding fiduciary loyalty. These responses both summarize our conclusions and highlight some important implications of our analysis.

A.  Does Cognitivism Actually Resolve the Dispute Between Moralism and Amoralism?

Our initial inquiry was framed in terms of the seeming impasse between moralist and amoralist accounts of fiduciary loyalty. Appreciating the cognitive dimension of fiduciary loyalty does not fully resolve the debate between moralism and amoralism. Indeed, many of the most pressing questions in this debate remain disputable. For example, cognitivism has little to say about the disclaimability of fiduciary obligation. Nor does it yield any clean insights about important questions such as whether ordinary moral considerations are relevant to understanding fiduciary liability or remedies for breach of fiduciary duties. Rather, we see cognitivism as a potential common ground for moralist and amoralist positions.

To be sure, we are not wholly agnostic between the moralist and amoralist positions. On our definition, a moralist account holds that fiduciary loyalty references at least some aspects of the ordinary notion of loyalty. If, as we argued in Section II.A, ordinary loyalty has a cognitive dimension, then cognitivism about fiduciary loyalty could entail a weak form of moralism: that at least one aspect of ordinary loyalty (namely, its cognitive dimension) applies directly to fiduciary loyalty. (We leave open whether other structural features of the ordinary concept of loyalty might illuminate fiduciary loyalty.) No stronger form of moralism follows from cognitivism, however. It is possible to accept that fiduciary loyalty has a cognitive dimension while denying, for example, that the ultimate justification for fiduciary and ordinary loyalty are identical, or that ordinary moral considerations inform the appropriate remedies for violations of fiduciary loyalty. Furthermore, the kinds of deliberation, conscientiousness, and sensitivity appropriate for fiduciaries almost certainly diverge from the requirements as they apply to loyal friends, lovers, and compatriots. Indeed, the minimal standards of deliberation, conscientiousness, and robustness are likely to vary significantly across fiduciary contexts. If so, then the structural requirements of loyalty are unlikely to be identical across moral life and fiduciary types. Ultimately, amoralists can embrace cognitivism about fiduciary loyalty as an explanation for the legal propositions identified in Section II.B, since none of these propositions directly invokes the “ordinary” notion of loyalty.

Appreciating the cognitive dimension of fiduciary loyalty, then, does not fully resolve the debate between moralism and amoralism. And both sides in this debate might find our analysis unsatisfying. The amoralist might find our conclusion distasteful because it points to some substantial structural similarity between fiduciary loyalty and ordinary loyalty. On the other hand, the moralist might see our conclusion as too concessive, since it admits the possibility of explicating large swaths of fiduciary law in purely conventional or institutional terms. We see this lack of resolution as appealing, rather than problematic. Accepting that fiduciary loyalty has a cognitive dimension still leaves open many interesting theoretical questions about fiduciary law. Yet the common ground provided by cognitivism provides a new basis for addressing policy and design questions regarding fiduciary law generally, and corporate law, trust law, and the law governing lawyers, in particular.

For example, cognitivism has implications for debates about the applicability of fiduciary duties to investment advisers and brokers. An investment adviser engages “primarily in advisory activities, including portfolio selection, asset allocation, portfolio management, selecting and monitoring other advisers, and financial planning.”[172] A broker provides investment advice to an investor, while also “executing trades, selling securities, lending money to investors to invest on margin, [and] maintaining custody of funds and securities.”[173] As a matter of U.S. law, investment advisers have long been held to operate under “federal fiduciary standards,” including affirmative duties of good faith and care.[174] Recent legal developments have also applied a “fiduciary standard” to actions by brokers, although this application is more contested.[175] The controversy surrounding the Department of Labor’s (“DOL”) Fiduciary Rule[176] is, in the main, about whether both investment advisers and broker-dealers should be subject to fiduciary standards.[177]

Cognitivism can support those who argue for the application of fiduciary duties to investment managers and brokers, as well as those who support the DOL Fiduciary Rule. Investment advice invites the possibility of betrayal generally, as well as concerns with each of the cognitive elements of loyalty that we have identified above. The client of an investment manager or broker has reason to be concerned with potential defects in the deliberation, conscientiousness, or commitment of an investment adviser, regardless of how the adviser actually behaves (that is, independently of the content of the advice that she provides).[178] Broker-client relationships implicate all of the same concerns with cognition that arise in the advice-giving context, while also inviting the possibility of betrayal in the context of a broker’s acting on behalf of clients in the purchase of securities for their accounts. All of these concerns with betrayal apply regardless of whether the broker has a recognized conflict of interest and independently of an objective assessment of the broker’s advice or behavior. Therefore, a cognitivist understanding of fiduciary loyalty can be marshaled to hold advisers and brokers to fiduciary standards.

A further question concerns whether fiduciary duties should apply to so-called “robo-advisers,” automated services that provide financial advice (usually concerning investment, but sometimes about insurance and banking) to clients on the basis of algorithms.[179] Here, too, cognitivism provides support to those who favor applying fiduciary duties. However, this support is more contingent. A cognitivist might contend that fiduciary duties should apply to the extent that algorithms invite the possibility of betrayal—in particular, betrayal by the humans who formulate, market, or implement the algorithm. For example, an algorithm programmed to favor investment vehicles that promote the adviser’s products over superior products from other firms would seem to violate the duty of loyalty. As Baker and Dellaert note, “the human/machine handoff provides significant opportunities to take advantage of consumers . . . .[180]

However, cognitivism suggests that different standards might apply to so-called “black-box” algorithms, which utilize “opaque computational models to make decisions” about what to advise or implement.[181] Such models are “non-transparent,” in that the “relationships they capture cannot be explicitly understood” by either customers or programmers “and sometimes cannot even be explicitly stated.”[182] While “black-box” robo-advisers might be evaluated in terms of the quality of their advice, they do not seem to invite the same possibilities of betrayal as human-based (or human-algorithm coordinated) investment management. As such, cognitivism does not clearly provide additional support for applying fiduciary duties to “black box” robo-advisers, although other kinds of considerations might support the application of fiduciary duties in connection with these products.[183]

Our goal here is not to definitively resolve these ongoing debates about fiduciary duties. However, our analysis might be utilized in these debates. Cognitivism not only helps to explicate what responsibilities fiduciaries have, but also supports arguments about when specific legal relationships are or should be governed by fiduciary duties.

B.  Is Cognitivism a Conceptual Claim About the Nature of Fiduciary Loyalty?

Our conclusions about cognitivism are not only empirical and interpretive. They are also normative—that is, they offer a specific vision about what fiduciary law ought to be. However, our conclusions are not conceptual. We do not claim that cognitivism is a necessary truth about fiduciary law.

As demonstrated in Section II.B, the cognitive dimension of fiduciary loyalty is part of fiduciary law across legal contexts in a variety of jurisdictions. The normative costs of denying cognitivism would likely be steep. The tenets of cognitivism are consistent with the intuitive understanding of ordinary loyalty, and they are part of many fiduciaries’ self-understanding. Moreover, the costs of rejecting cognitivism exceed the normal drawbacks of defining legal terms in technical ways that deviate from common sense and positive law. A non-cognitivist fiduciary loyalty would have difficulty explaining why the saboteur or the schemer has breached her fiduciary duty. More broadly, a non-cognitivist understanding of fiduciary loyalty would subject beneficiaries to the kinds of predation and exploitation that fiduciary duties generally are supposed to prevent. Whatever the ultimate goals of fiduciary law are, they are likely better served by attributing at least some cognitive dimension to fiduciary loyalty.

However, just because it would be unwise for a legal system to deny the cognitive dimension of fiduciary loyalty does not mean that doing so is impossible. Although cognitivism is part of fiduciary law in the jurisdictions and legal contexts we have examined, it is logically possible for a jurisdiction to define fiduciary loyalty entirely in non-cognitive terms. It is an intelligible position that fiduciary loyalty is entirely a matter of how the fiduciary behaves and/or what results from his actions. Our case for cognitivism does not rise to the level of a Fullerian claim about the internal morality of law. In a legal system genuinely concerned with limiting opportunism and predation, it would be unwise, but not incoherent, to reject cognitivism. Nor do we deny that there might be some advantages to such a non-cognitivist understanding of fiduciary loyalty.[184] These benefits, however, would likely not outweigh the costs of rejecting cognitivism. In any event, such a legal system would be very different from any that we have observed.[185]

C.  Can Cognitivism Be Reconciled with the Systematic Underenforcement of Fiduciary Duties? (Or: If Fiduciary Law Is Cognitivist, How Come It’s so Lax?)

In many legal contexts, the enforcement of fiduciary loyalty is relatively rare.[186] This laxity of enforcement is often thought to arise from divergence between the more exacting standards of conduct and the more forgiving standards of review. If fiduciaries are only occasionally held to any standard of loyalty (let alone the rarefied, cognition-based standard that we have identified here), then is cognitivism a meaningful part of fiduciary law?

To be sure, implementing rules diverge from primary norms in many other areas besides fiduciary law.[187] However, if fiduciary law ignored the cognitive dimensions of fiduciary loyalty, then saboteurs would be treated differently than double agents and unsuccessful betrayals would fulfill the duty of loyalty. Such an arrangement would contradict the propositions of fiduciary law that we have identified here and run afoul of the norms against opportunism and predation that seem fundamental to fiduciary law on both moralist and amoralist views. That said, the systematic underenforcement of the deliberative, motivational, and robustness aspects of fiduciary loyalty might be explained in at least two principled ways. Both of these explanations concede that non-cognitivist accounts of fiduciary loyalty have some power to describe and shape the institution of fiduciary law. However, both ultimately vindicate cognitivism about fiduciary loyalty.

One kind of explanation is a version of Meir Dan-Cohen’s “acoustic separation” thesis, which posits that law speaks simultaneously to multiple audiences.[188] On Dan-Cohen’s formulation, conduct rules speak to those who are governed by the positive law, while decision rules communicate information to legal officials. A slightly different separation seems applicable to fiduciary law. To wit, on Henry Smith’s understanding of equity law, fiduciary law might be seen to speak simultaneously to the Holmesian “bad man” and to the “good person.” If law is construed as dealing with the good person (one who internalizes a legal norm and its cognitive implications), then the ambiguity of a legal standard can actually increase the likelihood that people will adhere to that standard.[189] In these cases, ambiguity about the dictates of a legal standard regarding enforcement serves to “crowd in” fiduciaries whose prior orientation is toward norm-adherence.[190] For this group, the vague standards of conduct applicable within extant fiduciary law can be expected to reinforce and promote deliberation about what to do and about what their fiduciary responsibilities require.[191]

For the Holmesian bad man, however, fiduciary law aims to police opportunism. On the acoustic separation story, “the same literal message” regarding fiduciary law’s clear proscriptions “can serve as an antievasion device for bad-faith actors while not interfering with (or even while promoting) the intrinsic [orientation] [] of the goodfaith actors.”[192] This acoustic separation helps reconcile the cognitive dimension of fiduciary loyalty with the systematic underenforcement of fiduciary duties regarding deliberation, motivation, and commitment: more aggressive policing of these dimensions would undercut much of the value of fiduciary loyalty for the good person. On this strategy, then, we would expect judicial relief only in the most egregious cases of deliberative, motivational, and commitment failure.

As discussed in Section II.B, this is the pattern that the cases reveal. For example, in Commonwealth v. Washington, the contempt exhibited by Washington’s lawyer might have indicated disloyalty, even though the more prosaic antipathy that many lawyers sometimes feel toward their clients would not have provided any evidence of disloyalty. The systematic underenforcement of cognitive aspects of fiduciary loyalty, then, might allow fiduciary law to speak to both the good person and the bad man at the same time.

A second, and related, explanatory strategy for lax enforcement is rooted in what one might call a paradox of loyalty at the center of the incompatibilist’s insight. Loyalty in life (as in law) requires someone to act for the right kinds of reasons. If someone is motivated to act solely because of fear of legal enforcement, then (depending on the context) her motivational structure might constitute acting for the wrong kind of reason. Too tightly specifying the rules governing the cooperation and trust between fiduciary and beneficiary might inhibit the formation of genuine trust.[193] Thus, combining lax enforcement policies with the uncertainty generated by hortatory language (as in Meinhard v. Salmon) establishes legal incentives that can facilitate the development of intrinsic motivations, even for the bad man. On this explanation, then, the case for underenforcement is itself prophylactic: extensive enforcement of the cognitive aspects of fiduciary loyalty would be self-defeating.

In sum, if cognitivism is true, then the standards for living up to fiduciary loyalty are often far more demanding than the legal standards of accountability that courts and officials apply to fiduciaries. However, both the “acoustic separation” and “self-defeating” stories can explain this divergence between legal norms and legal enforcement.

Conclusion

Loyalty is, at least in part, a matter of cognition: how someone deliberates, what motivates her, the sturdiness of her commitments. This cognitive structure to loyalty in the world is as intuitive as it is important. To disregard the thoughts and plans of Iago and Littlefinger is to understate their treachery.

The same is true about fiduciary loyalty. Behavior is, of course, the most important concern of legal rules. However, a purely behavioral understanding of fiduciary duties is incomplete. Many widely-held legal propositions are difficult to explain without referencing a fiduciary’s cognition. Cognitivism about fiduciary loyalty challenges the most prominent amoralist accounts of fiduciary duties, especially proscriptivism and contractarianism, which define fiduciary duties solely in terms of how a fiduciary behaves.

Cognitivism does not necessarily resolve the longstanding debate between moralists and amoralists about fiduciary loyalty, let alone in other areas of law where similar debates arise.[194] Rather, it provides a common ground from which proponents of both positions might better understand the central norms of fiduciary law. Both inside the law and out, loyalty makes demands on the inside of you.


[*] *. Stephen R. Galoob is an Associate Professor of Law at the University of Tulsa College of Law; Ethan J. Leib is the John D. Calamari Distinguished Professor of Law at Fordham University School of Law. For comments and questions on the draft, we thank Aditi Bagchi, Alan Brudner, Hanoch Dagan, Deborah DeMott, Chris Essert, Mark Gergen, Andrew Gold, John Goldberg, Jeff Gordon, Rob Kar, Dmitry Karshtedt, Larissa Katz, Greg Keating, Sung Hui Kim, Daniel Markovits, Lauren Scholz, Henry Smith, Steve Smith, Ben Zipursky, and, especially, Paul Miller and Zoë Sinel. We presented an earlier version of this paper at the North American Workshop on Private Law Theory at the University of Southern California Gould School of Law.

 [1]. See, e.g., Frame v. Smith, [1987] 2 S.C.R. 99, 136 (Can.) (“Relationships in which a fiduciary obligation ha[s] been imposed seem to possess three general characteristics: (1) The fiduciary has scope for the exercise of some discretion or power. (2) The fiduciary can unilaterally exercise that power or discretion so as to affect the beneficiary’s legal or practical interests. (3) The beneficiary is peculiarly vulnerable to or at the mercy of the fiduciary holding the discretion or power.”); United States v. Chestman, 947 F.2d 551, 569 (2d Cir. 1991) (“A fiduciary relationship involves discretionary authority and dependency. . . . [T]he beneficiary of the relation may entrust the fiduciary with custody over property of one sort or another. Because the fiduciary obtains access to this property to serve the ends of the fiduciary relationship, he becomes duty-bound not to appropriate the property for his own use.”); Paul Miller, A Theory of Fiduciary Liability, 56 McGill L.J. 235, 261–62 (2011) (“In my view, a sound definition of the fiduciary relationship [is that] a fiduciary relationship is one in which one party (the fiduciary) enjoys discretionary power over the significant practical interests of another (the beneficiary).”) (emphasis omitted).

 [2]. Item Software (UK) Ltd. V. Fassihi [2004] EWCA (Civ) 1244 (Eng.).

 [3].               See, e.g., Paul B. Miller, Dimensions of Fiduciary Loyalty, in Research Handbook on Fiduciary Law 180, 181 (Andrew S. Gold & D. Gordon Smith, eds., 2018) (noting that “moralist” interpretations of fiduciary loyalty suggest that “fiduciary loyalty incorporates moral standards of loyalty or that it expresses moral ideals of selflessness”); Henry E. Smith, Why Fiduciary Law Is Equitable, in Philosophical Foundations of Fiduciary Law 261, 261 (Andrew S. Gold & Paul B. Miller, eds., 2014) (“Fiduciary duties are expressed in moral language of exacting honor, which is treasured by some as the essence of the area and as a flowery show by others. The moralists see in fiduciary law a fixed and mandatory system . . . .”); Hanoch Dagan & Sharon Hannes, Managing our Money: The Law of Financial Fiduciaries as a Private Law Institution, in Philosophical Foundations of Fiduciary Law, supra, at 91, 103 (describing as “moralist” accounts of fiduciary loyalty that beneficiaries “are owed the highest degree of altruism” and/or that fiduciary law “should be particularly concerned with motives in the context of fiduciary relationships”).

 [4]. Examples of moralism about fiduciary law might include Peter Birks, The Content of Fiduciary Obligation, 34 Isr. L. Rev. 3, 15–17 (2000); Scott FitzGibbon, Fiduciary Relationships Are Not Contracts, 82 Marq. L. Rev. 303, 338 (1999) (“Fiduciary relationships are not creatures only of law and lawyers. Fiduciary relationships and fiduciary duties reflect the precepts of social morality and practice.”); Tamar Frankel, Fiduciary Law, 71 Calif. L. Rev. 795, 829–30 (1983) (“Courts regulate fiduciaries by imposing a high standard of morality upon them. This moral theme is an important part of fiduciary law. Loyalty, fidelity, faith, and honor form its basic vocabulary.”); Matthew Harding, Trust and Fiduciary Law, 33 Oxford. J. Legal Studs. 81, 82 (2013) (arguing that “moral duties referring to trust play a role in the justification of fiduciary duties”); Irit Samet, Fiduciary Loyalty as Kantian Virtue, in Philosophical Foundations of Fiduciary Law, supra note 3, at 126 (“By importing the loaded concept of loyalty from ethics and sociology, equity endeavors to encapsulate a subtle and complex aspect of the fiduciary relationship.”); Lionel D. Smith, Can We Be Obliged To Be Selfless?, in Philosophical Foundations of Fiduciary Law, supra note 3, at 142 (“[T]here is a legal requirement of loyalty, which is found in the positive law of fiduciary obligations and which is consistent with the requirements of the law’s philosophical foundations.”).

 [5].               Examples of scholarship that incorporate direct connections to moral concepts include Lyman Johnson, After Enron: Remembering Loyalty Discourse in Corporate Law, 28 Del. J. Corp. L. 27, 47–55 (2003) and Leo E. Strine Jr. et al., Loyalty’s Core Demand: The Defining Role of Good Faith in Corporation Law, 98 Geo. L.J. 629, 655 (2010). The most prominent example in the field of legal ethics is Charles Fried, The Lawyer as Friend: The Moral Foundations of the Lawyer-Client Relation, 85 Yale L.J. 1060 (1975). Recent examples of trust law moralism include Melanie Leslie, Trusting Trustees: Fiduciary Duties and the Limits of Default Rules, 94 Geo. L.J. 67 (2005) and Lee-Ford Tritt, The Limitations of an Economic Agency Cost Theory of Trust Law, 32 Cardozo L. Rev. 2579 (2010).

 [6]. To call this position moralist is to beg important questions about the moral or normative significance of loyalty in the first place. See Simon Keller, The Limits of Loyalty (2007). As noted below, someone might adopt the moralist position about fiduciary loyalty while denying that loyalty has specific hallmarks of moral significance—for example, the capacity to change what someone is morally permitted or required to do.

 [7]. Andrew Gold, Interpreting Fiduciary Law, in Research Handbook on Fiduciary Law, supra note 3, at 37–38 [hereinafter Gold, Interpreting].

 [8]. Meinhard v. Salmon, 164 N.E. 545 (N.Y. 1928).

 [9]. Id. at 546 (internal citations omitted).

 [10]. For example, sections 103(b) and 404(e) of the Uniform Partnership Act (“UPA”) indicate that conflicted transactions can be authorized by a vote of partners and that a partner’s benefitting from conduct is not, per se, a violation of fiduciary duty. Elsewhere, the UPA specifically denies that the standards applicable to trustees are applicable to partners. See Uniform Partnership Act
§ 404, cmt. 5.

 [11]. See, e.g., In re Cooperman, 633 N.E.2d 1069, 1073 (N.Y. 1994) (“The conduct of attorneys is not measured by how close to the edge of thin ice they skate. The measure of an attorney’s conduct is not how much clarity can be squeezed out of the strict letter of the law, but how much honor can be poured into the generous spirit of lawyer-client relationships.”); Maritrans GP, Inc. v. Pepper, Hamilton & Scheetz, 602 A.2d 1277, 1283 (Pa. 1992) (“There are few of the business relations of life involving a higher trust and confidence than those of attorney and client . . . [and] few governed by sterner principles of morality and justice.” (quoting Stockton v. Ford, 52 U.S. (11 How.) 232, 247 (1850))); Darby v. Furman Co., 513 S.E.2d 848, 849 (S.C. 1999) (“Real estate agents occupy a fiduciary relationship with their clients and are under a legal obligation as well as a high moral duty to give loyal service to the principal.”); Owen v. Shelton, 277 S.E.2d 189, 192 (Va. 1981) (finding that fiduciary duties “illustrate[] the high regard the law holds for the fiduciary relationship, founded as it is upon one man’s trust in the integrity and fidelity of another”); Zastrow v. Journal Commc’ns, Inc., 718 N.W.2d 51, 60 (Wis. 2006) (“A breach of the duty of loyalty imports something different from mere incompetence; it connotes disloyalty or infidelity.” (internal citations omitted)).

 [12]. E.g., Wis. Stat. § 112.01(c) (2018) (“A thing is done ‘in good faith’ within the meaning of this section, when it is in fact done honestly, whether it be done negligently or not.”); Daugherty v. Runner, 581 S.W.2d 12, 16 (Ky. 1978) (“Since the relationship of attorney-client is one fiduciary in nature, the attorney has the duty to exercise in all his relationships with this client-principal the most scrupulous honor, good faith and fidelity to his client’s interest.”). Lusina Ho summarizes developments in English company law as elevating “good faith” from “an exonerating circumstance in specific contexts to a general duty.” Lusina Ho, Good Faith and Fiduciary Duty in English Law, 4 J. Equity 19, 21 (2010).

 [13]. United States v. White Mountain Apache Tribe, 537 U.S. 465, 475 (2003) (“[E]lementary trust law . . . confirms the commonsense assumption that a fiduciary actually administering trust property may not allow it to fall into ruin on his watch.”); United States v. Mett, 65 F.3d 1531, 1538 (9th Cir. 1995) (Kleinfeld, J., concurring) (“A lawyer’s duty to avoid conflict of interests arises from agency law. The ancient principle is that ‘no man can serve two masters.’ Matthew 6:24.”).

 [14]. Frankel, supra note 4, at 831.

 [15].               See, e.g., Stephen M. Bainbridge, Must Salmon Love Meinhard? Agape and Partnership Fiduciary Duties, 17 Green Bag 2D 257, 270 (2014) (contending that moralized rhetoric of fiduciary law has instrumental value because, “[p]artners who love one another can trust one another. In turn, partners who trust one another will expend considerably less time and effort – and thus incur much lower costs – monitoring one another.”); Lawrence E. Mitchell, The Death of Fiduciary Duty in Close Corporations, 138 U. Pa. L. Rev. 1675, 1696 (1990) (“The language expressing [fiduciary] norms is aspirational and studiously imprecise. The very ambiguity of the language conveys its moral content as the court’s refusal to set lines is designed to discourage marginal conduct by making it difficult for a fiduciary to determine the point at which self-serving conduct will be prohibited, and thus to encourage conduct well within the borders.”).

 [16]. Frank H. Easterbrook & Daniel R. Fischel, Contract and Fiduciary Duty, 36 J.L. & Econ. 425, 427 (1993).

 [17]. Bray v. Ford [1896] AC 44 (HL) 51 (Lord Herschell) (appeal taken from Eng.); see also Market St. Assocs. Ltd. P’ship v. Frey, 941 F.2d 588, 595 (7th Cir. 1991) (finding the duty of good faith in carrying out a contract “is, as it were, halfway between a fiduciary duty (the duty of utmost good faith) and the duty merely to refrain from active fraud. Despite its moralistic overtones it is no more the injection of moral principles into contract law than the fiduciary concept itself is”).

 [18]. Gold, Interpreting, supra note 7, at 38–42 (citing, inter alia, William Lucy, Method and Fit: Two Problems for Contemporary Philosophies of Tort Law, 52 McGill L.J. 605 (2007)).

 [19]. See, e.g., Easterbrook & Fischel, supra note 16, at 429 (“[W]e seek knowledge of when fiduciary duties arise and what form they take, not a theory of rhetoric—a theory of what judges do, not of explanations they give.”).

 [20]. See, e.g., Avihay Dorfman, On Trust and Transubstantiation: Mitigating the Excesses of Ownership, in Philosophical Foundations of Fiduciary Law, supra note 3, at 339, 341; Andrew Gold, The Loyalties of Fiduciary Law, in Philosophical Foundations of Fiduciary Law, supra note 3, at 176, 192 [hereinafter Gold, Loyalties].

 [21]. See, e.g., Rob Atkinson, Obedience as the Foundation of Fiduciary Duty, 34 J. Corp. L. 43, 49n.16 (2008) (explaining that fiduciary duties of loyalty, care, and obedience “vary in their particular content and contours among various kinds of fiduciary relationships”); Deborah A. DeMott, Beyond Metaphor: An Analysis of Fiduciary Obligation, 1988 Duke L.J. 879, 879 (“Although one can identify common core principles of fiduciary obligation, these principles apply with greater or lesser force in different contexts involving different types of parties and relationships.”).

 [22]. See, e.g., Easterbrook & Fischel, supra note 16, at 432.

 [23]. See, e.g., Gold, Loyalties, supra note 20, at 193–94 (“Loyalty duties are an essential feature of fiduciary relationships, but no specific conception of loyalty appears to carry the day. . . . [P]erhaps part of what is special about fiduciary law is that it requires different kinds of loyalty for different kinds of relationship[s]. Loyalty varies in our social experiences—it also varies in the law.”). Stronger and weaker versions of the pluralist position are possible. On the weaker version, certain aspects of fiduciary norms (for example, the standards for living up to the duty of loyalty or the implications of violating the duty of loyalty) differ across jurisdictions or domains of law, while others (for example, the overall justification for fiduciary duties and the remedies available to beneficiaries for violations by fiduciaries) might overlap. On a stronger version of pluralism, no aspects of fiduciary norms necessarily generalize across legal contexts.

 [24]. E.g., Hanoch Dagan, Fiduciary Law and Pluralism, in Oxford Handbook of Fiduciary Law (Evan J. Criddle, Paul B. Miller & Robert H. Sitkoff eds., forthcoming 2019).

 [25]. Jordon v. Duff & Phelps, Inc., 815 F.2d 429 (7th Cir. 1987).

 [26]. Gold, Interpreting, supra note 7, at 39–42. Gold observes that a variety of other judicial opinions, “perhaps most notably . . . Delaware corporate law,” also employ hypothetical bargaining analysis. Id. at 41.

 [27]. See, e.g., id. at 2 (“For every case in fiduciary law that applies an efficiency-focused, hypothetical bargain approach to ascertaining fiduciary duties, there is another case that applies a morally resonant, deontological alternative.”).

 [28]. A weaker form of pluralism—which acknowledges a thin core—might allow that core to cross-reference moral norms. Since our definition of moralism requires a deeper connection of fiduciary law to ordinary loyalty, it is likely that even such a weak pluralism would be amoralist on our terms. Not much, however, turns on this classification.

 [29]. See, e.g., Stephen A. Smith, The Deed, Not the Motive: Fiduciary Law Without Loyalty, in Contract, Status, and Fiduciary Law 213 (Andrew S. Gold & Paul B. Miller eds., 2017); J.E. Penner, Is Loyalty a Virtue, and Even If It Is, Does It Really Help Explain Fiduciary Liability?, in Philosophical Foundations of Fiduciary Law, 159 (Andrew S. Gold & Paul B. Miller ed., 2014); Paul B. Miller, Justifying Fiduciary Remedies, 63 U. Toronto L.J. 570 (2013); Miller, supra note 3. One common element among all of these views is that crucial structural features inherent in fiduciary relationships are not necessarily realized in non-legal relationships, and vice versa.

 [30]. See, e.g., Penner, supra note 29, at 161–62. This incompatibilist logic might be extended to a variety of other dimensions of “moral” or “ordinary” loyalty, such as the concern with devotion or motivation. See Deborah A. DeMott, Breach of Fiduciary Duty: On Justifiable Expectations of Loyalty and Their Consequences, 48 Ariz. L. Rev. 925, 926 (2006) (“Loyalty for the law’s purposes, unlike Josiah Royce’s, does not mandate an all-embracing “thoroughgoing devotion” to the beneficiary of a fiduciary duty. Its demands neither disregard for the autonomy of an actor subject to fiduciary duties nor require an all-encompassing subordination of the actor’s interests to those of the beneficiary. Instead, within the scope of their relationship, the fiduciary duty of loyalty proscribes self-dealing by the actor and other forms of self-advantaging conduct without the beneficiary’s consent.”); Miller, supra note 3, at 20 (“Notwithstanding the moralizing rhetoric of judges in select fiduciary cases, the law rarely, if ever, requires of fiduciaries the kind of devotion that we expect of persons with moral loyalties.”).

 [31]. Alternatively, the incompatibilist might contend that these requirements are self-defeating when they are backed by the threat of legal sanction. See discussion infra Section III.C (exploring this argument from self-defeat at greater length).

 [32]. See Stephen R. Galoob & Ethan J. Leib, Intentions, Compliance, and Fiduciary Obligations, 20 Legal Theory 106, 129 (2014). Examples of proscriptivism include Matthew Conaglen, The Nature and Function of Fiduciary Loyalty, 121 Law Q. Rev. 452 (2005); Robert Flannigan, The Core Nature of Fiduciary Accountability, 2009 N.Z. L. Rev. 375; Darryn Jensen, Prescription and Proscription in Fiduciary Obligations, 21 King’s L.J. 333 (2010); and Larry E. Ribstein, Fencing Fiduciary Duties, 91 B.U. L. Rev. 899 (2011). Other views adopt a proscriptivist understanding of the fiduciary duty of loyalty, but not of the (arguably) fiduciary duty of care. See generally, e.g., Robert H. Sitkoff, An Economic Theory of Fiduciary Law, in Philosophical Foundations of Fiduciary Law 197 (Andrew S. Gold & Paul B. Miller eds., 2014).

 [33]. See generally, e.g., Matthew Conaglen, Fiduciary Loyalty: Protecting the Due Performance of Non-Fiduciary Duties (2011); Jensen, supra note 32.

 [34]. See, e.g., Ribstein, supra note 32, at 903–06.

 [35]. See, e.g., Flannigan, supra note 32 passim.

 [36]. See, e.g., Conaglen, supra note 33. Darryn Jensen draws a similar distinction between fiduciary obligations and “logically prior” responsibilities, which are not essentially fiduciary. Jensen, supra note 32, at 336.

 [37]. Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., The Path of the Law, 10 Harv. L. Rev. 457, 459 (1897).

 [38]. Id. (construing the bad man as caring “only for the material consequences which . . .  knowledge [of the law] enables him to predict”).

 [39]. See Yuval Feldman, The Law of Good People: Challenging States’ Ability to Regulate Human Behavior (2018); Hanoch Dagan, Between Rationality and Benevolence: The Happy Ambivalence of Law and Legal Theory, 62 Ala. L. Rev. 191, 191 (2010); Rebecca Stone, Legal Design for the “Good Man”, 102 Va. L. Rev. 1767, 1767 (2016).

 [40]. See, e.g., Henry N. Butler & Larry E. Ribstein, Opting Out of Fiduciary Duties: A Response to the Anti-Contractarians, 65 Wash. L. Rev. 1 passim (1990); Easterbrook & Fischel, supra note 16, at 424; James Edelman, When Do Fiduciary Duties Arise?, 126 L.Q. Rev. 324, 326 n.173 (2010); John H. Langbein, The Contractarian Basis of the Law of Trusts, 105 Yale L.J. 625, 627 (1995).

 [41]. See Kelli Alces, The Fiduciary Gap, 40 Iowa J. Corp. L. 351, 375 (2015) (“To determine the hypothetical bargain, we must reach a conclusion about what the parties would have agreed given their requirements and expectations of the relationship.”); Easterbrook & Fischel, supra note 16, at 431; Larry Ribstein, Fiduciary Contracts in Unincorporated Firms, 54 Wash. & Lee L. Rev. 537, 541 (1997).

 [42]. See Stephen R. Galoob & Adam Hill, Norms, Attitudes and Compliance, 50 Tulsa L. Rev. 613, 622–26 (2015) (summarizing “reductive behaviorism” that characterizes law-and-economics understanding of social and legal norms).

 [43]. Richard McAdams & Eric B. Rasmusen, Norms and the Law, in Handbook of Law and Economics 1573, 1576 (A. Mitchell Polinsky & Steven Shavell eds., 2007) (defining norms as “behavioral regularities supported at least in part by normative attitudes” and conventions as “behavioral regularities that lack such normative attitudes”); Lewis A. Kornhauser, A World Apart? An Essay on the Autonomy of the Law, 78 B.U. L. Rev. 747, 751 (1998) (“[A]n operative legal norm characterizes the behavior to which legal sanctions will attach.”).

 [44]. See, e.g., Alces, supra note 41, at 353 (“That duty of loyalty to the other party guides courts in deciding what the parties would have agreed about how the fiduciary should behave in unanticipated circumstances.”); Langbein, supra note 40, at 658 (“Loyalty and prudence, the norms of trust fiduciary law, embody the default regime that the parties to the trust deal would choose as the criteria for regulating the trustee’s behavior in these settings in which it is impractical to foresee precise circumstances and to specify more exact terms.”).

 [45]. See Jordan v. Duff & Phelps, 815 F.2d 429, 438 (7th Cir. 1987).

 [46]. Robert Cooter & Bradley J. Freedman, The Fiduciary Relationship: Its Economic Character and Legal Consequences, 66 N.Y.U. L. Rev. 1045, 1046–49 (1991).

 [47]. Sitkoff, supra note 32, at 201.

 [48]. Id. at 202. To assess the fiduciary’s satisfaction of the duty of care solely in “objective” terms is to presuppose behaviorism in several ways. Due to their relative ease of monitoring, behavioral considerations are the most relevant to reducing agency costs. Further, the modal beneficiary can be expected to care ex ante about the fiduciary’s behavior, especially given a prior methodological assumption that the beneficiary is agnostic between the fiduciary’s performing or paying damages. Moreover, given the possibility of contracting around default terms, a contractarian account can deny any inherent problems with presuming an objective standard. If a beneficiary has strong preferences regarding the fiduciary’s cognition, then the parties could bargain for adoption of a more subjective standard.

 [49]. Id. at 202–03.

 [50]. Alces, supra note 41, at 356.

 [51]. See, e.g., Butler & Ribstein, supra note 40, at 71–72.

 [52]. Compare Michael Moore, Causation and Responsibility: An Essay in Law, Morals and Metaphysics 5 (2010) (“It is better to think that ‘cause’ is univocal; it means the same thing in contexts of attributing responsibility as in contexts of explanation: it refers to a natural relation that holds between events or states of affairs. . . . [W]hat criminal law and the law of torts mean by ‘cause’ is what we ordinarily mean by ‘cause’ as we explain the world, viz some kind of natural relation.”), with Jane Stapleton, An ‘Extended But-For’ Test for the Causal Relation in the Law of Obligations, 35 Oxford J. Legal Stud. 697, 697 (2015) (“Legal enquiries . . . differ from philosophical ones in terms of the character of factors [that] law is prepared to recognize as appropriate candidates for being a ‘cause’ of the existence of a particular phenomenon. . . . [L]aw is not constrained by . . . metaphysical commitments and so it seamlessly accommodates as ‘causes’ factors variously characterised as specific events, facts, states of affairs, aspects of conduct events or things, absences, omissions, information, and
reasons . . . .”).

 [53].               Compare John F. Stinneford, The Original Meaning of “Cruel”, 105 Geo. L.J. 441, 450–51 (2016) (positing that the legal definition of “cruel” punishment should be assessed entirely in terms of a punishment’s effects, in contrast to ordinary notion according on which the punisher’s intention is also relevant to assessing cruelty), with Meghan Ryan, Judging Cruelty, 44 U.C. Davis L. Rev. 81, 124 (2010) (positing that legal definition of “cruelty” overlaps with ordinary notion of term, according to which cruel punishment is “exceptionally brutal” and involves “inflicting pain for a purpose other than punishment”).

 [54]. See, e.g., Seana Valentine Shiffrin, The Divergence of Contract and Promise, 120 Harv. L. Rev. 708, 708 (2007); Charles Fried, Contract as Promise: A Theory of Contractual Obligation 1 (1980).

 [55]. See Michael Pratt, Contract: Not Promise, 35 Fla. St. U. L. Rev. 801, 802 (2008) (“[T]he law of contract is not concerned with promises as such and . . . contract and promise do not diverge in a way that calls for justification.”).

 [56]. See Frederick Schauer, Is Law a Technical Term?, 52 San Diego L. Rev. 501, 502–03 (2015).

 [57]. See, e.g., Easterbrook & Fischel, supra note 16, at 429.

 [58]. Our use of the term “cognitivism” differs from Gregory Alexander’s “cognitive theory of fiduciary relationships.” Gregory S. Alexander, A Cognitive Theory of Fiduciary Relationships, 85 Cornell L. Rev. 767 (2000). Alexander’s approach focuses on the likely cognitive biases of judges and fact-finders interpreting fiduciary law. Our interest is with more fundamental questions about the nature of fiduciary relationships and the cognitive requirements of fiduciary loyalty. Nor does our use of the term implicate the metaethical position known as “cognitivism,” which holds that moral statements express genuinely cognitive phenomena and are truth-apt. See Alexander Miller, Contemporary Metaethics: An Introduction 3 (2d ed., 2013). Apologies to Ben Zipursky, who advised us to jettison “cognitivism” because of its connotation in metaethics. We almost certainly did not attribute the requisite significance to his advice in our practical deliberations.

 [59]. For example, some commentators argue that loyalty has an inextricably affective dimension: if someone does not feel specific feelings on behalf of a person or cause, then she is not loyal to that person or cause. See Keller, supra note 6, at 21. Others deny that loyalty has such an affective component, contending that someone can be loyal to a person or cause without feeling specific emotions (or even being disposed to). See John Kleinig, Loyalty, in Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (rev. ed. 2017) (“[F]eelings of loyalty are probably not constitutive of loyalty, even if it is unusual to find loyalty that is affectless.”).

 [60]. On these accounts, someone’s loyalty to a person or cause might require her to act in ways that are otherwise optional, or even permit her to act in ways that are otherwise forbidden. See, e.g., David Owens, Shaping the Normative Landscape 251 (2012) (“[T]he special value of friendship derives in part from the bonds of loyalty that it entails. The involvement of obligation in friendship is part of what makes friendship the great good that it is and the same is true of many other valuable relationships. Thus our interest in friendship evinces a normative interest, an interest in obligation for its own sake.”). Other accounts dispute the normative significance of loyalty either in part (for example, by denying that loyalty can generate permissions) or in whole (for example, by denying that loyalty can generate reasons or obligations). See, e.g., Keller, supra note 6, at 144–45. A similar divide arises in debates over the normative significance of patriotism: for example, whether loyalty provides a basis for political obligation.

 [61]. See Ethan J. Leib & Stephen R. Galoob, Fiduciary Political Theory: A Critique, 125 Yale L.J. 1820, 1828 (2016); Stephen R. Galoob & Ethan J. Leib, The Core of Fiduciary Political Theory, in Research Handbook of Fiduciary Law 401, 40712 (2018); Ethan J. Leib & Stephen R. Galoob, Fiduciary Principles and Public Office, in Oxford Handbook of Fiduciary Law, supra note 24, at 20–25.

 [62]. And perhaps, enraged by the rumor that Othello had conducted an affair with Emilia, Iago’s wife. William Shakespeare, Othello act 1, sc. 3, 1. 380–83 (Burton Raffel ed., Yale Univ. Press 2005) (1622). (“[I]t is thought abroad that ‘twixt my sheets/He’s done my office. I know not if’t be true/But I, for mere suspicion in that kind/Will do as if for surety.”). One disturbing interpretation of Iago’s shifting rationalizations is that they reflect “motive-hunting,” an “attempt to bring intellectual speculation to bear on a malignity that [Iago] does not really understand himself.” Laurence Lerner, The Machiavel and the Moor, 9 Essays in Crit. 339, 342–44 (1959).

 [63]. Shakespeare, supra note 62, act 2, sc. 3, 1. 325–26.

 [64]. For example, Iago leads Othello to notice the most compelling evidence of Desdemona’s (supposed) treachery in the following passage, during which he feigns to argue for her fidelity:

Iago: Her honour is an essence that’s not seen:

They have it very oft that have it not;

But for the handkerchiefs—

Othello: By heaven, I would most gladly have forgot it:

Thou said’st O, it comes o’er my memory,

As doth the raven o’er the infected house,

Boding to all he had my handkerchief.

Shakespeare, supra note 62, act 4, sc. 1, 1. 19–22. The “he” in the last sentence refers to Cassio, who has Desdemona’s handkerchief only because Iago had given it to him.

 [65]. See Keller, supra note 6, at 2–3.

Just because someone deliberatively follows a principled pattern of behavior, or is committed—perhaps fiercely—to a cause, does not mean that she is loyal. . . . [T]he facts about how a person acts are not in themselves enough to tell us whether, or to what, she is loyal. If I reliably keep my promises to you, then that might be because you are someone to whom I am loyal. Or, it might be because I believe that people should always keep their promises, . . . or because I promised your father that if I made you any promises I would keep them.

Id.

 [66]. See Philip Pettit, The Robust Demands of the Good: Ethics with Attachment, Virtue, and Respect 84–85 (2015); Henry S. Richardson, Moral Entanglements: The Ancillary-Care Obligations of Medical Researchers 65, 85, 95–96 (2012) (arguing that moral duties can morph and arise incidentally based on new information generated from types of interactions); Nicholas Southwood, Democracy as a Modally Demanding Value, 49 Noûs 504, 505 (2015).

 [67]. William P. MacNeil, Machiavellian Fantasy and the Game of Laws, 57 Critical Q. 34, 41 (2015) (For Littlefinger, “[s]urvival entails being ready, willing and able to advance one’s cause through any and all means, including . . . taking the life of his not-so-fair lady wife, . . . all the while further plotting to exterminate his pathetic little stepson, Lord Robert, the heir to the Eyrie and the guardianship of the West.”).

 [68]. Game of Thrones: The Climb (HBO television broadcast May 5, 2013).

 [69]. Restatement (Second) of Torts § 874 (Am. Law Inst. 1979); see also Longaker v. Evans, 32 S.W.3d 725, 733 (Tex. App. 2000).

 [70]. For example, the “prejudice” requirements in “ineffective assistance of counsel” or collateral relief contexts do not indicate that non-prejudicial betrayals are not themselves juridical or legal betrayals.

 [71]. See, e.g., Burrow v. Arce, 997 S.W.2d 229, 238 (Tex. 1999) (“It is the agent’s disloyalty, not any resulting harm, that violates the fiduciary relationship . . . .”).

 [72]. See, e.g., Kinzbach Tool Co. v. Corbett-Wallace Corp., 160 S.W.2d 509, 514 (Tex. 1942); Restatement (Second) of Agency § 469 (Am. Law Inst. 1958).

 [73]. See Restatement (Second) of Trusts § 243 cmt. a (Am. Law Inst. 1959); see also In re Bradish’s Estate, 8 Pa. D. 38, 42 (Orphans’ Ct. 1898) (“It is no answer to say, that after all there may be no loss upon the judgments; this is little more than a plea, that a negligent trustee should be allowed a further opportunity to take risks, because the inexcusable risks he has already taken have not yet fallen out against him.”).

 [74]. In re Friedman, 23 P.3d 620, 622–23 (Alaska 2001).

 [75]. Id. at 624.

 [76]. Id. at 631.

 [77]. It does not follow that issues of harm are irrelevant to the assessment of Friedman’s misconduct. Then-applicable disciplinary rules (which tracked the American Bar Association’s Standards for Imposing Lawyer Sanctions) directed the court to assess any injury caused by Friedman’s misconduct, and the Friedman Court found that Friedman’s actions inflicted “actual injury to the public, because ‘the public suffers injury whenever a lawyer fails to maintain personal integrity by improperly handling funds held in trust.’” Id. However, the issue of harm was relevant to the secondary question of the kind discipline (suspension or disbarment) that Friedman should have been subjected to for having violated his fiduciary duties to clients. It was not relevant to the primary question of whether Friedman violated his fiduciary duties in the first place.

 [78]. In re Nine Sys. Corp. S’holders Litig., Consol. C.A. No. 3940-VCN, 2014 Del. Ch. LEXIS 171 (Sept. 4, 2014), aff’d sub nom. Fuchs v. Wren Holdings, LLC, 129 A.3d 882 (Del. 2015).

 [79].               Id. at *5, *25.

 [80]. Id. at *13, *21, *42.

 [81]. Id. at *140.

 [82]. Although the Nine Systems court did not award disgorgement or rescission on account of the finding of a fair price, it granted attorney’s fees to plaintiffs for successfully establishing that defendants had breached their fiduciary duties. See id. at *160. For another case—this time a trust law example—in which a court found a breach of fiduciary duty in the absence of damage to the plaintiff and then remediated through awarding of attorney’s fees, see In re Wilson, 930 N.E.2d 646, 652 (Ind. Ct. App. 2010).

 [83]. See In re Nine Sys., 2014 Del. Ch. LEXIS 171, at *145–46. A companion opinion in Ross Holding & Management Co. v. Advance Realty Group, C.A. No. 4113-VCN, 2014 Del. Ch. LEXIS 173, at *60 (Sept. 4, 2014) similarly reinforces that fair dealing and fair process is a part of fiduciary obligation, even when the relevant transaction produces a price that loyal fiduciaries would have reached.

 [84]. See Conaglen, supra note 33, at 70–71, 74.

 [85]. This approach would require the contractarian to abandon the methodological commitment to behaviorism, which (as noted above) many legal economists posit as a core tenet of the contractarian position. Or it would require thinking about process as just another kind of behavior.

 [86]. See, e.g., Robert Flannigan, The Strict Character of Fiduciary Liability, 2006 N.Z. L. Rev. 209 passim (2006); Penner, supra note 29, at 175; Smith, supra note 29 passim. In some jurisdictions, the character of fiduciary liability is less-than-strict, in that it is subject to exceptions (for example, “entire fairness” review under Delaware corporate law). Yet even these types of exceptions are consistent with the “strict” character of fiduciary liability in that questions of neither liability nor exception turn on aspects of the fiduciary’s cognition.

 [87]. An example of this dynamic in the private law might be found in Hollywood Silver Fox Farm, Ltd. v. Emmett [1936] 2 KB 468 (Eng.), in which the court found that although a neighbor had a right to shoot a gun off on his own property, it would be actionable if the neighbor intended this shooting to disturb the breeding activities of the fox farm next door.

 [88]. In re Friedman, 23 P.3d 620, 630 n.37 (Alaska 2001).

 [89]. Id. at 625–26, 630, 632.

 [90]. Id. at 632.

 [91]. Id. at 630, 633.

 [92].               Id. at 632–33.

 [93].               See Nancy J. Moore, Mens Rea Standards in Lawyer Disciplinary Codes, 23 Geo. J. Legal Ethics 1, 20 (2010). Although Moore’s conclusions about the presumption against strict liability in these contexts seem motivated by policy considerations pertaining to the consequences of lawyer discipline on the lawyer, one might see these cognitive requirements as themselves flowing from fiduciary obligation, thus requiring no explicit codification. See Charles Wolfram, A Cautionary Tale: Fiduciary Breach as Legal Malpractice, 34 Hofstra L. Rev. 689 (2006). But see Stephen Gillers, Regulation of Lawyers: Problems of Law and Ethics, 186–87 (7th ed. 2005) (finding many fiduciary obligations to trigger “absolute liability” with no mens rea requirement).

 [94]. 11 U.S.C. § 523(a)(4) (2012).

 [95]. Bullock v. BankChampaign, N.A., 569 U.S. 267, 269 (2013).

 [96]. Id.

 [97]. Id. at 273–74.

 [98]. E.g., Restatement (Second) of Trusts, § 243, cmt. d (Am. Law Inst. 1959) (compensation ordinarily denied to trustee who misappropriates trust property or “intentionally or negligently mismanages the whole trust”); DeMott, supra note 30, at 929 (“[A] fiduciary may forfeit commissions or other compensation paid or otherwise due during a period of disloyal service, although, at least in the agency context, courts qualify the availability of forfeiture by requiring that the breach have had a deliberate character, often that it have been ‘wilful’ or ‘egregious.’”).

 [99]. For example, the UK’s law controlling trustees, Trustee Act 2000 § 31(1) (UK), protects trustees, indemnifying them for expenses—even if those expenses are unauthorized—when the trustee acts in “good faith.” Evidence regarding the fiduciary’s deliberation therefore even provides immunity against liability in certain circumstances. See also Trustee Act 1925 § 15 (Gr. Brit.); In re Smith’s Estate [1937] Ch. 636 (Eng.); Vyse v. Foster (1872) LR 8 Ch. App. 309, 336–67 (Eng.). This feature of UK trustee law is discussed in Ho, supra note 12, at 17–18.

 [100]. The proscriptivist might respond by defining the dynamics identified in P2 as deviant or, alternatively, by contending that these are “nominate,” rather than distinctively “fiduciary,” aspects of fiduciary duties. This strategy is not a promising way to identify what is distinctive about fiduciary duties, since it pre-commits to defining the distinctiveness of fiduciary responsibilities in terms of their unique aspects. By conflating distinctiveness and uniqueness, this strategy rules out in advance the possibility that what is distinctive about fiduciary responsibilities is a unique combination of “nominate” duties, none of which are themselves unique to fiduciary relationships. To analogize, other hockey players might be able to pass, shoot, skate, evade checks, score goals, and set up assists as well as Wayne Gretzky could. Gretzky, however, was a unique hockey player because of his combination of these (non-unique) talents. Yet if distinctiveness were defined entirely in terms of the uniqueness of specific components, as many proscriptivists suggest we should do to establish the fiduciarity of a duty, then one could reach the risible conclusion that Wayne Gretzky was not a distinctive hockey player.

 [101]. On the role of fault in contract law, see Omri Ben-Shahar & Ariel Porat, Foreword: Fault in American Contract Law, 107 Mich. L. Rev. 1341, 1346–47 (2009).

 [102].               Neither of these incompatibilities is based on a conceptual commitment. One possible version of proscriptivism might see a fiduciary’s mental state as relevant to the formulation of how to provide relief for violations of the no-profit and no-conflict rules, either of which could turn on cognitive considerations. Likewise, one could imagine a version of contractarianism on which mental states mattered to performance—that is, in which both the behavior and cognition of a counterparty were modeled as relevant to a hypothetical bargainer. However, most theorists who embrace proscriptivism and contractarianism would likely reject these modifications, since advocates of these views see their implicit behaviorism as a strength, rather than as a weakness.

 [103].               See R.A. Duff, Criminal Attempts 133–34 (1997); Gideon Yaffe, Attempts 21–25 (2010).

 [104]. Restatement (Third) of Law Governing Lawyers § 5(2) (Am. Law Inst. 2000) (emphasis added). The comments explain that the same standards for assessing the charge of attempt in criminal law also apply in the lawyer disciplinary context—namely, whether the lawyer had the requisite intent to violate the provision and took a substantial step in the course of conduct that was planned to culminate in the commission of the offense (and that, on the whole, strongly corroborates this purpose). Id. § 5(2) cmt. e.

 [105]. Model Rules of Prof’l Conduct r. 8.4(a) (Am. Bar Ass’n 1983); see also Financial Gen. Bankshares v. Metzger, 523 F. Supp. 744, 746, 772 (D.D.C. 1981) (stating attorney’s unsuccessful attempts to take over company constituted violations of fiduciary duty); Cal Pak Delivery, Inc. v. United Parcel Serv., Inc., 60 Cal. Rptr. 2d 207, 212–13 (Ct. App. 1997) (stating attorney’s attempted and unsuccessful betrayal of client interests by selling out client for a personal payment was a breach of fiduciary duty).

 [106]. Union Miniere, S.A. v. Parday Corp., 521 N.E.2d 700, 703 (Ind. Ct. App. 1988) (stating an agent’s unsuccessful attempt to harm the principal was a breach of fiduciary duty); Town & Country House & Homes Serv., Inc. v. Evans, 189 A.2d 390, 392–94 (Conn. 1963) (stating an agent’s solicitation of principal’s clients is a breach of fiduciary obligation); Town & Country House & Home Serv., Inc. v. Newbery, 147 N.E.2d 724, 726 (N.Y. 1958) (same). But see Restatement (Third) of Agency § 8.04 (Am. Law Inst. 2006) (disallowing solicitation of clients but providing narrow window for “preparation” to compete with the principal).

 [107]. E.g., Dower v. Mosser Indus., Inc., 648 F.2d 183, 188–89 (3rd Cir. 1981) (“A merger intended solely to ‘freeze out’ or ‘cash out’ minority equity holders from their positions may be enjoined as an attempted breach of that fiduciary duty”); Orchard v. Covelli, 590 F. Supp. 1548, 1557 (W.D. Pa. 1984) (“[A]ny attempt to ‘squeeze out’ a minority shareholder must be viewed as a breach of . . . fiduciary duty.”).

 [108]. Navigant Consulting, Inc. v. Wilkinson, 508 F.3d 277, 284–85 (5th Cir. 2010) (finding employees who attempted to sell their employers business can be found to have violated “the most basic norms”).

 [109]. E.g., Item Software (UK) Ltd. v. Fassihi [2004] EWCA (Civ) 1244, para 41 (Eng.) (holding that unsuccessful attempt to usurp a business opportunity violated director’s duty to confess, which was entailed by the “fundamental” fiduciary duty to “act in what he in good faith considers to be the best interests of his company”); Shepherds Invs. Ltd. v. Walters [2006] EWHC 836 (Ch).

 [110]. The different standards for determining remoteness are reflected in different ways of specifying the actus reus required for attempt liability. See, e.g., Duff, supra note 103, at 33–75; Yaffe, supra note 103, at 255–83.

 [111].               E.g., Mattern & Assocs., L.L.C. v. Seidel, 678 F. Supp. 2d 256, 268 n.10 (D. Del. 2010) (recognizing an action for attempted breach of fiduciary duty in a “preparations to compete” case); Shepherds Invs. Ltd. v. Walters [2006] EWHC 836 (Ch) (suggesting that preparatory steps to breach fiduciary obligation is itself a betrayal). But see Restatement (Third) of Agency § 8.04 (Am. Law Inst. 2006) (suggesting that some room for permissible preparation is part of the law of agency).

 [112]. To be sure, cognitivists might be concerned with imposing too onerous standards on fiduciaries. The concern might arise out of fairness (the notion that controlling one’s own motivations and deliberation, if not impossible, is far more difficult than controlling one’s behavior) or as a potential defeater to the ostensible benefits of discretion. To allay this concern, the cognitivist might draw a further parallel to the criminal law distinction between liability for completed and attempted crimes. For result or status crimes, liability can be grounded on satisfying the behavioral and/or result elements (for example, by bringing about a prohibited result or behaving in a prohibited way), even though the defendant does not have a highly culpable mental state. Yet a highly culpable mental state is required in order to establish liability for an attempt of the same crime. For example, someone who has a mental state of negligence or recklessness can be liable for battery, but liability for attempted battery requires a purposive mental state. On this logic, the cognitivist might concede that liability for a successful breach of fiduciary duty can be based on low-grade mental states like negligence or even without a mens rea, while still maintaining that a higher-order mental state is required to ground liability for inchoate violations of fiduciary duty.

 [113]. Conaglen, supra note 33, at 459–60.

 [114]. Judith Viorst, Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day (1972).

 [115].               To be sure, an attempted breach of contract might give a promisee a justification for demanding an assurance from her promisor—but it would not be itself treated as a breach of the underlying contractual commitment. That said, some courts might see an announced intent to breach or anticipatory breach as a kind of “attempted breach of contract.” See, e.g., First Nat’l Bank of Louisville v. Cont’l Ill. Nat’l Bank & Tr. Co. of Chi., 933 F.2d 466, 469 (7th Cir. 1991).

 [116]. Lionel Smith concludes that fiduciary duties require the fiduciary to act with an appropriate motivation, even though (he argues) this requirement is not and should not be legally enforceable. See Lionel Smith, The Motive, Not the Deed, in Rationalizing Property, Equity, and Trusts: Essays in Honour of Edward Burn 53 passim (J. Getzler ed., 2003). But see Smith, supra note 4, at 152; Strine et al., supra note 5, at 633 (“[Under Delaware law] good faith has long been used as the key element in defining the state of mind that must motivate a loyal fiduciary.”).

 [117]. See, for example, Council on American-Islamic Relations Action Network, Inc. v. Gaubatz, 31 F. Supp. 3d 237, 259–60 (D.D.C. 2014) and the discussion of this case in Deborah A. DeMott, The Poseur as Agent, in Agency Law in Commercial Practice 35, 44–45 (Danny Busch et al. eds., 2016).

 [118]. Ex parte Endo, 323 U.S. 283, 302 (1944).

 [119]. See MiMedx Grp., Inc. v. Fox, 2017 U.S. Dist. LEXIS 121801, at *15 (N.D. Ill. Aug. 2, 2017) (“A corporate officer who sabotages the company may do so for no personal gain, but nevertheless breach a fiduciary duty owed to firm.”); Gantler v. Stephens, 965 A.2d 695, 709 (Del. 2008) (holding that allegations of sabotage is a violation of fiduciary duty).

 [120]. See Ho, supra note 12, at 50; Lusina Ho & Pey Woan Lee, A Director’s Duty to Confess: A Matter of Good Faith?, 66 Cambridge L.J. 347, 360–61 (2007).

 [121]. Commonwealth v. Washington, 880 A.2d 536 (Pa. 2005).

 [122]. Id. at 544.

 [123]. In support of this conclusion, Washington noted a letter to a potential defense psychiatric expert in which trial counsel stated that Washington “may epitomize the banality of evil.” Id. at 541.

 [124]. Id. at 541–42.

 [125].               Id. at 544.

 [126].               Id. at 541.

 [127].               Id. at 542.

 [128].               Id. at 543. In support of this point, the Washington Court cited Fisher v. Gibson, 282 F.3d 1283, 1294–98, 1307 (10th Cir. 2002) (finding a cognizable, but not dispositive, Sixth Amendment claim where attorney failed to investigate potential alibis or relevant information, did nearly no preparation for case, and admitted afterward in affidavit that he abhorred homosexuals—like his client—and believed that these feelings affected his representation) and Frazer v. United States, 18 F.3d 778, 780 (9th Cir. 1994) (cognizable, but not dispositive, ineffective assistance claim where attorney called client “a stupid . . . son of a bitch” and opined that client should be imprisoned for life).

 [129].               Washington, 880 A.2d at 545; see also Rickman v. Bell, 131 F.3d 1150, 1157 (6th Cir. 1997) (lawyer violated the duty of loyalty through “a total failure to actively advocate his client’s cause” and “repeated expressions of contempt for his client for his alleged actions”).

 [130]. Washington, 880 A.2d at 545.

 [131]. Stone v. Ritter, 911 A.2d 362, 369–70 (Del. 2006).

 [132]. Sitkoff, supra note 32, at 202. Under this standard, the duty of good faith, the duty of honesty, the duty of fidelity, the duty to confess, the “fraud on a power” doctrine, and the “proper purposes” doctrine might all be classified as implementing rules.

 [133]. Item Software (UK) Ltd. V. Fassihi [2004] EWCA (Civ) 1244 (Eng.).

 [134]. Ho & Lee, supra note 120, at 350.

 [135].               Brandeaux Advisers (UK) Ltd. v Chadwick [2010] EWHC (QB) 3241 [47]; P & V Indus. Pty., Ltd. v. Porto, [2006] V.S.C. 131 [23], [42].

 [136]. Fassihi, [2004] EWCA (Civ), at [41].

 [137]. See Harry G. Frankfurt, Freedom of Will and the Concept of a Person, 68 J. Phil. 5, 11 (1971).

 [138].               Restatement (Third) of Agency § 8.01 (Am. Law Inst. 2006).

 [139].               Id. § 8.01 cmt. b.

 [140].               Id. (citing Greenwood v. Koven, 880 F. Supp. 186 (S.D.N.Y. 1995), which hypothesizes that an auctioneer’s decision about whether to rescind a sale made by a coin-toss was paradigmatic case of an action taken in bad faith). Of course, many fiduciary duties arise in relationships that also involve contractual duties. Wantonness might violate not only a fiduciary duty, but also specific contractual duties (like the duty of good faith). See Daniel Markovits, Sharing Ex Ante and Sharing Ex Post: The Non-Contractual Basis of Fiduciary Relations, in Philosophical Foundations of Fiduciary Law 209, 209–10 (2014). Yet in such relationships, fiduciary loyalty is not superfluous to a contractual duty of good faith; rather, fiduciary loyalty picks out a range of behaviors and motivations that would not (obviously or directly) be condemned by contract law alone. We discuss this issue more extensively in Galoob & Leib, supra note 32, at 128–29.

 [141]. Strine et al., supra note 5, at 633.

 [142]. Del. Code Ann. tit. 8, § 102(b)(7) (2001).

 [143]. Stone v. Ritter, 911 A.2d 362, 369–70 (Del. 2006).

 [144]. Joseph K. Leahy, A Decade After Disney: A Primer on Good and Bad Faith, 83 U. Cin. L. Rev. 859, 863 (2015) (emphasis removed).

 [145]. See In re Walt Disney Co. Deriv. Litig., 907 A.2d 693, 697, 760 (Del. Ch. 2005) (Disney III).

 [146]. See Claire A. Hill & Brett H. McDonnell, Stone v. Ritter and the Expanding Duty of Loyalty, 76 Fordham L. Rev. 1769, 1781 (2007) (emphasizing that the claim in Disney was not that the board was conflicted but that it was “simply rubber-stamping” Eisner’s proposals).

 [147]. See In re Walt Disney Co. Deriv. Litig., 906 A.2d 27, 64 (Del. 2006) (Disney IV); see also Christopher M. Bruner, Is the Corporate Director’s Duty of Care a “Fiduciary” Duty? Does It Mattter?, 48 Wake Forest L. Rev. 1027, 1047 (2013) (“[G]ood faith is fundamentally about state of mind—the quality of a director’s intentions vis-à-vis the company.”).

 [148]. Leahy, supra note 144, at 867. Fiduciary loyalty also prohibits a director from acting for “greed, hatred, lust, envy, revenge . . . shame or pride.” Disney III, 907 A.2d at 754 (internal quotations and citations omitted).

 [149]. In re Walt Disney Co. Deriv. Litig., 825 A.2d 275, 289 (Del. Ch. 2003) (Disney II).

 [150]. Id.

 [151]. For the purposes of our argument, it does not matter how much “good faith” or “bad faith” in corporate law is meant to be evaluated objectively or subjectively. Compare Strine et al., supra note 4, at 655 (arguing for a subjective understanding), with Melvin E. Eisenberg, The Duty of Good Faith in Corporate Law, 31 Del. J. Corp. L. 1 (2006) (advocating a more objective approach). Nor does it matter whether the duty of good faith should be subsumed under the duty of loyalty. Nor does it matter whether the duty of loyalty is disclaimable or how infrequently Delaware courts have upheld claims of bad faith. See Leahy, supra note 144, at 875–76, 880–82. Rather, Delaware courts’ explanations of the standards for fiduciary faithfulness indicate, consistent with P4, that some motivational structures are inconsistent with fiduciary obligation, which is enough to show that P4 is part of fiduciary law.

 [152]. See Ian Ayres & Gregory Klass, Insincere Promises: The Law of Misrepresented Intent 96–97 (2005) (contending that “blank promises,” in which one party intends at the time of agreement not to act in the way that he or she promises, lack mutual value).

 [153]. See, e.g., Robert Flannigan, The Economics of Fiduciary Accountability, 32 Del. J. Corp. L. 393, 397 n.15 (2007) (“[W]hat may appear to be low effort may actually be the result of sabotage by another agent (e.g., at a bottleneck point) attempting to mask relative effort. In that instance, the sabotaging agent commits the fiduciary breach.”). For the reasons described above, Flannigan’s conclusion cannot be reconciled with his embrace of proscriptivism.

 [154]. Perhaps, the proscriptivist might contend, the saboteur and the wanton violate a duty to the beneficiary, but not a fiduciary duty. On an alternative reading of the proscriptivist position, one might see the saboteur and the wanton as violating (nominate) duties of care, rather than duties of fiduciary loyalty. However, this solution does not resolve the normative or descriptive gaps in proscriptivism. For one thing, it is not clear that the saboteur or the wanton violates an objective duty of care; in the Fassihi case, for example, Fassihi’s advice would satisfy an objective duty of care, and yet it still violated a fiduciary duty owed to the entity.

 [155]. Elsewhere, we have argued that sensitivity is a component of ordinary loyalty as well. See Leib & Galoob, supra note 61, at 1843.

 [156]. Robert Nozick, Philosophical Explanations 179 (1981); Fred I. Dretske, Epistemic Operators, 67 J. Phil. 1007 passim (1970). See generally Sherrilyn Roush, Tracking Truth: Knowledge, Evidence, and Science (2005); Keith DeRose, Insensitivity Is Back, Baby!, 24 Phil. Perspectives 161 (2010); David Enoch & Talia Fisher, Sense and “Sensitivity”: Epistemic and Instrumental Approaches to Statistical Evidence, 67 Stan. L. Rev. 557 (2015).

 [157]. For example, the Alabama Supreme Court found that a trustee bank violated its duty of loyalty based on “insensitivity . . . in the performance of its duty of loyalty to the trust’s beneficiaries” by retaining the trustee bank’s own stock in the trust. First Ala. Bank of Huntsville, N.A. v. Spragins, 515 So. 2d 962, 964 (Ala. 1987). Similarly, in cases involving professional discipline of a lawyer for violation of applicable rules of professional conduct, courts often distinguish the lawyer’s insensitivity to fiduciary duty as a basis for finding a breach of fiduciary duty. See, e.g., In re Evans, 578 A.2d 1141, 1151 (D.C. 1990); In re Lupo, 851 N.E.2d 404, 414 (Mass. 2006); Chiles v. Robertson, 767 P.2d 903, 926 (Or. Ct. App. 1989).

 [158]. E.g., Robert C. Clark, Agency Costs Versus Fiduciary Duties, in Principals and Agents 55, 7576 (John W. Pratt & Richard J. Zeckhauser eds., 1985). See generally Markovits, supra note 140.

 [159]. See Leib & Galoob, supra note 61, at 1843–44.

 [160]. See, e.g., Miller v. McDonald (In re World Health Alts. Inc.), 385 B.R. 586, 591–92 (Bankr. D. Del. 2008) (finding a failure to monitor claim cognizable as a breach of fiduciary duty).

 [161]. In re Caremark Int’l, 698 A.2d 959, 967, 970 (Del. Ch. 1996). A critic might note the extreme burdens to grounding liability for corporate directors solely on Caremark factors. Id. at 967 (“The theory here advanced is possibly the most difficult theory in corporation law upon which a plaintiff might hope to win a judgment.”). Our main contention here, however, is that Caremark’s monitoring duty is a component of the duty of loyalty, regardless of whether or how the duty to monitor figures into litigation strategies or standards of review.

 [162]. See FDIC ex rel. Wheatland Bank v. Spangler, 836 F. Supp.2d 778, 792 (N.D. Ill. 2011) (refusing to allow the business judgment rule to insulate defendants who “disregarded regulatory warnings of unsafe lending practices and monthly reports reflecting dangerous loan concentration and excessive growth . . . and took no action to reform underwriting practices in response to criticism.”).

 [163]. An example here might be possible conflicts of interest in trust law—not actual conflicts but the mere “possibility of conflict.” See Penner, supra note 29, at 168 (citing Keech v. Sandford, 2 Eq. Cas. Ab. 741, Cas. Ch. 61, 25 Eng. Rep. 223 (1726)). A similar set of considerations apply to positional conflicts of interest of lawyers, which “occur[] when a law firm adopts a legal position for one client seeking a particular legal result that is directly contrary to the position taken on behalf of another present or former client, seeking an opposite legal result, in a completely unrelated matter.” John S. Dzienkowski, Positional Conflicts of Interest, 71 Tex. L. Rev. 457, 460 (1993). Positional conflicts are problematic when

there is a significant risk that a lawyer’s action on behalf of one client will materially limit the lawyer’s effectiveness in representing another client in a different case; for example, when a decision favoring one client will create a precedent likely to seriously weaken the position taken on behalf of the other client. . . . If there is significant risk of material limitation, then absent informed consent of the affected clients, the lawyer must refuse one of the representations or withdraw from one or both matters.

Model Rules of Prof’l Conduct r. 1.7 cmt 24 (Am. Bar Ass’n 1983). In other words, a positional conflict can violate a lawyer’s duty of loyalty on the grounds that it might harm the client’s interest or inhibit the lawyer’s representation of the client, regardless of whether the conflict has or actually does have these effects.

 [164]. United States v. Miss. Valley Generating Co., 364 U.S. 520, 549–50 (1961) (emphasis added).

 [165]. See, e.g., Dana A. Remus, Reconstructing Professionalism, 51 Ga. L. Rev. 807, 856 (2017) (“The value of a lawyer’s loyalty is often expressed from the perspective of the client: [It]  . . . ensures that a lawyer will not abandon a client as soon as a more lucrative opportunity arises.”). The possibility that a flimsy commitment can constitute a breach of fiduciary duty does not imply that fiduciary loyalty is inevitably “maximal,” in the sense that George Fletcher uses that term, see George P. Fletcher, Loyalty: An Essay on the Morality of Relationships 61–77 (1995), or what Matthew Harding calls a “thick” form of interpersonal trust, see Harding, supra note 4, at 83. Allowing some form of contingency in the fiduciary’s commitment to the beneficiary is necessary to make sense of the possibility that, for example, employees might have fiduciary duties toward employers in an age of at-will employment. See Matthew I. Bodie, Employment as Fiduciary Relationship, 105 Geo. L.J. 819, 847–54 (2016); Marian Riedy & Kim Sperduto, At-Will Fiduciaries: The Anomalies of a Duty of Loyalty in the Twenty-First Century, 93 Neb. L. Rev. 267, 272–79 (2014). Our point is not that the requisite sturdiness is uniform across fiduciary relationships; rather, in contexts where fiduciary duties arise, some kinds of flimsy commitments would be sufficient to constitute a violation of fiduciary duty. For example, even among at-will employees, an untriggered, secret plan to betray would constitute a breach of fiduciary loyalty. Such a violation of fiduciary loyalty might be appraised either in terms of planned treachery (which runs afoul of P3) or in terms of the flimsiness of commitment that is evinced by such a plan (which runs afoul of P5).

 [166]. See generally John Leubsdorf, Conflicts of Interest: Slicing the Hot Potato Doctrine, 48 San Diego L. Rev. 251 (2011).

 [167]. Model Rules of Prof’l Conduct r. 1.7(a)(1) (Am. Bar Ass’n 1983).

 [168]. Id. at r. 1.9(a).

 [169]. Id. at r. 1.16(b)(1).

 [170]. Picker Int’l., Inc. v. Varian Assoc., Inc., 670 F. Supp. 1363, 1365 (N.D. Ohio 1987); see also Ex parte AmSouth Bank, N.A., 589 So. 2d 715, 721–22 (Ala. 1991) (“[A] law firm should not be allowed to abandon its absolute duty of loyalty to one of its clients so that it can benefit from a conflict of interest that it has created.”).

 [171]. ValuePart, Inc. v. Clements, No. 06 C 2709, 2006 U.S. Dist. LEXIS 98167, at *5 (N.D. Ill. Aug. 2, 2006).

 [172]. Arthur R. Laby, Selling Advice and Creating Expectations: Why Brokers Should Be Fiduciaries, 87 Wash. L. Rev. 707, 710 (2012).

 [173]. Id. at 709–10.

 [174]. Several U.S. Supreme Court opinions have found that the Investment Advisers Act of 1940 creates fiduciary duty for advisers. See, e.g., Santa Fe Indus. v. Green, 430 U.S. 462, 478–80 (1977); SEC v. Capital Gains Research Bureau, Inc., 375 U.S. 180, 181–82 (1963). Although this legal question is settled, there is a dispute among scholars of fiduciary law about whether fiduciary duties should apply to financial advisers. For example, Paul Miller, one of the preeminent theorists of fiduciary law, contends that financial advisers do not have the kind of discretionary authority that grounds fiduciary duties. On Miller’s “fiduciary powers” view, advisers “are not fiduciaries . . . by virtue of giving advice. Instead, they are fiduciaries only where they exercise discretionary power over the practical interests of their clients. In such cases, provision of advice is incidental to the exercise of discretionary power.” Paul Miller, The Fiduciary Relationship, in Philosophical Foundations of Fiduciary Law, supra note 3, at 63, 84.

 [175]. See, e.g., United States v. Skelly, 442 F.3d 94, 98 (2d Cir. 2006); United States v. Szur, 289 F.3d 200, 211 (2d Cir. 2002); Associated Randall Bank v. Griffin, Kubik, Stephens & Thompson, Inc., 3 F.3d 208, 212 (7th Cir. 1993); MidAmerica Fed. Sav. & Loan Ass’n v. Shearson/Am. Express Inc., 886 F.2d 1249, 1257 (10th Cir. 1989).

 [176]. 29 C.F.R. § 2510.3–.21 (218). On May 22, 2017, the Department of Labor (“DOL”) issued Field Assistance Bulletin No. 2017-02, providing temporary non-enforcement of the new fiduciary rules.

 [177]. See generally The DOL Fiduciary Rule Explained,  Investopedia (Oct. 16, 2018), https://www.investopedia.com/updates/dol-fiduciary-rule  (explaining the history and status of the DOL’s rule). The courts have not been univocal on whether the rule is valid. Compare Market Synergy Grp., Inc. v. U.S. Dep’t of Labor, 885 F.3d 676, 685–86 (10th Cir. 2018) (upholding the rule), with Chamber of Commerce v. U.S. Dep’t of Labor, 885 F.3d 360, 363 (5th Cir. 2018) (invalidating the rule).

 [178]. E.g., SEC v. Blavin, 760 F.2d 706, 711–12 (6th Cir. 1985) (holding that advisers to a duty of investigation about the advice they peddle).

 [179]. See, e.g., Scott MacKillop, First Ascent Asset Management, LLC, Can a Robot Be a Fiduciary? 35 (2016), http://firstascentam.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/12/FA-Position-Paper-Can-Robot-Be-Fiduciary_FINAL.pdf; Nicole G. Iannarone, Computer as Confidant: Digital Investment Advice and the Fiduciary Standard, Chi.-Kent L. Rev. 141, 156–60 (2018); Megan Ji, Note, Are Robots Good Fiduciaries? Regulating Robo-Advisers Under the Investment Advisers Act of 1940, 117 Colum. L. Rev. 1543, 156371 (2018); Melanie L. Fein, Robo-Advisers: A Closer Look, SSRN (June 30, 2015), https://ssrn.com/abstract=2658701; Robert Powell, Can a Robo Adviser Really Act in Your Best Interest?, MarketWatch (Apr. 28, 2016),  http://www.marketwatch.com/story/can-a-robo-adviser-really-act-in-your-best-interest-2016-04-28.

 [180]. Tom Baker & Benedict Dellaert, Regulating Robo Advisers Across the Financial Services Industry, 103 Iowa L. Rev. 713, 740 (2018).

 [181]. W. Nicholson Price, Black-Box Medicine, 28 Harv. J.L. & Tech. 419, 421 (2015).

 [182]. Id.

 [183]. To wit, since we might want the programmer writing the code for the “black box”—or the salesperson selling the code—to have a proper commitment to the interests of the end-user, there still may be sense in applying fiduciary obligations upstream from the “black box.” We also cannot rule out the possibility that the “black box” itself could engage in undetectable betrayal.

 [184]. A non-cognitivist interpretation of fiduciary loyalty would be much easier to administer than one that inquired about the fiduciary’s deliberation and/or motivation, not to mention the robustness of her commitment to the beneficiary. Furthermore, a purely behavioral definition of loyalty would provide the kind of clear guidelines that appeal to Holmes’s “bad man.” Therefore, to the extent that fiduciaries in a legal domain more closely resemble the Holmesian bad man, a non-cognitivist interpretation of fiduciary loyalty might be justified in terms of efficiency (for example, as reducing transaction, information, enforcement, and error costs).

 [185]. A version of amoralism about fiduciary loyalty based solely on normative arguments (for example, the one advocated by Easterbrook and Fischel) might dispute whether a cognitivist account of fiduciary loyalty is ultimately justified. Our empirical claim that extant fiduciary law implicates cognitive concerns might be appraised as normatively misguided. Perhaps courts lack institutional competence to appraise cognitive considerations. Perhaps behaviorist and cognitivist approaches can be expected to produce similar results, but the behaviorist understanding imposes lower expected costs. Our case for cognitivism does not rule out the possibility of such a normative argument against cognitivism. However, abandoning cognitivism would enable several forms of abuse and exploitation that fiduciary law is designed (and uniquely suited) to protect against. Moreover, such a purely normative argument would be highly revisionist, since it would require denying many (and perhaps all) of the legal propositions identified in Section II.B.

 [186]. See Julian Velasco, The Role of Aspiration in Corporate Fiduciary Duties, 54 Wm. & Mary L. Rev. 519, 521–22, 526–27 (2012); see also Melvin Aron Eisenberg, The Divergence of Standards of Conduct and Standards of Review in Corporate Law, 62 Fordham L. Rev. 437 passim (1993).

 [187].               See, e.g., Shiffrin, supra note 54, at 722–27.

 [188]. Meir Dan-Cohen, Decision Rules and Conduct Rules: On Acoustic Separation in Criminal Law, 97 Harv. L. Rev. 625, 630–34 (1984).

 [189]. Yuval Feldman & Henry E. Smith, Behavioral Equity, 170 J. Institutional & Theoretical Econ. 137, 145 (2014).

 [190]. Id. at 148.

 [191]. Id. at 147 (citing Seana Valentine Shiffrin, Inducing Moral Deliberation: On the Occasional Virtues of Fog, 123 Harv. L. Rev. 1214, 1222–25 (2010)). This story is, in broad strokes, consistent with the explanation for the combination of lax enforcement and widespread compliance in Lynn A. Stout, On the Export of U.S.-Style Corporate Fiduciary Duties to Other Cultures: Can a Transplant Take?, in Global Markets, Domestic Institutions: Corporate Law And Government in a New Era of Cross-Border Deals 46, 55 (Curtis J. Milhaupt ed., 2003) and Margaret M. Blair & Lynn A. Stout, Trust, Trustworthiness, and the Behavioral Foundations of Corporate Law, 149 U. Pa. L. Rev. 1735, 1754–55, 1782–83, 1785 (2001).

 [192]. Feldman & Smith, supra note 189, at 150.

 [193].               See generally Ernst Fehr & Simon Gächter, Fairness and Retaliation: The Economics of Reciprocity, 14 J. Econ. Perspectives 159 (2000) (arguing that explicit incentives can “crowd out” voluntary cooperation and intrinsic motivation).

 [194]. For example, a cognitivist approach to contract theory might resemble Daniel Markovits’s work, which focuses less on the divergence between contract and promise and more on the structural morphology between the two. See Daniel Markovits, Contract and Collaboration, 113 Yale L.J. 1417, 1473 (2004); see also Ethan J. Leib, On Collaboration, Organizations, and Conciliation in the General Theory of Contract, 24 Quinnipiac L. Rev. 1, 58, 18–20 (2005).

Is Cost-Benefit Analysis the Only Game in Town? – Article by Gregory C. Keating

From Volume 91, Number 2 (January 2018)
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Is Cost-Benefit Analysis the Only Game in Town?

Gregory C. Keating[*]

TABLE OF CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

I. THREE STANDARDS OF PRECAUTION

A. Safe, Feasible, and Cost-Justified Precaution

1. The Safe-Level Standard

2. The Feasibility Standard

3. The Cost-Benefit Standard and Its Claims

B. Do the Standards Really Identify Different Levels of Precaution?

1. The Safety Standard: Consumer Expectations

2. The Feasibility Standard: Rescues

3. Cost Justification and Commensurability: Private Necessity

II. THE SEPARATENESS OF PERSONS AND THE ASYMMETRY
OF HARM AND BENEFIT

A. Individual and Interpersonal Choice

B. The Priority of Avoiding Harm

1. Caveats and Complexities

2. Autonomy and Asymmetry

3. Interests and Impairment

4. The Importance of Impairment

5. Tying the Threads Together

III. COST-JUSTIFIED, FEASIBLE, AND SAFE PRECAUTION

A. The “Safe” Level of Risk Imposition

B. Feasible Risk Reduction

1. The Two Faces of Feasibility

2. Technological Feasibility

3. Economic Feasibility

C. “Significant” Risk

1. The Significance of a Risk: Quantity and Quality

2. Salience and the Significance of Context

IV. SAFETY, FEASIBILITY, AND SIGNIFICANCE

A. Why Leave Insignificant Risks of Devastating Injury Untouched?

B. Why Exclude Costs Entirely?

C. Comparability and Safety-Based Risk Regulation

1. Contingency and Comparability

D. Comparable Value and Feasible Risk Reduction

1. Feasibility Analysis as Practiced by OSHA

2. Justifying Feasible Risk Reduction

V. THE SENSE IN SAFETY AND FEASIBILITY ANALYSIS

 

INTRODUCTION

In one of his columns, the economist Paul Krugman observed that “liberals don’t need to claim that their policies will produce spectacular growth. All they need to claim is feasibility: that we can do things like, say, guaranteeing health insurance to everyone without killing the economy.”[1] Krugman’s belief that providing everyone with health insurance is desirable unless doing so would “kill the economy” expresses a familiar, if debatable, position. Many of us believe that some goods should be provided to everyone, and they should be provided even if their provision comes at a cost in economic efficiency. The underlying belief is that some goods are essential to leading decent, independent lives, and their provision therefore has a special priority. As a society, we owe it to each other to secure the basic conditions necessary for people to lead decent and independent lives.

Like health, physical safety is a strong candidate for inclusion on a list of the essential conditions of a decent and independent life. Illness usually takes the form of physical harm, and accidental injury can impair basic powers of agency as much as ill-health can. Assertions that safety has priority over gardenvariety “needs and interests” are commonplace in popular discourse.[2] You might, therefore, expect to find a debate in the legal literature on risk and precaution over whether or not safety, too, should be prioritized over efficiency and secured to the extent that it is feasible to do so. Prominent federal statutes take this very position. Indeed, they echo Krugman’s exact word choice in requiring that the risks of certain activities be reduced as far as it is “feasible” to do so, and they mean the same thing that he does in choosing this word. “Feasible risk reduction” requires that the risks in question be reduced as far as possible without killing the activity in question.[3] A chorus of contemporary commentators, however, insists that feasible risk reduction is not just normatively mistaken; it is indefensible. Jonathan Masur and Eric Posner, for example, argue that statutes prescribing feasible risk reduction have no defensible normative underpinning. Feasibility analysis, they write, “does not reflect deontological thinking . . . [and] does not reflect welfarism in any straightforward sense,” and “[n]o attempt to reverseengineer a theory of well-being that justifies feasibility analysis has been successful.”[4] According to this line of thought, efficiency is the only plausible standard of precaution, and its handmaiden, cost-benefit analysis, is the only plausible test.[5]

Masur and Posner are not alone in contending that “cost/benefit analysis is currently the only game in town for determining appropriate standards of conduct for socially useful but risky acts.”[6] Indeed, that particular phrase belongs to Barbara Fried. Fried’s target was not feasibility analysis in particular, but all self-described alternatives to cost-benefit analysis. Cass Sunstein, for his part, asserts that “[u]ncontroversial” considerations “suggest” that “[i]t is not possible to do evidence-based, data-driven regulation without assessing both costs and benefits, and without being as quantitative as possible.”[7] Cost-benefit analysis is necessary to bring discipline, reason, and rigor to our thinking about risk and regulation.[8] Unless and until we embrace cost-benefit analysis, our thinking about risk and precaution will be ruled by rank sentimentality and cognitive error. Lately, courts have joined the chorus. The most recent Supreme Court decision on point asserts that—absent specific statutory instruction to the contrary—regulatory agencies must engage in cost-benefit analysis the moment that they contemplate regulating a harmful substance.[9] It is irrational even to contemplate reducing harm without considering costs.[10]

My aim in this Article is to challenge this consensus. Descriptively, the claim that cost-benefit analysis is the only game in town is controverted by the fact that standards of precaution other than cost-benefit analysis are common in our law. Normatively, eminently defensible arguments can be marshaled in support of the safety and feasibility standards. Broadly speaking, the conflict is between an economic version of consequentialism and legal norms which express deontological commitments. Cost-benefit analysis has its home in a framework which supposes that welfare is the ultimate or master value and that promoting welfare is the proper end of political and legal institutions.[11] The distinctions among persons disappear because the task of law and morality is to bring into existence states of the world in which overall welfare is as high as it can be. Risks to health and safety should therefore be managed by minimizing the combined costs of avoiding and suffering the harms in question, thereby maximizing the net benefit extracted from the activities responsible for those risks.

By contrast, the supposition “at the heart of deontological (or non-consequentialist)” moral theory is that the “subject matter of morality is not what we should bring about, but how we should relate to one another.”[12] On a deontological view, the distinction between persons is fundamental because the relations among persons are the fundamental subject of morality. The fundamental moral questions posed by issues of risk and precaution are questions about what people owe to each other.[13] They are questions about the terms on which risks may be imposed by some and on others. Deontology justifies assigning special priority to avoiding harm because harm is presumptively and especially bad for persons. Harm is the impairment of basic powers of human agency.

 By treating physical harm to persons as just another cost and by ignoring the distinction between persons, cost-benefit analysis misconceives problems of risk and precaution in a fundamental way. Harm, like rape or murder, is misunderstood when it is presented as something that has an optimal level. All harm is bad for the person who suffers it, even when it is justifiable and even when it is better for the person who suffers the harm to suffer it, not avoid it. It is right to lop off one of your limbs to save your life,[14] but the resulting disability and disfigurement is bad. Lesser harm is still harm. Physical integrity is an essential condition of effective agency for everyone. Safety, therefore, is a value which can be properly realized only when it is properly distributed. Maximizing lives saved by summing costs and benefits across some population is not a way of providing everyone with an essential condition of effective agency. Because deontology takes the distinction between persons as fundamental and recognizes the priority of avoiding harm, it lends support to standards of precaution more stringent than cost justification. Our law is torn between standards of cost-justified precaution and norms of safe and feasible precaution because our law is torn between these two moral outlooks.

The paper proceeds as follows. Part I summarizes the three standards of precaution and the differences that divide them. The debate that this Article engages is worth having only if the parties to it accept that different standards of precaution exist—that there really are alternatives to cost-benefit analysis extant in our law. Summarizing the standards up front is therefore worthwhile even at the cost of some subsequent repetition. Part II focuses on the importance of the distinction between persons and the harm-benefit asymmetry. Cost-benefit analysis models social choice on individual choice and treats harms and benefits as symmetrically important. Both of these commitments are problematic. When some people have their lives devastated by accidental harms issuing out of advertently imposed risks from which others profit, it is a mistake to model social choice on individual choice. We must take the distinction between persons seriously and adopt principles which are justifiable from the standpoints of both the potential victims and the potential beneficiaries of the practices in question. When physical harm is at issue, treating costs and benefits as symmetrically important is likewise mistaken. Our moral intuitions and our legal institutions treat the avoidance of harm as more important than the conferral of benefit. This asymmetry makes sense within a framework which places persons and their essential interests at its center. When we focus on the essential conditions of effective agency, harms and benefits are not symmetrically important. Physical harms—death, disability, disease, and the like—rob us of normal and foundational powers of action. Few benefits, by contrast, comparably augment our basic powers of agency. Indeed, unsought benefits often diminish our autonomy by subjecting us to the wills and wishes of others. If I make it impossible for you to avoid listening to me play Mozart, I control the direction of your attention and the use of your time. Both are now governed by my will, not yours.

Parts III and IV dig into the safety and feasibility standards, as interpreted by the courts and as applied by regulatory agencies. They aim to show that coherent alternatives to cost-benefit analysis are, in fact, present in our law. Part V summarizes why the safety and feasibility standards constitute reasonable attempts to give the avoidance of harm its due.

I.  Three Standards of precaution

In legal discourse, the claim that cost-benefit analysis is the only plausible way to think about risk and precaution is articulated as a criticism of two other standards of precaution—namely, the “safelevel” and “feasibility” standards.[15] Federal statutory standards governing health, environmental, and safety regulation often insist that some activity be made “safe” or that some risk be reduced to the point where further reduction would be “infeasible.” The regulation of air, food, and water quality is the principal habitat of the “safe-level” standard, and the regulation of occupational health and safety is the principal habitat of the feasibility standard. The three standards identify distinct levels of permissible risk imposition. Normally, they stand in linear, vertical relation to one another, with the safety standard tolerating the least risk and the cost-justification standard tolerating the most.[16]

A.  Safe, Feasible, and Cost-Justified Precaution

The two standards of most interest to us—the safety and feasibility standards—deploy a relatively well-integrated set of concepts. The concepts of “safe level,” “feasible risk reduction,” and “significant” risk that form the core of both statutory standards are terms of art. The feasibility standard, for its part, is further broken down into technological and economic prongs. The legal regimes that the standards establish need to be understood in terms of these concepts; in relation to one another; in relation to the idea of cost-justified risk reduction; and in light of their usual domains of application.

1.  The Safe-Level Standard

The Food Quality Protection Act of 1996[17] embodies the safe-level standard. It requires that pesticide residue on fresh and processed foods be reduced to a “safe” level.[18] “Safe,” in turn, means “there is a reasonable certainty that no harm will result from aggregate exposure to the pesticide chemical residue, including all anticipated dietary exposures and all other exposures.”[19] This standard is made even more stringent by instructing regulators to set limits that provide for an additional margin of safety in light of the special susceptibility of infants and children to harm from toxic substances.[20] Pesticide residue on food is thus acceptable only to the extent that it is reasonably certain to harm no one—not even those unusually vulnerable to harm. Applying the safe-level standard does not require any inquiry into the costs of risk reduction. All that it requires is a determination of the level at which the risk created by exposure to the regulated substance ceases to be significant.

Among the three standards, the safe-level standard tolerates the least risk. Safety-based regulations require risk to be reduced to a point where no “significant risk” of devastating injury remains. This may well require moving beyond the point of cost-justified precaution. If efficient precaution is taken and significant risk still remains, the safe level standard requires further reduction.[21] The standard may therefore require precaution which presses beyond the point of maximum net benefit, as cost-benefit analysis conceives that point.

2.  The Feasibility Standard

The feasibility standard is at least as salient in federal risk regulation as the “safe-level” standard. The Clean Air Act, for example, provides that standards for hazardous air pollutants “shall require the maximum degree of reduction in emissions” that the EPA, “taking into consideration the cost of achieving such emission reduction,” determines to be “achievable.”[22] Feasible risk reduction does not require the elimination of all significant risk. Feasible precaution calls for reducing an activity’s risks as far as possible consistent with the long-term flourishing of the activity. Because it requires that significant risks be reduced until (1) they are either insignificant or (2) further reduction would jeopardize the long-run health of the activity whose risks they are, feasible risk reduction may require pressing precaution beyond the point where a dollar more spent on the prevention of harm yields more than a dollar’s worth of harm prevented, and to the point where further risk reduction would endanger the activity.

3.  The Cost-Benefit Standard and Its Claims

The basic idea of cost-justified risk imposition is easy to state, perhaps deceptively so. Cost-justified precaution requires risks to be reduced to the point where the costs of further precautions exceed their benefits. Cost and benefit, for their part, are all-encompassing concepts. In a well-known defense of cost-benefit analysis, the economist Robert Solow explained that “the cost of the good thing to be obtained is precisely the good thing that must or will be given up to obtain it.”[23] “Cost,” then, is anything given up to obtain something else. “Benefit” is the flip side of the coin—anything worth attaining whose attainment requires giving something up. An ideal cost-benefit analysis takes all costs and all benefits into account and identifies the point at which costs and benefits are balanced so that net benefit is maximized. In practice, almost all cost-benefit analyses take more restricted sets of costs and benefits into account. In the context of accidental injury, for example, the criterion of cost justification is usually said to require minimizing the sum of the costs of precaution, accidental harm, and administrative costs.”[24]

For our purposes, the important issue is not exactly how cost-benefit analysis is practiced, but why the cost-justified level of risk imposition is claimed to be the correct level of risk imposition. The answer to that question is straightforward. When we minimize the combined costs of preventing accidental harms (precaution costs) and paying for those harms that we do not prevent (accident costs), we maximize net benefit (benefit minus cost). We diminish net benefit if we take either more or less precaution. If we take more precaution, the increased marginal spending on precaution costs exceeds the increased marginal savings in accident costs. If we take less precaution, the marginal savings in precaution costs are exceeded by the marginal increases in accident costs. Net benefit thus diminishes if either more or less precaution is taken. This is why law and economics scholars like Masur and Posner conceive of the cost-justified level of precaution as the rational level of precaution. This conclusion is common. In a recent book, for instance, the legal scholar Peter Schuck writes:

Cost-benefit analysis posits that policy A is more desirable than policy B if and to the extent that the net benefits (i.e., benefits minus costs, including opportunity costs) that flow from A are larger than the net benefits that flow from B. So stated, CBA is simply rationality in the service of sound policy, a call for policies that maximize net benefits, a principle to which seemingly no sensible person could object.[25]

Many courts, including the Supreme Court, seem persuaded. In its recent decision in Michigan v. EPA, the Court appeared to create a presumption that cost-benefit analysis is a requirement of a rational regulatory process.[26]

From the point of view of orthodox cost-benefit analysis, the safety and feasibility norms are fundamentally irrational.[27] By design, these standards prescribe levels of precaution which go beyond the cost-justified level of safety. Safety may be precious but it comes at a cost, and its value is not infinite. The benefits of achieving a particular level of safety must be traded off against the costs of doing so. The rational way to trade costs off against benefits is to balance them so that we maximize net value and thereby make ourselves as well off as we can be. We should spend on safety up to the point where a dollar more spent on preventing accidents yields less than a dollar’s worth in the way of accidental harm avoided. Spending beyond this point—beyond the point of efficient precaution—yields less value, not more value. Preferring less value to more value is simply illogical.[28]

On its own terms, this is a knockdown argument. The terms of the argument, however, are problematic. Though cost-benefit analysis sometimes claims the mantle of common sense, it is in fact the child of a theory, and the theory on which it rests makes a controversial assumption about the fungibility of everything that might be gained or lost.[29] Cost-benefit analysis of risks to health and safety is an attempt to extend a market mode of valuation and choice to areas where actual markets fail—where actual markets either do not exist or are incomplete and imperfect. The safety and feasibility norms address risks to life and limb. By name, there are no markets in people’s lives, and the markets that do exist are, at best, badly incomplete.[30] Even so, we might think about risks to life in market terms. Thomas Schelling inaugurated the modern cost-benefit analysis of risks to life and limb not by discovering markets that no one had previously noticed, but by pointing out that we can view the question of “what [it is] worth to reduce the probability of death” as a “consumer choice.”[31] “We nearly all want our lives extended and are probably willing to pay for it.”[32]

When we think of risk and precaution as “consumer choices” we do indeed compare costs and benefits and seek to maximize net benefits. And we try to make our thinking more rigorous and precise by quantifying it—by putting prices on the various costs and benefits.[33] In deciding whether or not some automobile safety improvement—backup cameras which avert a certain number of deaths per year, say—is worth installing, cost-benefit analysis asks us to figure out if the lives saved are worth the costs of saving them. The dominant approach to doing this is to construct a value of life figure (e.g., $5,000,000) and then to estimate how many lives the safety device would save.[34] That benefit—the monetary value of the lives saved—is then compared to the cost of the safety device to see if the installation of the safety device is net beneficial or not. Conceptually, the lives of potential victims (ideally, as valued by the victims themselves) are an economic resource, properly traded on the market and properly sacrificed when the benefit of saving life is less than the cost of doing so.

The conceptual and practical problems of pricing lives and other nonmarket goods are substantial. Our concern, however, is why the argument for efficient precaution is not the knockdown that it seems to be. The hidden normative weaknesses in the apparently knockdown case for cost justification as a uniquely rational standard of justified precaution are the conflation of individual choice with social choice and the assumption that all costs and all benefits are fungible in the way that all goods on a market are fungible. Because cost-benefit analysis aspires to mimic the market it treats all costs and benefits as fungible at some ratio of exchange. “[E]conomics . . . envisages rational man as seeking many goals, all substitutable at the margin. On the margin, economic man is prepared to trade off some freedom for some security, some privacy for some wealth, some freedom for some paternalism, and vice versa . . . .[35] There is always some rate of exchange at which a rational person is willing to accept less of some good in exchange for more of another.

The safety and feasibility standards presuppose a perspective which insists upon the separateness of persons, and denies the fungibility of all costs and all benefits. From one angle, this denial rests on a claim about people’s interests. The safety and feasibility standards presume that the people have an especially urgent interest in safety, because the physical integrity of one’s person is an essential precondition of effective agency and a decent life. From another angle, the safety and feasibility standards are making an assertion about value. Kant claimed that rational beings have dignity, and that beings which have dignity are “above all price and therefore admit[] of no equivalent.[36] Perhaps because the phrase “above all price” is subject to more than one interpretation, this statement is sometimes taken to mean that human lives have infinite value, economically speaking. This interpretation of Kant’s remark badly misunderstands him by taking him to be speaking within economics.

A better way to read Kant’s remark is as an objection to the extension of the price system to the valuation of human life. In the price system, value is the conferred by the expression of preferences. Prices reflect the revealed preferences of buyers and sellers for some good. Nothing—not the Mona Lisa, not the right to vote, not persons themselves—has intrinsic value. The “price” of a person’s life is fixed by the demand of others for that life and the cost to the person of giving it up. For Kant, persons have intrinsic value. Principles of justice must register that value correctly by according proper respect to persons and their claims. One feature of this view is that persons are ends in themselves, not objects of consumption for others. Another feature is that persons are not interchangeable. Each and every human life is not only intrinsically valuable, it is also unique and therefore irreplaceable. Unlike commodities, human lives are neither available for consumption by others, nor fungible with each other at some ratio of exchange. Each of us has only one life to live. From our separate perspectives, other people’s lives are not substitutable for our own. Consequently, it is a mistake to subject risks to human life to the metric of the market. Registering the distinctive value of human lives is a desideratum that acceptable principles of risk imposition must meet. The question facing the safety and feasibility standards is whether or not they register properly the distinctive value of human life in the contexts to which they apply.

B.  Do the Standards Really Identify Different Levels of Precaution?

The safety and feasibility standards were born in the 1960s and 70s, in the last great flowering of liberal legal reform, and are championed by the political left. They have their roots in the founding of the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) in 1970 and the Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA) in 1971. They dominated the regulatory landscape into the 1980s, and they received important legislative reaffirmation during the 1990s—as the Food Quality Protection Act of 1996 itself shows.[37] Early in the 1980s, however, the political right began championing cost-benefit analysis and cost-justified precaution as its preferred alternative to safe and feasible risk reduction. In 1982, the Reagan Administration put into place an executive order requiring cost-benefit analysis for all “significant” federal regulations unless conducting such analysis was prohibited by law—if, for example, the authorizing statute itself forbade consideration of cost.[38] Since the early 1980s, the two approaches have been engaged in a prolonged tussle.

This struggle is worth continuing only if the standards really do identify different levels of required precaution. It is plain from what has been said so far that the standards express different normative judgments. The following examples show that these three standards identify different levels of precaution in important cases. There are, to be sure, costs to using examples drawn from other domains. In various ways, the circumstances to which the safety, feasibility, and cost-justification standards apply in these examples differ from the circumstances contemplated by federal health and safety statutes. Liability under the common law, for instance, is ex post, whereas regulation is ex ante. This is an important difference. The differences in circumstances of application, however, have their benefits as well as their costs. The standards of precaution remain the same across domains. The differences in context therefore cast the distinctive demands of the standards themselves into sharp relief.

1.  The Safety Standard: Consumer Expectations

In the United States, the two most common tests of product design defectiveness are the risk-utility test and the consumer-expectation test. Law and economics scholars usually take the risk-utility test to be an application of cost-benefit analysis to product design.[39] By contrast, in some applications the consumer-expectation test works as a “safe-level” standard. Whereas the risk-utility test focuses on product design from the perspective of a product engineer, the consumer-expectation test focuses on product performance from the perspective of the user.[40] Sometimes people expect products to be safe—not perfect, but safe. And sometimes a product which passes muster under the risk-utility test is not safe. Green v. Smith & Nephew AHP, Inc., illustrates this kind of circumstance nicely.[41] Plaintiff Green worked as a medical technologist in a hospital:

Her job required her to wear protective gloves while attending patients, up to 40 pairs of gloves per shift. She wore powdered latex gloves manufactured by [the defendant. After a period of prolonged use] . . . Green experienced increasingly severe health problemscold-like symptoms, wide-spread rash, acute shortness of breath. She was hospitalized four times. In 1991 Green was diagnosed with latex allergy. Given her allergy, Green must avoid contact with latex. So she had to change jobs and must limit the items she buys, things she eats, and activities she pursues. On account of the allergy, Green developed asthma.[42]

Exposure to latex proteins “sensitizes” some people to latex. Subsequent exposure of a sensitized person may produce progressively worse allergic reactions, including irreversible asthma and life-threatening anaphylactic shock (which Green suffered). Since latex allergy is caused mainly by use of latex gloves, it disproportionately afflicts health care workers. According to the evidence that Green put forward at trial, the frequency of latex allergy among health care workers in the United States is 5 to 17%. At the time that Green became sensitized to latex, the medical community was unaware of the possibility of latex allergy.

Because latex allergy was unknown until the use of latex gloves became widespread, if Green’s claim were judged by the risk-utility test it would most likely have failed.[43] The cost of discovering the defectiveness of latex gloves years before that defect manifested itself in health injuries to regular users was surely high. Indeed, it might have been impossible to discover the hazardous effects of long-term use of latex gloves in any way other than through widespread use of such gloves over a prolonged period of time. When Wisconsin evaluated the gloves under the expectation test, however, plaintiff’s claim prevailed. The consumer-expectation test measures product defectiveness by asking if a product is “dangerous to an extent beyond that which would be contemplated by the ordinary user or consumer.”[44] That defendant’s latex gloves were defective under the expectation test seemed self-evident to the court. The users of defendant’s gloves reasonably expected that they would not suffer injury from normal use of the product. Consequently, the court did not bother to state the relevant expectation precisely.[45] However, it does not seem difficult to do so. All of us reasonably expect that wearing ordinary clothing will not put us at significant risk of serious physical harm. Rare cases of severe allergic reaction to a fabric may exist, but typically a person’s health is not seriously endangered by wearing clothes fashioned from a particular fabric. Analogously, health care workers in Green’s position reasonably expected that wearing protective gear would not put them at significant risk of disabling physical harm. Plaintiff might reasonably have said “when I was using these gloves, I expected that their normal use would not cause me, a normal user, to become severely ill.” Generalizing, we may say that clothing is a simple and familiar example of a product that we normally expect to be safe. In saying that, we mean that we believe that that the clothes we ordinarily wear do not put us at significant risk of physical harm. The question of whether this expectation is cost-justified never arises.

2.  The Feasibility Standard: Rescues

The literature on “statistical lives” is haunted by the apparent irrationality of many rescues.[46] Money seems no object when miners are trapped, or when children are cornered in a burning building. From an economic perspective this seems foolish and extravagant. The rational way to budget our “rescue money” is to maximize the number of lives saved with the least sacrifice of other objectives. It is irrational to treat identified lives as more valuable than statistical ones. Lives are lives, and the extra money spent rescuing identified persons might be better spent on safety measures that would save more lives, full stop. This is simply an application of the standard argument for cost-justified precaution to the special case of rescues.[47] However, when actual lives are endangered, we think it would be unseemly, and probably morally wrong, to undertake a cost-benefit analysis of the value of the lives at stake and the cost of saving them. We rescue the victims if we can, and rescuers often take great risks upon themselves in the course of rescues and attempted rescues.[48] Generally speaking, our rescue practices appear to be governed by a norm of feasibility, not by a norm of efficiency.

A particularly striking example of this practice is the military tradition of undertaking rescues to recover the corpses of slain soldiers. In the introduction to his book on the American war in Vietnam, Philip Caputo observed that [t]wo friends of mine died trying to save the corpses of their men from the battlefield. Such devotion, simple and selfless, the sentiment of belonging to each other, was the one decent thing in a conflict noted for its monstrosities.[49]

It is hard to believe that the actions Caputo so admires were cost-justified. Losing a life to save a corpse seems like a bad trade. But it also seems correct to say that the economic mindset of cost-benefit analysis is out of place here. There is something morally obtuse—perhaps even grotesque—about trying to figure out if losing one’s life in the course of attempting to rescue the corpse of a fallen comrade is a potential Pareto improvement or not. Rescuing the bodies of one’s fallen comrades is about solidarity and sacrifice, not about improving one’s own welfare. Attempting such rescues in the face of great danger is a way of honoring a deeply-held value.

The rescue of corpses on the battlefield is, of course, an extreme example, even among rescues, but it teaches important lessons about less extreme cases. For one thing, all rescues involve the affirmation of a common value. Solidarity may be as good a name as any for that value. The plight of trapped miners differs from the plight of fallen comrades, but it too implicates solidarity. The fate of trapped miners moves us in part because we are all in this together.[50] We are all vulnerable to accidents and premature death. Honoring the value of solidarity does not deny the value of efficiency; it merely asserts that solidarity matters more in the context of rescues. In the very special context of the military, solidarity is even more important. The goods intrinsic to military excellence can only be realized if mutual commitment and sacrifice are valued very highly. There is nothing irrational about this. It is eminently rational to believe that some very valuable human goods cannot be realized unless we recognize that “no man is an island,” and when the bell tolls for one of us, it tolls for all of us.

It is, no doubt, romantic to extend the ideal of solidarity from the battlefield to the ordinary workplace, but it is on point to say that the adoption of the feasibility standard in the context of workplace safety is a way of valuing the lives of those who are exposed to serious occupational hazards. Even military rescues of corpses are governed by a standard of feasibility in an instructive way. It is heroic to attempt to recover the bodies of your fallen comrades only if there is some chance of succeeding. Without that possibility, an attempted rescue may be foolish or tragic (or both), but it is not noble or heroic. Like feasible risk reduction, rescue is governed by a norm of possibility.

3.  Cost Justification and Commensurability: Private Necessity

If cost-justified precaution is not the proper principle for regulating serious harms to persons, the flip side of the coin is that the criterion of cost justification is appropriate for regulating harm to goods that are fungible and replaceable. The doctrine of private necessity articulated in the famous case of Vincent v. Lake Erie Transport Co. illustrates this point nicely.[51] There are two issues in Vincent. The first is whether the ship owner should have been given a privilege to tie up at the plaintiff’s dock in order to avoid nearcertain destruction in a sudden and fierce winter storm. The second is whether such a privilege should be conditional. If the privilege is conditional, the defendant must make good any harm that it did to plaintiff’s dock in the course of saving its ship. The court answered both questions affirmatively.[52]

Vincent is a case where efficient precaution is the proper standard of precaution. The dock and the ship are fungible pieces of property. The metric of money is well-suited to measure both the damage done by bashing the dock and the damage avoided by keeping the ship out of the storm. Because the goods involved are fungible, the rational course of action is to minimize combined harm and maximize combined benefit. Moreover, the question of who should bear the cost of the ship’s salvation—the ship owner or the dock owner—can be addressed after the harm has been done. Rightly, I think, the court concluded that fairness required the ship owner to bear the costs of its ship’s salvation. Fair distribution could be effected after the dock was damaged simply by requiring the defendant to pay appropriate money damages to the plaintiff. As we shall see, matters are different when serious harm to persons is involved because such harm is not fully repairable. Fairness must be done ex ante.

The standards applied in these examples value the avoidance of harm differently. The application of the consumer-expectation test to latex gloves in Green is the most stringent. Significant risk of harm to normal users is unacceptable. Latex gloves are defective because they precipitate severe allergic reactions in a significant number of users, not an idiosyncratic few. This is the safety standard, in common law guise. It is very demanding, but it does not demand absolute safety. Rescue cases, for their part, are implicitly governed by a standard of possibility. It is noble and heroic to try to save the corpses of your comrades only if it is possible to succeed in doing so. Eliminating significant risks of harm to the extent possible (that is, without crippling the activity that generates the risk) is the basic commitment of the feasibility standard. On the one hand, this feasibility standard tolerates more risk of harm than the safety standard does. On the other hand, it tolerates less risk than the norm of cost justification implicitly applied in Vincent. The norm of cost justification assigns no priority to avoiding harm. It trades harmhere, in the form of property damageagainst other goods in a way which maximizes net benefit.

In short: the safety standard insists on the lowest level of risk; the cost-justification standard accepts the highest level; and the feasibility standard falls in the middle. None of the standards insist on absolute safety. All three standards specify permissible tradeoffs. However, they vary significantly in the tradeoffs that they license.

II.  The Separateness of Persons and the Asymmetry of Harm and Benefit

A.  Individual and Interpersonal Choice

Implicit both in Thomas Schelling’s observation that we can view the question of “what [it is] worth to reduce the risk of death” as a “consumer choice” and in his general thesis that “the life you save may be your own” is an invitation to think about matters of risk and precaution as individual choices.[53] Consider the purchase of a new car. It seems perfectly prudent for a prospective purchaser to evaluate the desirability of purchasing an optional accidentavoidance system by comparing the value of the accidents avoided to the value of the other goods one might purchase with the money it costs to add the option. In other cases, however, treating safety decisions as wholly individual would strike us as wildly inappropriate. For example, imagine a peculiar person who is attracted to the idea of exposing himself to the level of risk involved in climbing K2, but who is utterly averse to the deprivation and intense exertion of mountaineering. To tailor his life to his special taste for both risk and indolence, he hits on the idea of rigging up his car with an external gas tank so that even a minor fenderbender might prove fatal. Because this way of pursuing his preferences for his own life seriously endangers others, we do not think the decision is properly treated as a purely individual one.

The cost-benefit analysis of risk of death is far from indifferent to the distinction between these cases. It is keenly aware that the second case involves a major negative externality, whereas the first does not. But it responds to the difference between them in a distinctive way. Cost-benefit analysis instructs us to think about circumstances where the actions of some negatively impact the lives of others by incorporating the benefits to some and the costs to others into a single calculus of risk and benefit. In doing so, cost-benefit analysis models social decision on an intuitively appealing conception of individual rationality. In many circumstances, the prudent thing for each of us to do is to balance the costs and benefits of alternative courses of action and choose the action that is most net beneficial. The extension of this conception to the circumstances of social choice, where costs and benefits fall on different people, is much less attractive. By combining all costs and all benefits into a single calculus of risk, cost-benefit analysis eclipses “the distinction between persons.”[54]

Taking the distinction between persons seriously directs our attention not to overall welfare, but to interpersonal fairness. Fairness is a distinct domain of political morality, different from both the domain of rights and the domain of efficiency. Efficiency is primarily concerned with overall welfare; rights are primarily concerned with protecting individual interests.[55] Fairness is concerned with the distribution of burdens and benefits—with how well each person’s claim is satisfied compared with how well other people’s [claims] are satisfied.”[56] Even absent irreparable injury, fairness looms large when the imposition of risk is at issue, because risk impositions pit the claims of those who impose the risks and stand to benefit from them against those who are exposed to and endangered by those risks. Treating people fairly generally requires us to align burden and benefit proportionally.

Serious, irreparable injuries pose special problems. When harms are fully repairable, as they were in Vincent, we can achieve efficiency ex ante and fairness ex post. Damaging the dock to save the ship is efficientit minimizes the total property damage done by the storm. Requiring reparation after the fact is fair; the ship owner who benefits from saving the ship also bears the cost of its salvation. Matters are different when the harms suffered by one individual are serious, irreparable impairments of normal agency, or, especially, death. We know how to rebuild a dock so that it is as good as new, but we do not know how to restore the victims of crippling latex allergy or brown lung disease to good health and normal powers of physical agency. Fairness cannot be achieved after these risks have ripened into injury. It must be done ex ante, by ensuring that the terms on which the risks in question are imposed are justifiable to those on whom they are imposed. When the burdens of risk imposition are borne by some people in the form of serious, irreparable harm and the benefits of imposing those risks are reaped by others, the distinction between persons looms especially large.

The safety and feasibility standards address severe and irreparable physical harms—premature death, serious disability and devastating disease. The stringent precautions that they prescribe are justified in a point of view that takes persons and their essential interests—not populations and their overall welfare—as its fundamental object of concern.[57] Populations are not persons writ large. A single person may rationally choose to bear some burden to achieve an end she values, but a plurality of distinct persons lack the unity necessary to make the imposition of significant harm on one person straightforwardly offset by the conferral of benefits on other people. Accidental injuries devastate the lives of some people while the activities responsible for those injuries benefit other people. The terms on which some suffer terrible harm at the hands of imposed risks and others profit from the imposition of those risks stand in need of justification. That justification cannot be given by pretending that a circumstance where some stand to be devastated while others stand to profit is identical to a circumstance where one person stands both to win and to lose.

The proper test of principles of risk imposition is not whether they maximize net benefit, but whether they are justifiable to those whose lives they govern. A “significant” risk of serious harm is most fully justified when those who are likely to suffer from the risks would be acting unreasonably if they were to object to the imposition of the risk. Reasonable principles of risk imposition protect the essential interests of those affected by the risks in question. Doing so may well conflict with promoting overall welfare.[58] The claims of those whose lives are at risk of accidental destruction and devastation at the hands of valuable activities may require that the rest of us accept standards of safety that require more than efficient precaution.

B.  The Priority of Avoiding Harm

Harm has no special significance in cost-benefit analysis, and its avoidance has no special priority. Harm is just one possible cost in a calculus of cost and benefit, and costs and benefits are minuses and pluses on the same scale:

From an abstract perspective, there would seem to be little reason for harms and benefits to be treated differently. Decades of cost-benefit analyses suggest that the two categories are interchangeable: reducing by one dollar damage that would otherwise occur is equivalent to providing a dollar’s worth of new goods or services.[59]

This claim of symmetry is true to cost-benefit analysis but at odds with our ordinary intuitions and our law. In both morality and law, our obligations to avoid harming others are stronger than our obligations to benefit them. In law, the asymmetry of harm and benefit is vivid and pervasive. We can be compelled to refrain from battering our neighbors, but we cannot be compelled to either love or help them. Tort is robust whereas restitution is anemic. The Constitution contains a takings clause, but it does not contain a “givings” clause. Understanding just how pervasive the harm-benefit asymmetry is—and why the avoidance of harm has special priority—dispels the illusion that it is irrational to take more than cost-justified precaution.

Many examples of the harm-benefit asymmetry manifesting itself in our law might be given,[60] but the following should suffice:

Endangering and Rescuing. In the law of torts, there is a general duty not to impose unreasonable risks of physical harm on others. There is no parallel general “duty to act”—no general duty to prevent others from coming to harm, or to mitigate harm that others are in the process of suffering.[61]

Tort and Restitution. The law of torts, the province of which is liability for harm done, is robust. The law of autonomous unjust enrichment—the province of which is liability for benefit conferred—is much smaller.[62]

Fraud and Failure to Volunteer Information. We all have various obligations not to commit fraud—obligations not to manipulate other people by providing false information. We are not under a parallel obligation to step forward and affirmatively provide information to others.

Takings and Givings. In our public law there is a takings clause, but there is no “givings” clause. Yet, as Bell and Parchmovsky observe, “the efficiency rationale for takings compensation also dictates that the state properly measure the benefits of its actions. Just as the state’s failure to internalize the cost of takings creates fiscal illusion and inefficiency, the state’s failure to internalize the benefits of givings creates fiscal illusion and inefficiency.”[63]

In economic terms, all of these examples involve differential treatment of negative and positive externalities. Imposing a risk on a stranger subjects her to a negative externality; rescuing a stranger in peril confers a positive externality upon her. The law of torts is largely about harms; harms are negative externalities. The law of restitution is about un-bargained-for benefits; benefits are positive externalities. When the government takes property to build a freeway, it creates a negative externality; when it builds a freeway and brings new customers to a mall, it creates a positive externality. Misinforming customers by disclosing false information to them is a negative externality; educating them by disclosing valuable information is a positive externality.

From an economic point of view, negative and positive externalities are pluses and minuses on the same scale. They are symmetrical. Presumptively, the law should care as much about promoting positive externalities as it does about correcting negative ones. Unsurprisingly, therefore, the harm-benefit asymmetry has attracted attention from legal economists. Explanations have been offered, but the depth and pervasiveness of the differential treatment of positive and negative externalities is simply not what one would expect if efficiency were the master value of the law.[64] The plain fact is that “other things being equal, harms, harming events, and opportunities to harm are more important morally [and legally] than benefits, benefitting events, and opportunities to benefit.”[65]

1.  Caveats and Complexities

Examples of the harm-benefit asymmetry are knotty, and they can be misleading. Realworld examples present complex configurations of consideration; they do not simply instantiate the asymmetry in its pure form. Restitution cases, for example, raise the question of when people are obligated to pay for unsolicited benefits, not the question of when they are obligated to confer benefits on others. These are markedly different questions. Similarly, the distinction between negative and affirmative duties not only implicates the difference between harm and benefit, it also implicates the deep and difficult distinction between malfeasance and nonfeasance. Legal examples have distinctive institutional dimensions. They may, for instance, implicate the division of labor among institutions. Takings may be the proper concern of private rights of action, whereas “givings” may be addressed by the “public law” of taxation. Conversely, economic analysis may exaggerate the salience of the harm-benefit distinction by virtue of its restricted vision: economic analysis takes welfare to be the only relevant value and consequences to be the only morally significant phenomenon. The “givings” problem may not loom so large in a framework that places peoples rights and responsibilities at its center.

These caveats and complexities are real and important, but they should not lead us to lose sight of the forest for the trees. Our negative rights not to be harmed are more extensive than our positive rights to recover when we benefit others. The asymmetry of harm and benefit may not be the only reason why, but it is an important reason and a common thread unifying a range of important phenomena.

2.  Autonomy and Asymmetry

For cost-benefit analysis, the harm-benefit asymmetry is a puzzle at best and irrational at worst. If avoiding a dollar’s worth of damage “is equivalent to providing a dollar’s worth of new goods or services,” then we ought to treat harms and benefits symmetrically.[66] However, if we take off the lenses of cost-benefit analysis, we can see the sense in the asymmetry. Harm is a morally freighted word. It is presumptively wrong to harm someone and presumptively bad to suffer harm. In most circumstances, it is not presumptively wrong to fail to benefit someone. Benefits are presumptively good things, but they are also often trivial good things, or good things we cannot put to good use. Harms impair essential conditions of human agency. Physical harms—death, disability, disease, and the like—rob us of normal and foundational powers of action. Physical harm comes close to being unconditionally bad.[67]

By contrast, few benefits are unconditionally good. Benefits enhance lives, but their power to do so usually depends greatly on the details of the life in question. Extraordinary visual-spatial processing skills, for example, are of great value to football quarterbacks and of little use to lawyers. Unusually low levels of anxiety may be indispensable to elite mountaineers and an impediment to more ordinary lines of work. Whether some benefit—great wealth, great musical talent, great athletic skill, or mathematical brilliance—plays a valuable role in someone’s life depends heavily on her aspirations and projects. Even great wealth is not an unalloyed good. Great wealth is necessary to major philanthropy, but it may impair the pursuit of authentic relationships. The capacity of wealth and its pursuit to get in the way of pursuing valuable ends should not be underestimated. It is well known that winning the lottery is anything but an unalloyed good.[68]

Harms and benefits stand in very different relation to autonomy because they stand in very different relation to our wills. Harms compromise our autonomy by impairing our normal powers of human agency. Benefits enhance our lives only if they are congruent with our wills. To thrust an unsought benefit upon someone and demand compensation from them for the value conferred is to impose upon them.[69] Unsought benefits stand in the same relation to our wills as harms do. They subject us to conditions which we have not chosen; they sever the link between our wishes, our wills, and our lives and enlist us in other people’s projects. If I play beautiful music outside your open bedroom window and then stick you with a bill for my services, I determine the use to which you must put some of your time and some of your money. You are presumptively entitled to determine those things, and your ability to do so is an important aspect of your autonomy.

The fact that both harms and obligations to benefit can undermine autonomy explains the asymmetry between our stringent obligation not to commit fraud and our permission not to volunteer useful information. Fraud is deception, and deception is wrong because it unjustifiably undermines autonomy. By manipulating the reasons available to those on whom it acts, fraud severs the link that normally exists between a person’s reason and their will. Fraud makes its victims the unwitting instruments of its perpetrators’ wills. A duty not to commit fraud is a duty not to undermine the autonomy of others in a particular and important way. By contrast, an obligation to volunteer information for the benefit of others, merely because it is beneficial to them, would be an imposition on our autonomy. We would be required to work for the benefit of others whether or not we chose to do so and whether or not we were compensated for doing so. A general obligation to volunteer information for the benefit of others would be a significant burden on our autonomy.

3.  Interests and Impairment

The claims that harms impair autonomy—and that the conferral of benefits does not necessarily enhance autonomy—presuppose an account of harm and benefit. The concept of a benefit, for its part, is broad, straightforward, and relatively uncontroversial. A benefit is an advantage, which promotes or enhances well-being.[70] In contrast, the philosophical literature on harm is divided between dueling conceptions. The dominant conception conceives of harm as a setback to an “interest,” with an interest being something in which someone has a “genuine stake.”[71] Harm so conceived is a comparative phenomenon, a worsening of one’s position. To be harmed is to have one’s well-being significantly diminished, either historically or counterfactually. One is either worse off than one was (the historical account), or one is worse off than one otherwise would have been (the counterfactual account). For example, a college football player with aspirations to a professional career is harmed historically if he is injured, loses his starting position to another player, and is subsequently cut from the team. He is harmed counterfactually if his professional aspirations are thwarted because he is never drafted.

A competing conception understands harms as any condition one would not desire to suffer because it impairs normal functioning.[72] The focus is on the condition or state itself, not on its relation to an antecedent or alternative condition. Suffering excruciating pain, for example, is harm—even if the alternative is death and even if you prefer agonizing pain to death. Being enslaved is harm whether or not one was born free. Core harms in this conception are conditions of impairment, conditions which compromise normal functioning. For example, blindness, is a harm for a human being because sight is a part of normal human functioning. This is true even if the person in question is born blind and so never suffered the loss of sight—never underwent any worsening of position.

The concept of an “impaired condition” is broad. Anything that can function normally can have its proper functioning impaired. Damage to a butterfly’s wings disturbs the functioning of the wings and harms the butterfly. Harm in this broad sense need not impair autonomy; many things that are not autonomous have functions that can be impaired. The core cases that concern law and morality—cases such as physical disabilities, broken, deformed and lost limbs, chronic pain, and serious developmental disabilities—constitute a narrower set of impaired conditions. In these core cases, basic powers of normal human agency are seriously compromised. The harms that matter most in law and morality rob people of normal and essential powers through which they shape their lives and their worlds in accordance with their wills.[73] The will looms large here because it is at the center of our understanding and experience of ourselves as agents. We draw upon our wills when we act. The exercise of our wills makes us aware that we are beings who can bring possibilities into existence by choosing to do so. For example, I can bring words into existence on a page by typing on a keyboard. Physical harms, chronic pain, and developmental disabilities deprive us of normal forms of mastery over ourselves, our experience, and some portions of the external world by driving a wedge between our wills and our lives. Pain, for instance, can thwart my control over my experience of the world. These harms thrust upon us “conditions that generate a significant chasm” between our wills and our experiences.[74]

4.  The Importance of Impairment

Both the interest and the impaired condition accounts can be mapped onto American law, but the “impaired condition” conception of harm fits the law of torts more precisely. Tort law distinguishes between a broad conception of tortious wrongdoing as conduct that invades “legally protected interests” (or rights), and a narrower conception of physical harm as the suffering of an impaired condition.[75] For example, the first Restatement of Torts defined bodily harm as “any impairment of the physical condition of another’s body or physical pain or illness.”[76] The second Restatement refined this conception. “Bodily harm” was defined as “any physical impairment of the condition of another’s body” and “an impairment of the physical condition of another’s body [exists] if the structure or function of any part of the other’s body is altered.”[77] The third Restatement now defines “physical harm” as “the physical impairment of the human body (‘bodily harm’) or of real property or tangible personal property . . . [such impairment] includes physical injury, illness, disease, impairment of bodily function, and death.[78]

Broken bones, severed limbs, disabilities of sight and hearing, diseased organs, and disfigured body parts all compromise the normal capacities through which we exert our wills. These capacities play central roles in normal human lives. We are denied our normal lives when we are seriously ill, disabled, or in serious. This is explicitly recognized in statutes and cases. Michigan’s codification of the standard common law rule in the automobile accident context, for example, defines “serious impairment of bodily function” to mean “an objectively manifested impairment of an important body function that affects the person’s general ability to lead his or her normal life.”[79] A body of case law grappling with the slowly unfolding consequences of exposure to asbestos overwhelmingly holds that identifiable subclinical damage to human cells will not support a tort claim.[80] “The threat of future harm, not yet realized, is not enough.[81] Functional impairment must be shown.[82] Without such impairment there is no physical harm even though there are very real financial and psychological costs imposed by subclinical cellular damage caused by exposure to asbestos.[83]

Because physical capacities play central roles in normal human lives, physical harm is the central case of harm under the impairedcondition conception.[84] Blindness is, for example, serious harm because sight is a normal human capacity, and its loss usually diminishes a person’s life. Being blind denies someone access to an important range of normal human activities. Other things being equal, a person whose sight is normal has access to a richer life than a blind person does. A broken leg is a serious harm because a person whose leg is broken is unable to engage in a range of normal activities, beginning with walking. A loss of a leg is a more serious harm than a broken leg, because the loss of a leg is permanent whereas a broken leg, properly treated, will heal.[85] On an impaired-condition conception, then, the gravity of harm is usually a function of the importance to the victim’s life of the capacity that the harm impairs and the duration of the impairment.

Physical impairments are almost always bad for those who suffer them, but not all harms are equally grave. A gangrenous limb, for example, is both a serious impairment in itself and a threat to the life of the person whose limb it is. Losing a gangrenous limb is also bad, even though the person whose limb is lopped off is better off than he would be if it were left attached. To live without a limb is to live with seriously diminished capacities of agency. On the impairment account, lesser harms are still harms. From the point of view of the interest account of harm, by contrast, lesser harms are not harms. They are benefits. The person whose gangrenous limb is lopped off is better off than she would have been had the limb been left in place. Severing her limb improves her position. And, economically speaking, lopping off the limb is a Pareto-superior move. Amputation is preferable to keeping the limb and letting the gangrene spread. Both of these observations are correct on their own terms. But the terms are deeply misleading. It is not a benefit to live without a limb. Loss of a limb is both disabling and disfiguring. We are in the domain of impairment, not the domain of improvement.

When harm is conceived of as an impaired condition—and physical impairment is considered the core case—harm delineates a comparatively narrow domain of special concern. Harm so conceived is much narrower than cost. Cost is any value given up in order to obtain some good. It encompasses any disadvantage, anything which diminishes well-being. Ordinary losses—athletic, financial, and romantic—are costs, but not harms.[86] Ordinary losses make their victims worse off than they would otherwise be, but they do not leave their victims with permanent physical or psychological damage. The prospect of loss to others does not usually give rise to strong reasons to avoid inflicting such loss. The prospect of harm does. A person is, after all, at liberty to beat a competitor out for a job by being better qualified, but she is not at liberty to break that competitor’s arm. In competitive circumstances, risk of loss is usually inseparable from the good that the competition seeks to realize. Races that cannot be lost are not worth winning, and markets in which firms cannot fail do not realize the benefits of economic competition. And, in sports, business and love, the risk of loss is accepted when the enterprise is taken up. Losses suffered in these arenas cannot usually be counted as harms. This is so even though it is not always worse to suffer harm than loss. Most of us would rather, for instance, break our pinkies than see our business bankrupted by a competitor. The point is that it is presumptively wrong to do harm, whereas it is not presumptively wrong to inflict loss. It is not presumptively wrong for one businessman to drive another out of business, fair and square, but it is presumptively wrong for one businessman to break another’s finger. Absent some further condition—such as a right to, or a legitimate expectation of, some benefit—losses are not harms.[87]

In short, harm’s special significance is a consequence of its intimate connection to autonomy. There is nothing special about harm from an efficiency perspective; harms are simply one kind of cost. Yet harm does have special significance in our ordinary moral thinking and in our law. To understand harm’s special significance, we need to step outside the framework of cost-benefit analysis and adopt a framework that takes our separateness and independence as persons as fundamental, and which understands us as agents who have a fundamental interest in authoring our own lives. Harm has special significance because harms compromise our autonomy by impairing our normal powers of human agency. Benefits, for their part, do not stand in the same relation to autonomy. Benefits enhance our lives only if they are congruent with our commitments. Unsought benefits imposed upon us diminish our autonomy by enlisting us in other people’s projects.

5.  Tying the Threads Together

The harm-benefit asymmetry manifests itself in differences in the stringency of our obligations. Our obligations not to harm others are more demanding than our obligations to benefit others. The safety and feasibility norms address a different problem, namely, the problem of how to trade safety off against other goods. The measure of their success is whether they register the disproportionate importance of avoiding harm in a persuasive way. To begin to answer that question we need to connect the priority of avoiding harm with the separateness of persons, and ask when benefits to some might justify imposing risks of harm on others. When we consider significant risks of serious harm, fairness forbids the unrestricted aggregation that is the hallmark of cost-benefit analysis. What it requires is that we compare the benefits of those who stand to gain to the burdens imposed on those who stand to lose.[88] Some gains—some benefits—are not comparable to serious harms. When serious harm is risked, something of comparable importance must sit on the benefit side of the scale. An example of T.M. Scanlon’s brings this out.[89] Scanlon supposes that a piece of transmitting equipment has toppled and pinned a television technician, who was helping to broadcast a live sporting event to which millions of viewers remain glued. The technician is in agonizing pain. The only way to save the technician’s life is to interrupt the broadcast for fifteen minutes. The game will not be over for another hour. Unrestricted cost-benefit analysis holds that, if enough people stand to be disappointed by the termination of a television show, terminating the life of a television technician may be preferable to terminating the broadcast of the show. The net benefit to all of the viewers (measured by what they would be willing to pay to have the broadcast continue) might easily exceed the net loss to the technician (measured by what he would be willing to pay to have the transmission interrupted).

Our moral sensibility balks at the conclusion that net social benefit is dispositive in this case. We take the distinction between persons seriously. Taking that distinction seriously brings issues of interpersonal fairness to the fore. Although the number of viewers may be vast, the harm to them is not morally comparable to the harm that the technician stands to suffer. No amount of inconvenience and disappointment distributed across a population of distinct persons sums to the moral equivalent of subjecting someone to unendurable pain. Consequently, we should not decide how to proceed by measuring the victim’s preference for having her agony alleviated in dollars and then comparing that sum to the price that the viewers would pay to have the broadcast continue. The cost to the technician and the benefit to the viewers are not substitutable at some ratio of exchange. The benefit to the viewers is, comparatively speaking, trivial, and the harm to the technician is devastating. Aggregating harms and benefits does not make moral sense when the harms and benefits are not comparable.

Taking the distinction between persons and the priority of avoiding harm seriously, and situating them within the larger philosophical framework where they are at home, puts us in a position to understand the logic at work in the safety and feasibility norms. Health and physical integrity are kinds of primary goods. Values, for their part, are plural and incommensurable. The point of protecting the essential conditions of agency for each person is to enable people to shape their own lives in accordance with their aspirations. Within a framework that prioritizes the protection of each person’s essential interests, the question of how to trade health or safety off against other goods requires making judgments of urgency (or need), not preference (or want).[90] Health and safety should only be sacrificed in order to promote some even more urgent interest. The safety and feasibility norms are ways of articulating the priority of avoiding harm and they embody judgments of comparable value—judgments about just what goods are important enough to justify imposing significant risk of irreparable and serious harm.

III.  Cost-justified, Feasible, and Safe Precaution

As we have seen, the “feasibility” and “safe level” standards of acceptable risk imposition are well defined and usefully understood in relation to the standard of cost-justified precaution.[91] The three standards identify distinct levels of permissible risk imposition. Normally, they stand in linear, vertical relation to one another.[92]

Cost-justified risk reduction. Among these three standards, the cost-justification standard tolerates the most risk. Cost-benefit analysis treats all costs and benefits as fungible at some ratio of exchange and holds that they should be traded off in a way which maximizes net benefit. In the context of accidental physical harm, the method usually focuses, more narrowly, on the costs and benefits of paying for and preventing accidents. Minimizing those combined costs maximizes the benefits extracted from the risky activities at issue. Cost-benefit analysis thus requires risks to be reduced to the point where the costs of further precaution exceed the benefit. If the marginal costs of eliminating significant risks exceed the marginal benefits, significant risks will continue to exist.

Feasible risk reduction. The feasibility standard tolerates less risk. Feasibility analysis looks to achieve the lowest level of risk practically attainable, not the level of risk that minimizes the combined costs of injuries and their prevention. Feasibility analysis requires the elimination of “significant” risks, when they can be eliminated without threatening the long-run health of the activity to which the risks belong. Significant risks remain only if their elimination would threaten the survival of the activity.

Safe level of risk imposition. The safe-level standard tolerates the least risk. Safety-based regulations require risk to be reduced to a point where no “significant risk” of devastating injury remains. Applying the safe-level standard therefore does not require any inquiry into the costs of risk reduction. All that it requires is a determination of the level at which the risk created by exposure to the regulated substance ceases to be significant.

The two standards of most interest to us—the safety and feasibility standards—employ a relatively well integrated set of concepts, and have their characteristic domains of application. The feasibility standard, for its part, is further broken down into technological and economic prongs. The legal regimes that the standards establish need to be understood in terms of these concepts. The regimes themselves need to be understood in relation to one another, in relation to the idea of cost-justified risk reduction, and in light of their usual domains of application.

A.  The “Safe” Level of Risk Imposition

The safe-level approach is adopted in some aspects of clean air, clean water, and pure food legislation, particularly regulation of toxic substances that may endanger public health. The Food Quality Protection Act of 1996 is one case in point.[93] Clean air statutes also incorporate safety-based regulation.[94] A provision of the Clean Air Act,[95] for example, focuses on cancer risks remaining after technology-based regulations for hazardous pollutants have been in effect for six years.[96] If a numerically defined level of cancer risk has not been achieved at that point, the EPA is directed to issue additional regulations that will “provide an ample margin of safety to protect public health.”[97] The regulatory aim behind these provisions is to “reduce lifetime excess cancer risks to the individual most exposed to emissions . . . to less than one in one million.”[98] Some residual risk thus survives safe-level regulation. Requiring that “lifetime excess cancer risks to the individual most exposed to emissions” be reduced “to less than one in one million” expresses a judgment of significance. A lifetime risk of cancer (from a regulated emission) that crosses the “one in one million” threshold crosses from the domain of insignificant risk into the domain of significant risk.[99]

The emphasis on protecting either those “most exposed” to risk or those most susceptible to it is a recurring theme in safety-based regulation. Clean water regulation supplies a closely related example: the court in Hercules, Inc. v. EPA insisted on especially stringent precautions against possible harm from toxins, even though the chance of that harm materializing could not be

estimated.[100] The 1972 amendments to the Federal Water Pollution Control Act[101] authorized health-based regulation of toxic effluents without consideration of “feasibility, achievability, practicability, economic impact, or cost,” and addressed standards for determining permissible discharge levels for such toxins.[102] EPA discharge standards, the court ruled, must provide an “ample margin of safety” and “protect against incompletely understood dangers to public health and the environment, in addition to well-known risks.”[103]

B.  Feasible Risk Reduction

Clean air and water regulation also makes use of the feasibility standard. The Clean Air Act, as amended in 1990, for example, provides that regulatory standards for hazardous air pollutants “shall require the maximum degree of reduction in emissions” that the EPA, “taking into consideration the cost of achieving such emission reduction,” determines to be “achievable.”[104] Feasibility is also the touchstone of the Occupational Safety and Health Act of 1970,[105] which created the Occupational Safety and Health Administration (“OSHA”), and it is in this context that it has received its most extensive application and judicial interpretation. As articulated by OSHA and the courts, the feasibility norm has acquired a specialized technical meaning. Nonetheless, it helps to recognize that this specialized legal meaning is analogous with the ordinary meaning of the word. In ordinary usage “feasible” means, roughly, “achievable.” In the remark quoted at the beginning of this Article, Paul Krugman used “feasible” to make the point that liberals do not need to claim that universal health insurance maximizes wealth or welfare, just that it is possible to provide universal health insurance and still have a healthy economy.[106]

Feasibility analysis, as practiced by OSHA, is governed by the same basic thought. Feasible risk regulation is risk regulation that does not destroy the valuable activity whose risks it seeks to reduce. That said, feasibility-based regulation has a more complex structure than safety-based regulation. Feasibility analysis requires the identification of “a significant [workplace] health risk,”[107] and an analysis of the feasibility of reducing that risk without crippling the activity that imposes the risk.[108] The cause of keeping ourselves oriented as we work our way through this thicket of legal regimes is best served by postponing detailed analysis of “significance” and first fleshing out the basic logic of “feasible risk reduction.”

1.  The Two Faces of Feasibility

The determination of whether it is feasible to reduce a risk without crippling the activity that imposes it has two aspects—a “technological” one and an “economic” one. Technological feasibility analysis asks how much we could reduce this risk if we single-mindedly set out to reduce it as much as possible.[109] Economic feasibility analysis asks what is the lowest level of risk that the risk-imposing activity can afford to achieve.[110] The aim of feasibility analysis is to protect “worker health and safety within the limits of economic possibility.”[111] “Congress itself defined the basic relationship between costs and benefits [when it enacted the Occupational Safety and Health Act of 1970 with its feasibility standard], by placing the ‘benefit’ of worker health above all other considerations save those making attainment of this ‘benefit’ unachievable.”[112] Feasibility analysis looks to achieve the lowest level of risk practically attainable.

2.  Technological Feasibility

The technological side of feasibility analysis asks, as matter of engineering technique, what the lowest level of risk achievable by a continuing activity is. Any limit set on risk—a “permissible exposure limit” (PEL) for a toxic substance, for example—must be technologically attainable.[113] Technological achievability, however, is not fixed by the outer limit of technological possibility at a given moment in time, because the most advanced techniques of risk control in place at a given moment in time may fall short of the frontier of what might be achieved. The frontier of technological feasibility is fixed by the engineering practice that might be achieved through a dogged commitment to feasible risk reduction. A regulatory agency promulgating a feasibility-based risk regulation may therefore specify an acceptable level of risk that is lower than the level attainable through the application of existing techniques, if the agency can reasonably predict that technical capability will advance sufficiently to make a lower level of risk imposition attainable within the time frame of the regulation.

In American Iron & Steel Institute v. Occupational Safety & Health Administration, for example, OSHA’s standard for coke oven emissions was upheld as technologically feasible even though “the most modern and clean coke oven battery operating” met the standard only one-third of the time.[114] Evidence of one-third compliance using less than all suitable technology—plus dramatic progress toward compliance at another plant after new engineering controls were implemented—showed sufficiently that the standard was not “impossible of attainment.”[115] The question was not what could be done at the moment, but “what the industry could achieve in an effort to best protect its . . . employees,” given a determination to exploit “technological potentialities.”[116] The court therefore approved OSHA’s reliance on “innovative technology currently in the experimental stage,”[117] and its faith in new techniques “looming over the horizon.”[118]

In United Steelworkers of America, AFL-CIO-CLC v. Marshall, Judge J. Skelly Wright gave the following summary of the concept of “technological feasibility”:

The oft-stated view of technological feasibility under the [Occupational Safety and Health] Act is that Congress meant the statute to be technology-forcing. This view means, at the very least, that OSHA can impose a standard which only the most technologically advanced plants in an industry have been able to achieve even if only in some of their operations some of the time. But under this view OSHA can also force industry to develop and diffuse new technology. At least where the agency gives industry a reasonable time to develop new technology, OSHA is not bound to the technological status quo. So long as it presents substantial evidence that companies acting vigorously and in good faith can develop the technology, OSHA can require industry to meet [Permissible Exposure Levels] never attained anywhere. . . .

As for [proof of] technological feasibility, we know that we cannot require of OSHA anything like certainty. Since ‘technology-forcing’ assumes the agency will make highly speculative projections about future technology, a standard is obviously not infeasible solely because OSHA has no hard evidence to show that the standard has been met. . . . OSHA’s duty is to show that modern technology has at least conceived some industrial strategies or devices which are likely to be capable of meeting the PEL and which the industries are generally capable of adopting.

Our view finds support in the statutory requirement that OSHA act according to the best available evidence. OSHA cannot let workers suffer while it awaits the Godot of scientific certainty.[119]

 The requirement of technological feasibility is, thus, stringent. The technological side of feasibility analysis determines the presumptively appropriate level of precaution by reference to the best that might be done, given an unstinting commitment to the goal of feasible risk reduction—not by reference to what is customarily done, nor even by reference to the best that is now done.

3.  Economic Feasibility

In Portland Cement Association v. Ruckelshaus, the court interpreted language in the Clean Air Act of 1970 requiring “a standard for emissions of air pollutants which reflects the degree of emission limitation achievable . . . taking into account the cost of achieving such reduction.”[120] It held that this language did not direct the EPA to undertake “a quantified cost-benefit analysis” in order to justify its air pollution standard for new or modified cement plants.[121] The EPA’s conclusion that the cement industry could absorb the cost of control devices without detriment to competition between cement and substitute products, even though some plants might have to close, sufficed to answer the “essential question” under the Act: “whether the mandated standards can be met by a particular industry for which they are set.”[122] Judgments of economic feasibility require “tak[ing] into account the costs,” but they do not require “cost-benefit analysis.”[123] Indeed, insofar as the criterion of cost-justified precaution requires less precaution than the criterion of economic feasibility does, the criterion of economic feasibility rejects the criterion of cost justification outright.

Provisions of the Clean Water Act that mandate pollution control to the extent “technologically and economically achievable” also illustrate the economic prong of feasibility-based regulation.[124] The Clean Water Act subjects water pollution sources to two different sorts of effluent limitations: those based on “the best practicable control technology currently available” (BPT),[125] and those based on “the best available technology economically achievable” (BAT).[126] The BPT standard generalizes “the best existing performance” in an industry—control practices in “exemplary plants”—despite an expectation of “economic hardship, including the closing of some plants.”[127] The BAT standards are more stringent. They require “a commitment of the maximum resources economically possible to the ultimate goal of eliminating all polluting discharges.”[128] Setting BPT standards involves “cost-benefit analysis,” but cost-benefit analysis is not part of BAT determinations.[129] In determining the economic achievability of a technology, “the EPA must consider the cost of meeting BAT limitations, but need not compare such cost with the benefits of effluent reduction.”[130]

For “economic feasibility” analyses, then, the ultimate question is not whether costs are outweighed by benefits, but whether the industry is able to bear the cost.[131] Economic feasibility regulation by OSHA means “protecting worker health and safety within the limits of economic possibility.”[132] Again, Judge Wright explains:

The most useful general judicial criteria for economic feasibility comes from Judge McGowan’s opinion in Industrial Union Dep’t, AFL-CIO v. Hodgson. . . . A standard is not infeasible simply because it is financially burdensome, or even because it threatens the survival of some companies within an industry:

Nor does the concept of economic feasibility necessarily guarantee the continued existence of individual employers. It would appear to be consistent with the purposes of the Act to envisage the economic demise of an employer who has lagged behind the rest of the industry in protecting the health and safety of employees and is consequently financially unable to comply with new standards as quickly as other employers.

A standard is feasible if it does not threaten ‘massive dislocation’ to, or imperil the existence of, the industry. No matter how initially frightening the projected total or annual costs of compliance appear, a court must examine those costs in relation to the financial health and profitability of the industry and the likely effect of such costs on unit consumer prices. . . . [T]he practical question is whether the standard threatens the competitive stability of an industry, or whether any intra-industry or inter-industry discrimination in the standard might wreck such stability or lead to undue concentration. . . .[133]

[A]s for [proof of] economic feasibility, OSHA must construct a reasonable estimate of compliance costs and demonstrate a reasonable likelihood that these costs will not threaten the existence or competitive structure of an industry, even if it does portend disaster for some marginal firms.[134]

In the consolidated American Textile cases, litigating cotton dust standards, both the District of Columbia Circuit and the Supreme Court upheld OSHA’s assessment of economic feasibility.[135] OSHA had concluded that “compliance with the standard [was] well within the financial capability” of the cotton industry.[136] The agency noted that “although some marginal employers may shut down rather than comply, the industry as a whole will not be threatened.[137] Both courts agreed that OSHA had shown that the industry would be able to absorb the projected costs.[138] According to the court of appeals, regulatory requirements remain economically feasible even though they “impose substantial costs on an industry . . . or . . . force some employers out of business,” as long as they are not “prohibitively expensive” and do not make “financial viability generally impossible.”[139] Controls on cotton dust fit “the plain meaning of the word ‘feasible,’” the Supreme Court wrote, given OSHA’s conclusion “that the industry will maintain long-term profitability and competitiveness.”[140]

OSHA makes the standards articulated by the courts more concrete in the course of applying them. Its assessment procedures approach the question of whether a particular standard of precaution will threaten the competitive stability of an industry by conducting an industry-by-industry analysis. The aim of that analysis is to determine the percentage of the industry’s revenues and profits that compliance will consume. One OSHA report explains the agency’s practice as follows:

[W]hile there is no hard and fast rule, in the absence of evidence to the contrary OSHA generally considers a standard economically feasible when the costs of compliance are less than one percent of revenues. . . . [P]otential impacts of such a small magnitude are unlikely to eliminate an industry or significantly alter its competitive structure particularly since most industries have at least some ability to raise prices to reflect increased costs. . . . There is an enormous variety of year-to-year events that could cause a one percent increase in a business’s costs, e.g., increasing fuel costs, an unusual one-time expense, changes in costs of materials, increased rents, increased taxes, etc.[141]

Thus, in a case where the costs of complying with a particular standard came to less than both 1 percent of an industry’s revenues and 10 percent of its profits, implementation of the standard did not threaten the competitive stability of the industry.[142] The logic here is instructive.[143] OSHA’s approach assumes that revenue and profits normally fluctuate within certain limits. If an industry is able to absorb fluctuations within certain limits without seeing its competitive stability undermined, then a regulatory standard that has an impact in the same range will not threaten an industry’s competitive stability.

Of course, not every standard necessary to eliminate significant risk falls into this sweet spot of acceptable impact. Where an industry’s compliance costs considerably exceed these thresholds, OSHA makes industry-by-industry determinations of whether complying with a particular standard will threaten the industry’s competitive stability. In these cases, the inquiry is centered on continued profitability. In analyzing the economic feasibility of a PEL of 1 μg/m3 and whether it would affect the electroplating industry, OSHA concluded that “the costs associated with such a PEL could alter the competitive structure of the industry.”[144] The cost of the standard came to 65% of profits, though only 2.7% of revenue.[145] After considering demand elasticity for electroplating, OSHA concluded that “a price increase that would assure continued profitability for the entire industry would require almost tripling the annual nominal price increase. . . . That would represent a significant real price increase that might not be passed forward, particularly by older and less profitable segments of the industry.”[146] Requiring a PEL of 1 μg/m3 might therefore make the activity of electroplating unprofitable. Making an industry unprofitable is, for OSHA, an unacceptable threat to its “competitive stability.”[147]

Under OSHA practice, then, the “economic feasibility” prong of feasibility analysis requires the reduction of significant risk up until the point where risk reduction threatens the competitive structure or competitive stability of an industry. Proposed risk reducing regulations reach the point at which they threaten the continued profitability of a business.

C.  Significant” Risk

Feasibility analysis, like safety analysis, requires the identification of significant risks of health injury.[148] The significance requirement receives its canonical exposition in Industrial Union Department, AFL-CIO v. American Petroleum Institute.[149] Writing for the Court, Justice Stevens agreed with the Fifth Circuit’s holding that:

[Section] 3(8) [of the Occupational Safety and Health Act of 1970] requires the Secretary to find, as a threshold matter, that the toxic substance in question [here, benzene] poses a significant health risk in the workplace and that a new, lower standard is therefore “reasonably necessary or appropriate to provide safe or healthful employment and places of employment.” Unless and until such a finding is made, it is not necessary to address the further question whether [the requirement that the risk be reduced as far as technologically and economically feasible is triggered.][150]

Justice Stevens thus rejected OSHA’s contention that no significance requirement was necessary:

If the purpose of the statute were to eliminate completely and with absolute certainty any risk of serious harm, we would agree that [OSHA’s approach] would be proper . . . . But we think it is clear that the statute was not designed to require employers to provide absolutely risk-free workplaces whenever it is technologically feasible to do so, so long as the cost is not great enough to destroy an entire industry. Rather, both the language and structure of the Act, as well as its legislative history, indicate that it was intended to require the elimination, as far as feasible, of significant risks of harm.

By empowering the Secretary to promulgate standards that are reasonably necessary or appropriate to provide safe or healthful employment and places of employment, the Act implies that, before promulgating any standard, the Secretary must make a finding that the workplaces in question are not safe. But safe is not the equivalent of risk-free. There are many activities that we engage in every daysuch as driving a car or even breathing city airthat entail some risk of accident or material health impairment; nevertheless, few people would consider these activities unsafe. Similarly, a workplace can hardly be considered unsafe unless it threatens the workers with a significant risk of harm.[151]

Therefore, before he can promulgate any permanent health or safety standard, the Secretary is required to make a threshold finding that a place of employment is unsafe because significant risks are present.

1.  The Significance of a Risk: Quantity and Quality

“Significance” is an underspecified term of art. We can begin to clarify it, however, by noting that some risk of accidental harm is the price of activity itself.[152] We cannot farm, build, drive, or fly without taking and imposing risks of devastating injury. We cannot help but eat and drink, yet eating and drinking expose us to risks of death and disease. We cannot help but travel, but traveling by whatever means we can devise—foot, car, horse, airplane, or rickshaw—puts both us and others in physical peril. Some risk is therefore unavoidable in two senses of the word. Some risk cannot be avoided without bringing activity to a halt, and some risk should not be avoided because it is better to bear the risks than to forego the activities that spawn them. Risks that cannot be eliminated without ceasing the activity that engenders them are both endemic, if slight, and the background against which all other risks arise. The fact that a low level of risk of devastating injury—the background level of risk—is an inescapable price of activity explains why a significance requirement must be introduced, implicitly or explicitly, into even the most stringent standards of risk regulation. Before we attempt to reduce a risk we must first conclude that it crosses the threshold that separates eliminable risks from ineliminable ones. We must decide if the risk in question crosses a threshold of significance.

“Significance,” thus, has much in common with the idea of “characteristic risk” found in common law strict liability doctrines. A “characteristic risk” of an activity is one whose long-run incidence is increased by the presence of the activity in the world. Increased incidence of drunken sailors stumbling around on shore leave is a characteristic risk of operating the Coast Guard.[153] Increased risk of inadvertent explosion is a characteristic risk of using dynamite in construction.[154] Similarly, increased risk of brown lung disease is a significant risk of milling cotton, increased risk of mesothelioma is a significant risk of occupational exposure to asbestos dust, and exposure to benzene in refining petroleum poses a significant risk of leukemia.[155] “Significance” in this sense has a pronounced quantitative dimension. It is a matter of the correlation between some form of harm and an activity. The flip side of this coin is that the elimination of “significant” risk is a matter of reducing the incidence of some harm. The 1990 amendments to the Clean Air Act, for example, aim to “reduce lifetime excess cancer risks to the individual most exposed to emissions . . . to less than one in one million.”[156]

Judgments of significance have an important quantitative aspect, but the concept of significance is not reducible to quantitative considerations. Judgments of significance are also inescapably evaluative. To be significant, a risk must ripen into serious harm—the kind of harm that severely compromises normal physical capacities. For example, occupational exposure to cotton dust can lead to byssinosis (commonly known as brown lung disease), a chronic, permanent disability resulting in reduced breathing capacity and premature death.[157]The relation of significance to serious harm builds qualitative evaluation into the concept of significance. The diseases and disabilities that the norms of safe and feasible precaution address deprive their victims of normal lifespans and normal capacities. The harms impair normal functioning in ways that cannot be repaired. The judgments of severity involved are inescapably evaluative because they measure the seriousness of harm against a baseline of normal life.

Moreover, significant risks are salient ones, and salience is a matter of standing out. Salient phenomena stand out in a contextagainst a background.[158] Salient risks are prominent risks, risks which jut out in the setting of the activity subject to regulatory scrutiny. Probability of harm can be expressed by a purely quantitative measure, but the importance of a particular probability of harm depends in part on the background against which that probability is framed. Even the purely quantitative criterion of significance employed by the 1990 amendments to the Clean Air Act operates against a background that fixes the acceptable level of risk. The salience of the risk of cancer addressed by those amendments depends on the background risk of cancer. Discussion of “excess cancer risks” presumes a preexisting risk of cancer—a risk independent of exposure to the particular emission being appraised. The Clean Air Act’s one-in-a-million threshold for “excess risk” thus defines an acceptable level of increased risk for a harm whose gravity we can largely agree upon, and of which there is a preexisting incidence.

Why settle on “one in a million” as the threshold separating acceptable increases in excess risk from unacceptable ones? Four reasons come readily to mind. First, that threshold defines a negligible level of risk, a level of risk that we might reasonably disregard entirely. Reducing a risk to the point where it might reasonably be disregarded entirely is, presumably, reducing it to the point where it is no longer significant. Second, we already face greater threats in our daily lives—for example, the annual risk of death by automobile accident is approximately 1 in 9,160,[159] and the annual risk of death from cancer is approximately 1 in 540.[160] Given these other threats, we may feel justifiably comfortable in entirely disregarding excess risks of cancer of less than one in a million—in treating them as functionally equivalent to no risk at all.[161] Third, we might choose to tolerate excess risks of cancer less than one in a million—but not risks greater than that—because the background risk of cancer is alarming, and we are eager not to see it increase. Fourth, “one in a million” has a natural prominence—a salience—as a measure of significance arbitrary in its exactitude but sensible in its general order of magnitude. Who would fix on one in 997,832?[162]

2.  Salience and the Significance of Context

The natural prominence of the “one-in-a-million” threshold as a test of significant risk can create the impression that the salience of a risk really is a quantitative matter. This is mistaken. Consider the phenomenon of sudden acceleration, which arose most recently in connection with cars manufactured by Toyota.[163] We reasonably expect that a car will not accelerate unexpectedly and uncontrollably. Against the background of that reasonable expectation, any perceptible association of sudden acceleration with particular vehicles is a salient, and unacceptable, increase in risk. The risk of gas tank explosions in automobile accidents—the subject of the famous Ford Pinto case—is also instructive, and perhaps richer.[164] Among the myriad risks of automobile accidents, the dangers of fire and explosion stand out. The explosive properties of gasoline make it especially dangerous. Most of us imagine that it is particularly horrible to be burned to death, and many of us may think it worse still to survive a terrible fire horribly disfigured. These judgments involve assessments of magnitude that might be expressed quantitatively: people might be able to rank injury by gasoline explosion on a scale with other possible injuries from automobile accidents, and we might be able to assign a number to the relative disvalue that they place on such injuries. But a judgment that the risks of gasoline tank failure are a significant risk of driving is both evaluative to its core and inherently comparative. And comparison cannot be made without attending to context, a point illustrated by the difference in significance of risks of gas tank explosions in motorcycles and cars, respectively.

The risks of gas tank explosions are probably greater in motorcycles than in cars, because the gas tanks (though smaller) are less protected against collision, and riders are both closer to and less protected from their gas tanks.[165] Let us suppose then, that motorcycle gas tanks are more dangerous to motorcyclists than sedan gas tanks are to sedan drivers and passengers. Does it follow that the risk of gas tank explosions is as significant for motorcycles as it is for passenger cars? It seems unlikely to me that it does. Even if gas tank explosions are equally frequent and more dangerous in motorcycles than in passenger cars, the risk of gas tank explosion is qualitatively more significant in passenger cars. The risks associated with motorcycle gas tanks are framed by the heightened risks characteristic of motorcycles. The relatively small size of motorcycles in comparison with cars and trucks and the exposed nature of riding on a motorcycle subject motorcyclists to a host of other substantial risks. Motorcyclists bear greater-than-normal risks of being crushed in collisions with other vehicles, greater-than-normal risks of being thrown from their cycles, and greater-than-normal risks of severe head trauma, to name just three. Risks of gasoline tank explosion do not stand out as especially salient—especially significant—in such company.

The heightened risks of gas tank explosion in sedans stand out more starkly because sedans are safer. Purchasers of subcompact family sedans seek a higher level of safety than do motorcycle buyers. They do not choose to forego the protections of a passenger compartment for themselves and their offspring in exchange for the thrills of immediate exposure to both road and machine. Implicit in the purchase of a subcompact family sedan is a desire for reasonably safe transportation, consistent with the constraints imposed by the fact that the car being purchased is a comparatively inexpensive subcompact. In this context, the risks of gas tank fires stand out, quite independent of any hidden flaw in the car. For people who are trying to keep their children safe, the risks of an automobile’s gas tank are especially salient. Gasoline explosions threaten horrible deaths, disfigurements, and terrible psychological trauma.[166] These characteristics make the risks of gas tank explosion in subcompact cars qualitatively significant in a way that risks from motorcycle gas tanks are not, even if the risks of motorcycle gas tanks are quantitatively much greater.[167]

The significance of a risk, then, is not simply a matter of quantity, understood as statistical probability and magnitude measured numerically. Significance depends on both gravity and salience. Determining the gravity of a risk requires evaluative and qualitative judgments—judgments about how much we should fear a particular kind of harm or harms, how much a particular harm impairs the pursuit of a normal life, how bad it would be to live with that harm, and so on. Determining the salience of a risk requires not just an appraisal of the risk’s numerical probability, but also an evaluation of how prominent the risk is in comparison to other risks of the activity responsible for the risk at issue.

IV.  SAFETY, FEASIBILITY, AND SIGNIFICANCE

These standards and concepts of safety and feasibility analysis constitute reasonably coherent, well-developed legal regimes. However, these concepts, along with the structure of safety and feasibility analysis, also raise three basic questions. First, when we push beyond the cost-justified level of safety, why should we eliminate only significant risks of serious physical harm? Why not eliminate all risks of physical harm? Second, why should we sometimes require the elimination of all significant risks of injury and other times require only the elimination of those significant risks whose elimination is feasible? Why are we prepared to shut down some activities that cannot be made safe, but not others? Third, what kind of connections are there between the priorities these standards place on avoiding harm and the harm-benefit asymmetry?

A.  Why Leave Insignificant Risks of Devastating Injury Untouched?

Safety-based risk regulation is both strikingly stringent and surprisingly lax. Both the 1990 amendments to the Clean Air Act and the Supreme Court’s opinion in American Petroleum make clear that the elimination of significant risk is not the same as the elimination of all risk.[168] So the “safe level” of risk is not the same as “no risk.” Second, safety-based regulation is all risk evaluation and no cost assessment. Significant risks must be reduced until they are insignificant—without regard to cost—but insignificant risks are tolerated, also without inquiring into the cost of eliminating them. As familiar as we are with cost-benefit analysis and its insistence on balancing costs and benefits so as to extract the greatest possible net benefit from risky but valuable activities, we can hardly help but be struck by the fact that categorical judgments of significance push risk reduction beyond the point of maximal benefit, economically conceived. But the doctrine’s lenient side is as striking as its stringent side; it leaves insignificant risks entirely untouched. Why should a standard that forbids trading safety against costs above some threshold level of risk have a threshold to begin with? Even insignificant risks of devastating injury are risks of devastating harm. A lifetime cancer risk of less than one in a million is still a risk of a devastating disease, and devastating disease, when it materializes, wreaks havoc in someone’s life. Even an insignificant risk of devastating disease can end a life prematurely and traumatically. At best, being afflicted with a devastating disease severely impairs life, foreclosing the pursuit of certain activities and ways of life, seriously hampering the pursuit of others, and often leaving us with enduring, agonizing pain and suffering. Why should we tolerate any risk of such harm?

An answer to that question lies in the fundamentals of the predicament with which the law of accidents must grapple. We each have various aims, ends, and aspirations to pursue over the course of our lives. We may each expect, with decent luck, to pursue our aims and aspirations over the course of normal life spans. In order to pursue our aims and aspirations effectively over the course of complete lives, however, we need both the freedom to act (liberty) and physical integrity (freedom from physical harm, or security). Like Rawls’s “primary goods,” liberty and security are things that we each need if we are to realize any aims or aspirations.[169] Liberty is essential because we can neither survive, nor realize much of anything of value, unless we are free to engage in a wide range of activities. But security is equally essential. Physical injury can end our lives prematurely or leave us permanently impaired in ways that prevent us from pursuing many valuable ends and aspirations. Indeed, even injuries that do not kill or permanently harm us may disrupt our lives in ways that utterly upend our life plans.

Our predicament is that liberty and security conflict. Perfect safety is unattainable. Risk of physical harm—diminished security—is the byproduct of action. Diminished liberty is the price of increased security. We cannot farm, build, drive, fly, eat and drink, or mill cotton and refine benzene without taking and imposing risks of devastating injury. Foregoing all activity would itself be a short path to death, and even if death could somehow be avoided, foregoing all activity would cripple the pursuit of our aims and aspirations as surely and severely as devastating physical injury does. A world in which no one moves is a world in which few, if any, aims, ends, and aspirations can be realized, and few, if any, lives can be led. We must therefore bear the level of risk that this Article earlier called the background level of risk.[170] Background risks are worth bearing because eliminating background risks does even more harm to our ability to lead the lives we wish to lead than does bearing those risks. This is true even though the risks are sure to result in some devastating injuries. The background level of risk must be accepted despite the fact that level results in some devastating injuries, because some risk of devastating injury is the price of activity and activity is worth having. Without a “significance” requirement, one essential condition for leading a worthwhile life—the freedom to act in the world—would be destroyed in the name of another essential condition, namely, safety. The elimination of all discernible risk requires the elimination of all discernible activity. And the elimination of all discernible activity is a cure worse than the disease it treats.

B.  Why Exclude Costs Entirely?

The threshold of significance is the first distinctive feature of safe-level analysis. The second is its disregard of the costs of reducing risks to the point of insignificance. Consider, for example, the determination in the Food Quality Protection Act of 1996 that tolerances for pesticide residue must be set at a level that is safe, where “safe” means that “there is a reasonable certainty that no harm will result from aggregate exposure to the pesticide chemical residue, including all anticipated dietary exposures and all other exposures for which there is reliable information.”[171] This determination expresses a legislative judgment that the costs of reducing pesticide residues to safe levels not only may be disregarded entirely, but must be disregarded entirely. Structurally, then, safety-based regulation is radically different from cost-benefit analysis. To determine an appropriate level of safety, cost-benefit analysis insists on balancing all relevant considerations (as it conceives them) in a comprehensive calculus. Safety-based regulation insists on excluding an entire class of arguably relevant reasons—namely, costs—from the exercise of fixing an acceptable level of risk.[172]

Why—or in what contexts—should we disregard entirely the costs of eliminating significant risks, pursuing risk reduction until we have cut the risk to the point at which it is no longer significant? In answering this question, it helps to realize that the safety norm defines an attractive social world so far as risks of physical injury are concerned. The risks that it tolerates are ones with a probability so low that we may reasonably ignore them, even though someone will be unfortunate enough to be harmed by them. A social world sufficiently safe that each of us might reasonably expect to live a life of normal length—secure in the knowledge that we can reasonably expect that our lives will not be cut short by death or devastating injury—is an immensely attractive social world. Indeed, we might very well believe that an ideally just society would generally succeed in realizing the safety norm.

In our non-ideal world, the interaction of the safety and feasibility norms suggests a slightly different normative commitment. The basic premise of the safety norm is that we should not sacrifice such a world unless we stand to gain something of comparably great value. We should, therefore, eliminate significant risks of injury when the costs of doing so are not comparable to the devastation that significant risks are sure to inflict. This deceptively simple answer suggests a division of labor between safety and feasibility-based risk regulation. Safety-based risk regulation is appropriate when the costs of reducing risks of devastating injury to the point at which they are no longer significant are not comparable to the costs of bearing those risks of devastating injury. Feasibility-based risk reduction is appropriate where the costs of reducing risks of devastating injury to the point at which they are no longer significant are comparable to the cost of bearing those risks of devastating injury.

C.  Comparability and Safety-Based Risk Regulation

The harms threatened by the risks that are subject to safety-based regulation are a particular sort of irreparable injury. The costs of unsafe food, air, and water include irreparable injury to health, and health is an essential condition of effective human agency—a kind of primary good. What about the benefits of bearing risks to health, or the flip side of the coin, the costs of reducing such risks? How should we characterize them? Pesticide residue on our crops is the byproduct of the pursuit of greater agricultural productivity. Toxins in our air and water are byproducts of ordinary, economically productive activities. The enactment of safety-based regulatory statutes expresses a categorical judgment that the costs these productive activities must bear in order to eliminate significant risks of devastating harm are acceptable. We need not inquire into the costs of eliminating significant risk on a case-by-case basis, and we need not attend to the marginal balance of cost and benefit in any particular case, because the benefits of significant risk are simply not comparable to the incidence of harm to human health that is their price. The safety-based regime in place for the regulation of the risks of pesticide residues on agricultural products, for example, expresses the conclusion that no amount of increased agricultural productivity can justify imposing a significant risk of devastating disease. The benefits of more risk—the increased yield in crops harvested per acre planted and the like—are not the kind of benefits that can justify the increased incidence of devastating injury that is their price.

Why might a reasonable legislature come to the conclusion that the benefits of increased agricultural productivity cannot justify imposing a significant risk of devastating injury? In part, because a reasonable legislature may reject the central idea of unrestricted cost-benefit analysis: that all goods are commensurable, fungible at some ratio of exchange. Laws like the Food Quality Protection Act of 1996 reject this assumption of fungibility. They single out health for special protection. Safety-based statutes assume that health—like the physical integrity of the person—is a primary good, something that persons need in order to realize their aims and aspirations over the course of a normal life span, whatever those aims and aspirations may be.[173] Health has a special urgency. It is part of a package of goods that are essential conditions of normally effective agency, and it takes priority over lesser, inessential goods. The harm-benefit asymmetry reflects this priority.

Within this framework, foregoing the benefits of the increased agricultural productivity that might be won by tolerating more risk than the safe-level standard tolerates might be justified by showing that increased productivity does not meet a need as urgent as health. Conversely, showing that satisfying the safe-level standard would prevent some citizens from securing adequate nutrition, and that adequate nutrition for all might be secured by tolerating more risk, would show that increased productivity did meet a need as urgent as health.

1.  Contingency and Comparability

A hierarchical view of human interests is one central piece of safety-based risk regulation, but not the whole of it. Individually and collectively, people exercise their agency by investing it in activities and projects. They thereby acquire more particular interests. In determining the appropriate level of safety, we must decide how important various investments of human agency are. Tacitly, safety-based risk regulation rests on particular historically and socially contingent facts, and on particular historically and socially contingent assessments about the importance of various interests. The Food Quality Protection Act of 1996, for example, rests implicitly on the claim that more yield per acre of crop planted is not a good able to be compared to a significant risk of irreparable health injury. Why? Because health is, for each of us, an essential condition of effective agency, whereas the benefits of increasing the yield of crop per acre are not—for us, here and now—measured in the attainment of an equally essential condition of effective agency. The benefit of increased agricultural productivity is simply increased wealth, and the wealth obtained is not an essential condition of anyone’s agency. The benefits of increased agricultural productivity do not meet comparably urgent needs. We should not, therefore, treat risks to health and yield per acre as commensurable goods and let maximum overall benefit fix the proper balance between them. Were we poorer, matters might well be different. The benefit of increased agricultural productivity might be measured in our ability to provide adequate nutrition to each member of our society. Adequate nutrition is an essential condition of effective agency, one comparable to health in its urgency. Contingent social facts thus make the benefits of increased agricultural productivity not comparable to significant health risks.

The same combination of a hierarchical conception of human interests with historically and socially contingent facts is capable of explaining and justifying the application of safety-based risk regulation to air and water pollution. Breathing and drinking, like eating, are unavoidable activities. Breathing air and drinking water should not put our health in significant peril unless the cost of eliminating that peril threatens our agency in some comparable way. In an affluent society, the cost of eliminating significant health risks to the water we drink and the air we breathe is not comparable to the cost of bearing such risk. In poorer or less technologically advanced societies, it might be impossible to reduce the risks of air and water pollution to an insignificant level without seriously impairing basic agricultural production, or other essential productive activities. Impairing essential productive activities might threaten the health of those whose health we are attempting to protect more than the pollution that we are seeking to eliminate.[174] Safety-based risk regulation, in short, is justified when eliminating significant risks of devastating injury does not compromise, in a comparable way, a need or a good that is as important as health or physical integrity. Health is a need, not a want, and it should be compromised only in order to obtain some sufficiently valuable benefit.

When are burdens comparable? When bearing the precaution necessary to reduce a particular class of significant risk of devastating injury to the point of insignificance is a cure worse than the disease of bearing the burden of devastating injury that is the price of significant risk. Consider, for example, the significance requirement itself, and the burden of eliminating all risk including insignificant risk. The price of eliminating all risk is the cessation of all activity. The elimination of all activity burdens an essential condition of agency—the freedom to act—even more than insignificant risk of devastating injury burdens the physical integrity of the person, another essential condition of human agency. The burden of eliminating all risks of devastating injury, for example, is greater than the burden of bearing insignificant risks, because the elimination of all risks requires the elimination of all activity.

Comparability with respect to effects on urgent human interests thus marks the point at which further reductions in risk may no longer be desirable. Within federal risk regulation, feasibility-based regulation of risks replaces safety-based regulation when the burdens of reducing significant risk pose comparable threats to effective human agency. When are burdens to major, productive economic activities—the kind governed by both safety and feasibility-based risk regulation—comparable to significant risks of devastating injury? Feasibility-based risk regulation is constructed around an answer to that question. Burdens to ordinary, productive economic activities—activities like milling cotton, refining petroleum, and growing crops—are comparable to significant risks of devastating injury when they threaten the long-run flourishing of those activities. Feasibility-based risk regulation supposes that the good realized by major, productive activities is comparable to, and generally greater than, significant risk of devastating injury. Conversely, feasibility analysis supposes that reducing these risks beyond the point of efficient precaution is justified because the costs of such precaution are dispersed across consumers, employers, shareholders, and so on. The members of those classes are in the position of the viewers of Scanlon’s sporting competition.[175] The costs they must bear under a norm of feasible precaution are not comparable to the harms to workers that feasible precaution avoids.

D.  Comparable Value and Feasible Risk Reduction

Workplace risks are the primary domain of feasibility-based risk regulation; OSHA is the primary practitioner of feasibility analysis; and workers are the primary beneficiaries of the feasibility standard. As practiced by OSHA, feasibility-based risk regulation presumes that the productive economic activities to which it applies are sufficiently valuable that shutting them down would cause greater hardship than will bearing the exposure to their significant risks of serious harm. Feasibility-based risk reduction supposes that allowing major productive activities to continue even when their continuation involves imposing significant risks of devastating injury is, at least, the lesser of two evils. For example, shutting down major productive activities such as milling cotton and refining petroleum would work a greater long-term hardship to the workers who bear the brunt of the activities’ risks than asking those workers to accept significant risks of devastating injury does. The burdens to workers are the natural focal point for appraising relative hardships, because workers are both the principal victims of the activities’ risks and the principal beneficiaries of feasibility-based risk regulation. Because their lives and their health are endangered, and because increased safety competes with their job security, their claims have a special urgency and priority.

There is a strong resemblance between the view that feasibility-based risk regulation takes of the significant risks of major, productive activities, and the view that safety-based risk regulation takes of insignificant risk. Feasibility analysis tolerates significant risk when it is the price of particular major, productive activities. Safety-based risk regulation tolerates insignificant risk as the price of activity itself. Even under the best of circumstances, safety-based risk regulation supposes that a background level of risk of devastating physical injury must be accepted, because the cost of eliminating that risk is the prohibition of all activity, and the prohibition of all activity is a cure worse than the disease. The elimination of all risk of devastating physical injury paralyzes our lives, impairing our pursuit of valuable ends and activities more than the background level of risk itself does. Feasibility analysis applies these ideas in a more particular way. It holds that we are justified in accepting a level of risk greater than the background level of risk—a significant level of risk—when our only alternative is to shut down a valuable activity. The implicit judgment here is that shutting down the particular activities to which the feasibility norm applies does not further the fundamental interests of those that the activity most endangers but sets those interests back.

1.  Feasibility Analysis as Practiced by OSHA

OSHA standards quoted in American Textile nicely illustrate the application of feasibility analysis in both its technological and economic aspects, and the relation of feasible risk reduction to safety-based risk reduction. Cotton dust is the primary cause of byssinosis or “brown lung disease,” a serious, potentially disabling disease; because exposure to cotton dust is the primary cause of brown lung disease, the disease is “a distinct occupational hazard associated with cotton mills.”[176] At the time of American Textile, an estimated 100,000 current and former cotton workers suffered from byssinosis, with about 35,000—one in twelve in the industry—having the most severe grade.[177] To combat the epidemic, OSHA concluded that an upper limit of 0.2 mg of dust per cubic meter, or 200 μg/m3, should be used to define the PEL for exposure to cotton dust over the course of an eight-hour workday.[178] “Although recognizing that permitted levels of exposure to cotton dust would still cause some byssinosis, OSHA nevertheless rejected . . . a 100 μg/m3 PEL because it was not within the ‘technological capabilities of the industry.’”[179] Even the best attainable level—the technologically feasible level of 200 μg/m3was in some cases economically infeasible, and so levels as high as 750 μg/m3 were thus accepted for weaving and slashing—one activity within the enterprise of milling cotton—because lower levels could not be achieved even with massive expenditures by the industry.[180]

The basic criterion of comparability employed by feasibility analysis is a localized and more relaxed application of the criterion employed by safety analysis. Safety analysis views the shutting down of all activity as a burden sufficient to justify bearing insignificant risk of devastating injury from any given activity. Feasibility analysis considers the crippling of major productive activities in our market economy as a burden sufficient to justify bearing significant risk of devastating injury from such activities. When it is technologically impossible to reduce some risk of an industrial activity, the only way to eliminate the risk is to eliminate the activity. When it is economically infeasible to do so, technologically feasible riskreducing measures threaten the profitability of the activity and therefore call its long-term survival into doubt.

There are (at least) two different points of view from which the impact of shutting down significant productive activities in a market economy might be appraised. One is that of those whom feasible risk reduction seeks to protect—namely, representative workers. From this perspective, the claim that shutting down the activity is a cure worse than the disease asserts that a representative worker would be done more harm by the cessation of the activity and loss of position than they would be by bearing a significant risk of serious, debilitating harm. For anyone who is not independently wealthy, a job is a primary good in its own right. The loss of that good might very well inflict more injury on their lives than continuing to work under significant threat of serious and irreparable physical harm. The counter-argument here, of course, is that just how bad it is to lose one job depends on just how hard it is to land another. Feasibility analysis does not engage in this kind of opportunity cost analysis, however, which suggests that we should search for another line of argument. Before we do so, we should note the other point of view from which the impact of shutting down significant productive activities might be assessed. That point of view is not that of those most imperiled by the activities, but the point of view of the rest of us: those of us who reap the benefits of milling cotton and refining petroleum without having to bear the serious health risks of those activities. The question from this point of view is whether the rest of us can do without these activities. Controversially, feasibility analysis supposes that we cannot.

2.  Justifying Feasible Risk Reduction

Courts have had relatively little to say about the justification for the feasibility standard. Features of the practice, however, prompt the following thoughts. First, the major, productive economic activities whose long-run flourishing feasibility-based risk regulation accepts as more important than the elimination of significant risks of devastating injury are more than net beneficial. We cannot really entertain the possibility of living without those activities. Life as we know it really does depend on refining petroleum. That our dependence on petroleum (or cotton) is historically contingent and transient does not diminish petroleum’s present importance. If the price of eliminating their “significant” risks is the elimination of the activities themselves, then the significant risks of these activities are risks that we cannot imagine avoiding. Second, the major productive activities to which feasibility analysis applies are not relevantly distinguishable from each other. The reasons that we have for putting up with the significant risks imposed by refining petroleum are the same reasons that we have for putting up with the significant risks of milling cotton. The case for shutting down one major productive activity is therefore a case for shutting down all similar activities. That price is too high to pay for the elimination of significant risk.

One claim implicit in the first point is that contingent social facts—accidents of history, if you like—can embed themselves so deeply in the structure of our social life that what once might never have taken root can now only be uprooted at enormous cost. We can readily imagine social worlds without cotton clothing or petroleum products. We know that such social worlds have existed in the past, and we expect a social world without petroleum products to exist at some point in the future. For now, however, avoiding these activities is not a plausible option. Shutting down the activity of refining petroleum, for example, is essentially unthinkable. Petroleum products are knit so tightly into the fabric of our daily lives that we cannot simply decide to do without them.

The second idea applies a test of generalization and makes a claim about the outcome of that test. This criterion parallels and repeats, in a more localized manner, an important part of the argument for tolerating insignificant risks of devastating physical injury. Suppose that we chose to stop milling cotton or refining petroleum because these activities cannot be conducted without imposing significant risks of devastating injury. Fairness would then require us to stop all similar productive activities—all major, productive activities that cannot be conducted without imposing significant risks of serious impairment.[181] If milling cotton and refining petroleum are typical of the class of productive activities to which feasibility analysis applies, this result is unacceptable. Perhaps the life prospects of those most endangered by cotton milling would be better if we eliminated that activity and no other class of persons would suffer a worse hardship than those most endangered by cotton milling now do. Perhaps the same is true if we ceased refining petroleum (although I doubt it). But the more activities we add to the list, the less plausible the claim is that we are avoiding greater threats to effective agency in exchange for lesser threats.

It is, in short, eminently reasonable to believe that shutting down most of the major productive activities in our economy would work more harm than bearing the significant risks of serious harm that these activities impose. And it is unreasonable to think that we can live without major productive activities. To return to the first of the two perspectives mentioned earlier, shutting down most of the major productive activities in our economy almost certainly would not create more favorable conditions for those employed by the activities (and most exposed to their risks) to exercise their autonomy.[182] Working is both a primary good essential for the exercise of agency, and a way in which people realize the ends and values that make autonomy something worth having.

V.  THE SENSE IN SAFETY AND FEASIBILItY ANALYSIS

Cost-benefit analysis aspires to mimic the market, and the market treats everything, good or bad, as fungible at some ratio of exchange. In conceptualizing matters this way, cost-benefit analysis is starkly at odds with our ordinary moral intuitions. The health and physical integrity of our persons are not goods that we are inclined to regard as fungible with, say, fine jewels and expensive wines. Desperation aside, no one sells parts of their physical persons, and we would surely think that there was something wrong with someone who was prepared to part with a limb to pay for a luxury good.[183] Health and safety are needs, and needs have priority over mere wants. These convictions are controversial, but they are also widely shared by people who consider themselves politically liberal. Unsurprisingly, these statutory standards were the product of liberal law reform in full flower and they rest on a political morality that is liberal in the philosophical sense. That political morality supposes that the fundamental role of the state and, therefore, of the legal system, is not to promote social welfare, but to secure for every citizen the basic conditions for each citizen to pursue their own good—their own happiness—as they understand it.

This kind of view is neither welfarist nor consequentialist. It takes consequences into account in designing institutions and rights, but it does not take consequences in an end state of the world to be the sole or master value. In its most powerful contemporary form, this kind of view “takes as basic not the value of the state of affairs that an action or policy would lead to but rather the justifiability of [the] action or policy” to those that it governs.[184] Its project is to devise laws and institutions which protect fundamental individual interests, especially freedom. It supposes that, in general, the best way to promote well-being is to leave it to individuals to pursue happiness as they see fit. The central value of the liberal tradition is not welfare, but freedom. The primary role of legal and political institutions, therefore, is not to promote social welfare, but to construct a framework in which the essential interests of each person are protected, and reasonably favorable conditions for people to lead their own lives are established.

Within a framework which takes our separateness and independence as persons to be fundamental, and which understands persons as agents who have a fundamental interest in authoring their own lives, harm has a special significance and its avoidance has a special priority. Serious harms—death, disability, disease, and the like—compromise a foundational condition of effective human agency. Impairing basic powers of human agency cripples the pursuit of a wide range of human ends and aspirations, and denies normal human lives to those whose powers are impaired. The imposition of physical harm is bad for those harmed no matter what particular aspirations and commitments they happen to have. Matters are different with respect to most benefits. Benefit, like happiness, is mostly for each of us to pursue as best we can. Each of us is presumptively the best judge of our own good and it is independently important that we choose our own good and author our own lives, even if we are not likely to choose as well as some benign despot might. Leading our own lives is an essential aspect of autonomy.

Harm’s special priority—in both our ordinary moral thinking and in our legal system—thus makes sense within a liberal philosophical framework. The question, then, is whether the safety and feasibility norms are plausible articulations of that priority. The burden of this Article has been to show that they are. First, the significance requirement found in both safety and feasibility-based risk regulation is warranted because some harm is unavoidable. The fact that freedom of action and freedom from harm conflict is an intractable feature of the human condition. Some risk of physical harm is the inescapable byproduct of action. The fact that a low level of risk of devastating injury (the background level of risk) is an inevitable price of activity explains why a significance requirement must be introduced, implicitly or explicitly, into even the most stringent standards of risk regulation. Before we attempt to reduce a risk we must first conclude that it crosses the threshold that separates eliminable risks from ineliminable ones. Without a significance requirement, safety-based risk regulation would be self-defeating. One essential condition for leading a worthwhile life would be destroyed in the name of another essential condition.

From the vantage point of a theory that is concerned with securing for each person the conditions necessary to lead a decent and independent life, safety-based risk regulation is a first-best ideal. If the safety standard were fully realized, every member of society would be in a positon to expect that their lives would not be cut short or crippled by devastating injury. Some risk of devastating injury would remain, but the only risks remaining would be those required by the fact that activities as we know them always impose a low but irreducible level of risk of devastating harm. The best reading of our norms of risk regulation does not go quite this far. On that reading the application safety norm is justified when eliminating significant risks of devastating injury does not compromise in a comparable way a condition of human agency which is as important as health or physical integrity. Health is a need, not a want, and it should be compromised only in order to meet another comparably urgent need. From a perspective that takes needs as its touchstone and urgency as its metric of comparison, the stringent “safe level” prescriptions of the Food Quality Protection Act of 1996 are sound in principle. Requiring that tolerances for pesticide residue on food products be set at a level at which, “there is a reasonable certainty that no harm will result from aggregate exposure to the pesticide chemical residue, including all anticipated dietary exposures and all other exposures for which there is reliable information,”[185] even in light of the special susceptibility of infants and children to harm from toxic substances,[186] is eminently reasonable. The harms being guarded against devastate people’s lives. Insisting on this kind of stringent precaution against these harms is reasonable unless attaining this level of safety will impose some burden comparable to a significant risk of devastating physical injury. Depressing agricultural productivity to the point of threatening malnutrition would be a comparable burden.

Feasibility-based regulation of risks of devastating injury replaces safety-based regulation when the burdens of reducing significant risk are comparable to the risks themselves. When are burdens to major, productive economic activities—the kind governed by both safety- and feasibility-based risk regulation—comparable to significant risks of devastating injury? Feasibility-based risk regulation answers that question by saying that burdens to ordinary, productive economic activities—like milling cotton, refining petroleum, and growing crops—are comparable to significant risks of devastating injury when the burden of the precautions necessary to reduce significant risks to the point of insignificance threaten the long-run flourishing of those activities. Those who depend upon the industries for their livelihoods are likely to lose more from the loss of their jobs than they gain from the elimination of its risks. And the rest of us cannot live without the activities, and must therefore accept their risks. This, too, is a plausible position. And insofar as it is, a reasonable legislature is free to do as Congress has and to enact feasibility-based risk regulation. Cost-benefit analysis is not the only game in town, and cost-justified precaution is not the only plausible standard of precaution.

 

 

 


[*] *. William T. Dalessi Professor of Law and Philosophy, USC Gould School of Law. For helpful conversation and comments on earlier drafts, I am grateful to Scott Altman, Mehrsa Baradaran, Hanoch Dagan, David Driesen, David Fagundes, Catherine Fisk, Ron Garet, Andrew Guzman, Lisa Heinzerling, Scott Hershovitz, Aziz Huq, Renee Jones, Mark Kelman, Ed Kleinbard, Doug Kysar, Saul Levmore, Ed McCaffery, Eduardo Peñalver, Rick Pildes, Ariel Porat, Eric Posner, Bob Rasmussen, Betsy Rosenblatt, Peter Schuck, Cathy Sharkey, Jeremy Sheff, Seana Shiffrin, Ken Simons, Dov Waisman, Gary Watson, Katrina Wyman, and Fred Yen for comments. I am also grateful to workshop audiences at Boston College Law School, UC Irvine School of Law, UCLA School of Law, USC Gould School of Law, and Tel Aviv University Buchmann Faculty of Law, and for the opportunities to present earlier versions of the paper at the 2015 North American Workshop on Private Law Theory in Toronto, to the Oxford-Girona-Genoa Seminar in Legal Theory, and to a meeting of the New York City Tort Theory Group. My view of the legal standards discussed in this Article has been deeply shaped by conversations with Lewis Sargentich. I am indebted to Jacob Agi, Daniel Gherardi, Leora Kelman, Janet Olsen, and Misa Scharfen for research assistance.

 [1]. Paul Krugman, Mornings in Blue America, N.Y. Times (Mar. 27, 2015), https://nyti.ms/
2pOZffh.

 [2]. Jeff Plungis, With Autonomous Cars, How Safe is Safe Enough?, Consumer Rep. (Feb. 28, 2017), https://www.consumerreports.org/autonomous-driving/with-autonomous-cars-how-safe-is-safe-enough (“Consumer Reports supports any new technology that advances the needs and interests of consumers, but at CR, we’re always going to make safety our priority.”).

 [3]. See infra Part III.B.

 [4]. Jonathan S. Masur & Eric A. Posner, Against Feasibility Analysis, 77 U. Chi. L. Rev. 657, 707, 709 (2010). For criticism, see David M. Driesen, Two Cheers for Feasible Regulation: A Modest Response to Masur and Posner, 35 Harv. Envtl L. Rev. 313, 313–16 (2011).

 [5]. Cost-benefit analysis is phrased in different ways, including “cost/benefit analysis” and “CBA.”

 [6]. Barbara H. Fried, The Limits of a Nonconsequentialist Approach to Torts, 18 Legal Theory 231, 231 (2012).

 [7]. Cass R. Sunstein, Adm’r, Office of Info. and Regulatory Affairs, Humanizing Cost-Benefit Analysis, Remarks at American University’s Washington College of Law Administrative Law Review Conference (Feb. 17, 2010), https://obamawhitehouse.archives.gov/sites/default/files/omb/assets/
inforeg/cost_benefit_analysis_02172010.pdf [hereinafter Sunstein, Humanizing Cost-Benefit Analysis]. See also Cass R. Sunstein, The Cost-Benefit State: The Future of Regulatory Protection ix, 19 (2002); Cass R. Sunstein, Is Cost-Benefit Analysis for Everyone?, 53 Admin. L. Rev. 299, 300 (2001) (“[I]t would be premature to say that CBA has received the kind of social consensus now commanded by economic incentives and deregulation of airlines, trucking and railroads. Like Judge Williams, I believe that CBA should command such a consensus, at least as a presumption, and that the presumption in favor of CBA should operate regardless of political commitments.”); Cass R. Sunstein, The Real World of Cost-Benefit Analysis: Thirty-Six Questions (and Almost as Many Answers), 114 Colum. L. Rev. 167, 170–71 (2014) [hereinafter Sunstein, The Real World]; Cass R. Sunstein, Thanks, Justice Scalia, for the Cost-Benefit State, Bloomberg View (July 7, 2015), http://www.bloombergview.com/view/articles/2015-07-07/thanks-justice-scalia-for-the-cost-benefit-state (praising the Supreme Court’s decision in Michigan v. EPA “as a ringing endorsement of cost-benefit analysis by government agencies.”).

 [8]. See Cass R. Sunstein, Risk and Reason: Safety, Law, and the Environment 6–7 (2002); Sunstein, The Real World, supra note 7, at 170 (“While serving as OIRA Administrator, I helped to implement Executive Order 13,563, ‘Improving Regulation and Regulatory Review,’ an exceedingly important document that places a high premium on analysis of costs and benefits. . . . Under Executive Order 13,563, agencies may proceed only if the benefits justify the costs and only if the chosen approach maximizes net benefits (unless the law requires otherwise).”).

 [9]. See Michigan v. EPA, 135 S. Ct. 2699 (2015).

 [10]. See infra note 26 and accompanying text.

 [11]. Welfarism holds that human well-being is the only end worth pursuing in itself, and that everything else matters only insofar as it contributes to or detracts from well-being. See Louis Kaplow & Steven Shavell, Fairness Versus Welfare 5 n.8 (2002). It assumes both that welfare is the touchstone of economic analysis and that welfare is the only ultimate value. See, e.g., id. at 465. Most proponents of cost-benefit analysis identify it as welfarist. See, e.g., Peter Schuck, Why Government Fails So Often 45 (2014) (citing Kaplow & Shavell, supra) (“CBA is a welfarist decision-making tool, focusing on the actual consequences of policies for human well-being.”); Michael A. Livermore & Richard L. Revesz, Rethinking Health-Based Environmental Standards and Cost-Benefit Analysis, 89 N.Y.U. L. Rev. 1184, 1190 (2014) (“Cost-benefit analysis . . . places both costs and benefits along a common metric and supports the standard that maximizes net benefits (the difference between benefits and costs). As practiced in the United States . . . cost-benefit analysis is grounded on a welfare economic conception of social good . . . .” ).

 [12]. Rahul Kumar, Contractualism on the Shoal of Aggregation, in Reasons and Recognition: Essays on the Philosophy of T.M. Scanlon 129, 150 (R. Jay Wallace et al. eds., 2011) (quoting Christine Korsgaard, The Reasons We Can Share: An Attack on the Distinction Between Agent-Relative and Agent-Neutral Values, 10 Soc. Phil. & Pol’y 24, 24­–25 (1993)). Arthur Ripstein, Private Wrongs (2016) is an excellent example of a deontological theory that takes what we owe to each other to be the central concern of the political morality of tort law. Masur and Posner characterize deontology by saying “the deontologist believes that acts should be evaluated on the basis of their own quality—for example, one should not (presumptively) lie even when lying has good consequences.” Masur & Posner, supra note 4, at 707. Just what Masur and Posner have in mind when they refer to the “qualities of acts” in this way is deeply obscure. The focus of the remark on the acts in themselves is, however, mistaken and misleading. Deontology focuses on the relations among persons, not on acts in themselves. Lying is presumptively wrong because it is a presumptively objectionable way for persons to treat one another. Fraud, like force, is an assault on autonomy. By deceiving its victims about the reasons that they have to act, fraud makes their wills the unwitting instruments of the wrongdoer’s will. This is a profoundly objectionable way for one person to treat another.

 [13]. For criticism of the idea that welfare is a master value and argument that values are irreducibly plural, see T.M. Scanlon, What We Owe to Each Other 1–108 (1998).

 [14]. See 127 Hours (Warner Bros. Pictures 2010).

 [15]. Michael Livermore and Richard Revesz, supra note 11, at 1265, refer to what I call “safe-level” analysis as “health-based analysis.” I shall sometimes refer to the “safe-level” standard as the “safety” standard.

 [16]. It is debatable whether this relation is necessary. Arguably, there are circumstances where it is not cost-justified to engage in an activity in the first place and where the activity is also governed by feasibility analysis. In such a circumstance, feasible precaution will be less protective of safety than cost-justified precaution. None of the circumstances discussed in this Article fit this template. Examples that might fit the template involve freely chosen but very risky activities. Some people might argue that it is foolish to engage in some such activities (e.g., in “free solo” rock climbing). At the same time, it will be true that the risks of such activities cannot be reduced to insignificance because that would destroy the value of the activity.

 [17]. Food Quality Protection Act of 1996, Pub. L. No. 104-170, 110 Stat. 1489 (codified as amended at 7 U.S.C. §§ 136–136y and in scattered sections of 21 U.S.C. (2012)). See also, e.g., 42 U.S.C. § 7545(k)(2)(C) (demonstrating that clean air statutes can also incorporate safety-based regulation).

 [18]. 21 U.S.C. § 346a(b)(2)(A).

 [19]. Id.

 [20]. See id. § 346a(b)(2)(C).

 [21]. Efficient precaution is taken when the marginal cost of the next increment of precaution would exceed its marginal benefit (i.e., when a dollar more in precaution would yield less than a dollar’s worth of harm avoided).

 [22]. 42 U.S.C. § 7412(d)(2). This requirement is part of the 1990 Amendments to the Clean Air Act. Feasible risk reduction is a statutory standard in the Occupational Safety and Health Act of 1970, and it is in this context that it has received its most extensive application and articulation. See infra note 105 and accompanying text.

 [23]. Robert Solow, Reply, Defending Cost-Benefit Analysis: Replies to Steven Kelman, Regulation, Mar.–Apr. 1981, at 39, 40. Solow’s is one of several comments responding to Steven Kelman, Cost-Benefit Analysis: An Ethical Critique, Regulation, Jan.–Feb. 1981, at 33. This debate between Kelman and Solow is helpfully reviewed in Douglas MacLean, Cost-Benefit Analysis and Procedural Values, 16 Analyse & Kritik 166, 166–68, 171­–72 (1994).

 [24]. Robert Cooter & Thomas Ulen, Law and Economics 237 (6th ed. 2016).

 [25]. Schuck, supra note 11, at 45.

 [26]. See Michigan v. EPA, 135 S. Ct. 2699, 2707–08 (2015). See also Lisa Heinzerling, The Power Canons, 58 Wm. & Mary L. Rev. 1933, 1963–66 (2017). But see generally Amy Sinden, A “Cost-Benefit State”? Reports of Its Birth Have Been Greatly Exaggerated, 46 Envtl. L. Rep. 10,993 (2016) (arguing that recent case law does not embrace cost-benefit analysis to the extent commonly assumed). Michigan v. EPA embraces the proposition that when an agency charged with administering a statute interprets an ambiguous provision to permit the agency not to consider costs before deciding to regulate, the agency will likely lose because ignoring costs is irrational, and impermissible absent specific Congressional authorization to do so. Michigan v. EPA, 135 S. Ct. at 2707–08. See also MetLife, Inc. v. Fin. Stability Oversight Council, 177 F. Supp. 3d 219, 239–42 (D.D.C. 2016) (citing Michigan v. EPA, 135 S. Ct. at 2705–07, 2709–10, in holding that the FSOC must consider cost when making a determination of a systematically important financial institution—in other words, when determining that a financial institution is “too big to fail,” and therefore subject to heightened government oversight.).

 [27]. Orthodox cost-benefit analysis embodies the Kaldor-Hicks or potential Pareto-superiority criterion of efficiency. That criterion maximizes net benefit. See Matthew D. Adler, Well-Being and Fair Distribution: Beyond Cost-Benefit Analysis 98–99 (2012) (defining Kaldor-Hicks efficiency); Matthew D. Adler, Cost-Benefit Analysis, in 1 Encyclopedia of Law and Society: American and Global Perspectives 304, 304–06 (David S. Clark ed., 2007). In the context of health and safety regulation, orthodox cost-benefit analysis recommends monetizing all of the costs and all of the benefits of a regulation in order to compute net benefit. Heterodox forms of cost-benefit analysis make various allowances and adjustments. See, e.g., Matthew D. Adler & Eric A. Posner, New Foundations of Cost-Benefit Analysis 129–30 (2006).

 [28]. The proposition that it is irrational to act in ways which do not maximize net benefit is a piece of the thesis of Kaplow & Shavell, supra note 11, at 15–17. In a representative passage, they write “[u]nder any method of evaluating social policy that accords positive weight to a notion of fairness, there must exist situations in which all individuals will be made worse off.” Id. at xviii. Maximizing net benefit makes it possible for everyone to be better off than they would be in a world with less net value. There is more value to go around. Some of the time, it should be possible to distribute a share of that increased value to everyone.

 [29]. See, e.g., Schuck, supra note 11, at 48–49; Robert H. Frank, Why Is Cost-Benefit Analysis So Controversial?, 29 J. Legal Stud. 913, 913 (2000) (noting that many find it “hard to imagine” that anyone could disagree with the “commonsensical” principle that we should take only those actions whose benefits exceed their costs). Another proponent of cost-benefit analysis is eager to repudiate “reductionist utilitarianism,” and concedes that it is not easy “to put dollar values on noneconomic benefits,” but defends cost-benefit analysis and its commitment to pricing as “an effort to find some common measure for things that are not easily comparable.” Doing so is a pragmatic necessity “when, in the real world, choice must be made.” James Delong, Reply, Defending Cost-Benefit Analysis: Replies to Steven Kelman, Regulation, Mar.–Apr. 1981, at 39, 39.

 [30]. As has long been recognized. See Guido Calabresi, The Costs of Accidents: A Legal and Economic Analysis 205–08 (1970).

 [31]. Thomas C. Schelling, The Life You Save May Be Your Own, in Choice and Consequence 113, 113–14 (1984).

 [32]. Id. at 115. See also Gary T. Schwartz, The Myth of the Ford Pinto Case, 43 Rutgers L. Rev. 1013, 1025–26 (1991).

 [33]. See, e.g., Sunstein, Humanizing Cost-Benefit Analysis, supra note 7.

 [34]. See Schwartz, supra note 32, at 1020.

 [35]. Harold Demsetz, Professor Michelman’s Unnecessary and Futile Search for the Philosopher’s Touchstone, 24 Nomos 41, 44 (1982).

 [36]. Immanuel Kant, Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals 42 (Mary Gregor & Jens Timmermann eds. & trans., Cambridge Univ. Press 1998) (1785) (emphasis added). Rawls explains that the priority of the basic liberties rests in part on the premise that not all interests are fungible at some ratio of exchange. John Rawls, The Priority of the Basic Liberties, in Justice as Fairness: A Restatement 104, 105 (2001).

 [37]. Only two of “ten major environmental regulatory statutes enacted in the 1960s, 1970s and 1980s . . . expressly authorize the balancing of benefits and costs for core agency actions.” Jonathan Cannon, The Sounds of Silence: Cost-Benefit Canons in Entergy Corp. v. Riverkeeper, Inc., 34 Harv. Envtl. L. Rev. 425, 426 (2010).

 [38]. Exec. Order No. 12,291, 3 C.F.R. 127 (1981 Comp.) (revoked 1993). The courts have long held that the major environmental and occupational safety statutes forbid consideration of cost. In 2001, a unanimous Supreme Court held that the EPA “may not consider implementation costs” in setting ambient air quality standards under the Clean Air Act. Whitman v. Am. Trucking Ass’ns, 531 U.S. 457, 486 (2001). Writing for the court, Justice Scalia observed that “[w]ere it not for the hundreds of pages of briefing respondents have submitted on the issue, one would have thought it fairly clear that this text does not permit the EPA to consider costs in setting standards. . . . The EPA . . . is to identify the maximum airborne concentration of a pollutant that the public health can tolerate, decrease the concentration to provide an ‘adequate’ margin of safety, and set the standard at that level.” Id. at 465. Entergy Corp. v. Riverkeeper, Inc., 556 U.S. 208 (2009), may represent a slight retreat from this position. See Cannon, supra note 37, at 443–52.

 [39]. See, e.g., Alan Schwartz, Proposals for Products Liability Reform: A Theoretical Synthesis, 97 Yale L.J. 353, 386–88 (1988) [hereinafter Schwartz, Proposals]. See also Alan Schwartz, The Case Against Strict Liability, 60 Fordham L. Rev. 819, 820, 824 (1992).

 [40]. See, e.g., Schwartz, Proposals, supra note 39, at 384–85.

 [41]. Green v. Smith & Nephew AHP, Inc., 629 N.W.2d 727 (Wis. 2001).

 [42]. Keeton et al., Tort and Accident Law 975–76 (4th ed. 2004). See also Green, 629 N.W.2d at 732 (summarizing the facts of Ms. Green’s case).

 [43]. The outcome under the risk-utility test depends greatly on whether that test is applied with foresight or hindsight. The trend is to apply the test with foresight. For an example of a case with virtually identical facts where the court refused to apply the expectation test and refused to impose liability under the risk-utility test, see Morson v. Superior Court, 109 Cal. Rptr. 2d 343, 355–59 (Ct. App. 2001).

 [44]. Green, 629 N.W.2d at 738.

 [45]. The Green opinion would have been better if the court had discussed just what kind of expectation was disappointed by the product failure. Not every consumer expectation is reasonable. On the one hand, some expectations are mere wishful thinking. It would, for example, be wishful thinking to expect that no user would ever have an allergic reaction to a product. Idiosyncratic reactions exist. A one-in-a-billion susceptibility to illness does not impugn a product’s safety under the expectation test. We take the one-in-a-billion reaction to reflect a rare sensitivity on the part of the victim. What is surprising and disappointing about latex gloves is that so many users (5 to 17%) suffer severe harm. On, the other hand, it asks too much to expect consumers to form expectations about underlying mechanisms of possible product malfunction. Green would not have been in a position to say, “At the time of use, I expected that wearing gloves containing high levels of latex proteins would not exacerbate a user’s prior susceptibility to allergic reaction.” The Green court agreed with the defendant that “most consumers . . . generally do not have expectations about . . . technical or mechanical design aspects of the product.” It disagreed as to whether such expectations are necessary. Id. at 741–42. What it did find necessary was a secure and reasonable expectation about product performance. Id. at 739. See also Robert E. Keeton et al., Teacher’s Manual to Accompany Tort and Accident Law: Cases and Materials 20-1 to
-4 (4th ed. 2005).

 [46]. The term “statistical lives” was coined by Schelling, supra note 31, at 115. Schelling distinguished statistical lives from “identified” ones. Identified lives are actual persons who will live if certain steps are taken and die if they are not. See id. Statistical lives are abstract lives; they are the lives that will be saved down the road if some precaution is taken, or some safety program is implemented. Statistical lives are not identifiable at the time a precaution is taken, and may remain unidentifiable even after a precaution has been implemented and has saved lives. The phenomenon had been recognized before Schelling named it. See Guido Calabresi, The Decision for Accidents: An Approach to Nonfault Allocation of Costs, 78 Harv. L. Rev. 713, 716 (1965). For valuable discussion, see Charles Fried, An Anatomy of Values 207­–33 (1970); Johann Frick, Contractualism and Social Risk, 43 Phil. & Pub. Aff. 175, 181, 212–18 (2015); Kenneth W. Simons, Statistical Knowledge Deconstructed, 92 B.U. L. Rev. 1, 8–9 & n.12 (2012). See also Dan Brock & Daniel Wikler, Ethical Challenges in Long-Term Funding for HIV/AIDS, 28 Health Aff. 1666, 1671–72 (2009). See generally I. Glenn Cohen, Norman Daniels & Nir Eyal, Identified Versus Statistical Lives: An Interdisciplinary Perspective (2015).

 [47]. The questions raised by the distinction between “statistical” and “identified” lives in the rescue context are multiple and difficult. For one thing, if we suppose that even the best of precautions will not prevent all accidents, it may be eminently rational in even a cost-benefit sense to commit ourselves in advance to rescue practices which look extravagant at the time we undertake them. For another, contra Schelling, supra note 31, at 114–15, the distinction between identified and statistical lives may make a major moral difference. Obligations may be owed to actual persons, but not to theoretical constructs. See Frick, supra note 46, at 213–18. These complexities are beyond the scope of this Article.

 [48]. Rescues give the question of appropriate precaution a particular posture. The question is not what risk some people may impose on others, but what costs—including risks of death—rescuers may reasonably take upon themselves to save the lives of others. The important common law case Eckert v. Long Island Railroad Co., 43 N.Y. 502, 505–06 (1871), has this posture, too, with the Eckert court’s analysis of whether the rescue was prudent appearing to have been governed by a norm of possibility or feasibility.

 [49]. Philip Caputo, A Rumor of War, at xv (1977). I owe the Caputo example to Douglas MacLean, supra note 23, at 172. A more recent example can be found in the 1993 Battle of Mogadishu, when the United States sent soldiers to rescue the crews of downed Black Hawk helicopters notwithstanding the enormous risk involved; two soldiers were posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor—the highest military honor in the United States—for sacrificing their own lives in the attempt. See generally Mark Bowden, Black Hawk Down: A Story of Modern War (1999); Black Hawk Down (Revolution Studios 2001).

 [50]. See The 33 (Warner Bros. Pictures 2015).

 [51]. Vincent v. Lake Erie Transp. Co., 124 N.W. 221, 221–22 (Minn. 1910).

 [52]. Id.

 [53]. See Schelling, supra note 31, at 113–14.

 [54]. Here, cost-benefit analysis inherits the weakness of utilitarianism, its parent philosophy. For the pertinent criticism of utilitarianism, see John Rawls, A Theory of Justice 24–29 (rev. ed. 1999).

 [55]. See Joseph Raz, The Nature of Rights, in The Morality of Freedom 165, 166 (1986); T.M. Scanlon, Rights, Goals and Fairness, in The Difficulty of Tolerance: Essays in Political Philosophy 26, 34 (2003); Judith Thomson, The Realm of Rights 22–24 (1990).

 [56]. John Broome, Fairness, 91 Proc. Aristotelian Soc’y 87, 95 (1990–91). See also Frick, supra note 46, at 185–86; Dov A. Waisman, Reasonable Precaution for the Individual, 88 St. John’s L. Rev. 653, 659–61 (2014); Kenneth W. Simons, Tort Negligence, Cost-Benefit Analysis, and Tradeoffs: A Closer Look at the Controversy, 41 Loy. L.A. L. Rev. 1171, 1208–14 (2008).

 [57]. This implicates an entire position in political philosophy, one which holds that political institutions and practices must be justifiable to those they govern. See generally Rawls, supra note 54. The view has been given further articulation in the writings of others. See, e.g., Thomas Nagel, Equality and Partiality 22–32, 120–21 (1991); T.M. Scanlon, Contractualism and Utilitarianism, in The Difficulty of Tolerance: Essays in Political Philosophy 124, 139–50 (2003). It now marches under the banner of “contractualism.” A number of writers have made important contributions extending this approach to problems of risk. See generally, e.g., Rahul Kumar, Contractualism and the Roots of Responsibility, in The Nature of Moral Responsibility: New Essays 251 (Randolph Clarke et al. eds., 2015) [hereinafter Kumar, Contractualism]; James Lenman, Contractualism and Risk Imposition, 7 Pol., Phil. & Econ. 99 (2008); Frick, supra note 46. There is vigorous debate over whether contractualism can adequately address the imposition of risks of serious harm and death. Elizabeth Ashford and Barbara Fried have argued that it cannot. See generally Elizabeth Ashford, The Demandingness of Scanlon’s Contractualism, 113 Ethics 273 (2003); Barbara H. Fried, Can Contractualism Save Us from Aggregation?, 16 J. Ethics 39 (2012). Aaron James, Johann Frick, Rahul Kumar, and Dov Waisman have argued that it can. See generally Aaron James, Contractualism’s (Not So) Slippery Slope, 18 Legal Theory 263 (2012); Rahul Kumar, Risking and Wronging, 43 Phil. & Pub. Aff. 27 (2015) [hereinafter Kumar, Risking]; Dov Waisman, Equity and Feasibility Regulation, 50 U. Rich. L. Rev. 1263 (2016); Waisman, supra note 56. I believe that “ex ante contractualism” as developed by James, Frick, Kumar, and Waisman is a powerful framework for analyzing risk. I shall deploy an ex ante contractualist framework in this Article, but I shall not attempt to develop the philosophical side of ex ante contractualism’s approach to risk.

 [58]. This is clearest in the case of relatively pure forms of utilitarianism. See Rawls, supra note 54, at 23–24 (noting that under classical utilitarianism there is “no reason in principle why . . . the violation of the liberty of a few might not be made right by the greater good shared by many.”).

 [59]. Wendy T. Gordon, Of Harms and Benefits: Torts, Restitution, and Intellectual Property, 21 J. Legal Stud. 449, 451 (1992).

 [60]. For example, if I pollute your water when working on my own property, I am likely to be liable in nuisance for the harm that I do. By contrast, if I purify your water in the course of purifying my own, my unjust enrichment claim is likely to fail. Businesses can normally “free ride” off of the positive externalities of other business without doing any legal wrong. A story, popular in property circles, about Disneyland and Disney World is illustrative. When Disney built Disneyland, it acquired just enough land for its theme park. The park conferred a major windfall on neighboring landowners and businesses. Lured by Disneyland, customers came from all over the world, and the value of neighboring land soared. Several decades later, when Disney built Disney World, it purchased much more land than it needed for its theme park. The strategy worked, but imperfectly. Disney kept more of the total value added by its theme park, but the park’s positive externalities also expanded into a larger geographic area. See Richard A. Epstein, A Conceptual Approach to Zoning: What’s Wrong with Euclid, 5 N.Y.U. Envtl. L.J. 277, 289 (1996). “Rescue cases” afford another important example. In the course of performing a rescue a rescuer may inflict lesser harm to avoid greater harm, but people may not inflict harm merely in order to confer benefit. For perceptive discussion of this example see Seana Shiffrin, Harm and Its Moral Significance, 18 Legal Theory 357, 363–65 (2012). See also, e.g., Leo Katz, Ill-Gotten Gains: Evasion, Blackmail, Fraud and Kindred Puzzles of the Law 197–203 (1996) (discussing interesting and related asymmetries in the rules of praise and blame).

 [61]. “If A saw that B was about to be struck on the head by a flowerpot thrown from a tenth-story window, and A knew that B was unaware of the impending catastrophe and also knew that he could save B with a shout, yet he did nothing and as a result B was killed, still, A’s inaction, though gratuitous (there was no risk or other nontrivial cost to A) and even reprehensible, would not be actionable.” Stockberger v. United States, 332 F.3d 479, 480 (7th Cir. 2003) (Posner, J.).

 [62]. See, e.g., Scott Hershovitz, Two Models of Tort (and Takings), 92 Va. L. Rev. 1147, 1174–75 (2006); Saul Levmore, Explaining Restitution, 71 Va. L. Rev. 65, 71 (1985) (“[T]he legal remedies available to victims of harms are far superior to those enjoyed by analogous providers of nonbargained benefits.”).

 [63]. Abraham Bell & Gideon Parchomovsky, Givings, 111 Yale L.J. 547, 554 (2001).

 [64]. See generally, e.g., Oren Bar-Gill & Ariel Porat, Harm Benefit Interactions, 16 Am. L. & Econ. Rev. 86 (2013); Ariel Porat, Private Production of Public Goods: Liability for Unrequested Benefits, 108 Mich. L. Rev. 189 (2009) (arguing that liability for unrequested benefits often enables production of public goods which would not otherwise be created). Levmore, supra note 62, at 67–68, is particularly focused on the comparatively feeble state of the law of unjust enrichment in comparison with the law of torts. The economic theory of property law has had significant success in arguing that property law responds to the problem of positive externalities. See, e.g., Harold Demsetz, Toward a Theory of Property Rights, 57 Am. Econ. Rev. 347, 348 (1967) (“A primary function of property rights is that of guiding incentives to achieve a greater internalization of externalities.”). Economic explanations for other instances of the asymmetry have also been offered. See generally, e.g., William M. Landes & Richard A. Posner, Salvors, Finders, Good Samaritans, and Other Rescuers: An Economic Study of Law and Altruism, 7 J. Legal Stud. 83 (1978).

 [65]. Shiffrin, supra note 60, at 361 (describing this as the “first [and] principal” harm-benefit asymmetry.) There are two subordinate asymmetries. First, lesser harm may be inflicted to avoid greater harm but harm may not be inflicted simply in order to bestow benefit. If you are drowning, I may break your arm to save your life. I may not, however, knock you unconscious in order to operate on you and endow you with encyclopedic knowledge of the works of Shakespeare, or the athletic prowess of Michael Jordan. Second, there is an asymmetry between what others may do and what a person may do to herself. Others may not knock someone out to perform an operation which will endow the victim with great knowledge or skill, but someone may themselves elect to submit to such a procedure. Id. at 363–66. Other complications or qualifications are sometimes necessary. For example, some failures to benefit are harms because the victim has a right to the benefit. If USC fails to pay my salary, its failure to benefit me is a harm because I have a right to be paid.

 [66]. Gordon, supra note 59, at 451.

 [67]. In some cases, the physical harm suffered may avoid a greater physical harm. In others, the harm may enable the realization of some value or good to whose realization the harmed person is deeply committed. These are exceptional cases, however, and even in these cases the harm suffered is still, in itself, bad. A broken arm may be worth suffering if it avoids death by drowning, but it is still a harm.

 [68]. See, e.g., Philip Brickman et al., Lottery Winners and Accident Victims: Is Happiness Relative?, 36 J. Personality & Soc. Psychol. 917, 926 (1978).

 [69]. See, e.g., Lee Anne Fennell, Forcings, 114 Colum. L. Rev. 1297, 1300 (2014) (discussing forced ownership of property by the government).

 [70]. See Shiffrin, supra note 60, at 358.

 [71]. Joel Feinberg, Social Philosophy 26 (1973) (“A humanly inflicted harm is conceived as the violation of one of a person’s interests, an injury to something in which he has a genuine stake.”). The idea of a setback can be developed either counterfactually or historically. Feinberg develops it counterfactually. See Joel Feinberg, Wrongful Life and the Counterfactual Element in Harming, in Freedom and Fulfillment 3, 4 (1992). Hershovitz draws upon and modifies Feinberg’s account of harm. See Hershovitz, supra note 62, at 1161–67.

 [72]. Preeminently, this conception is advanced by Thomson, supra note 55, at 262–68, and by Shiffrin, supra note 60, at 383. See also generally Judith Jarvis Thomson, More on the Metaphysics of Harm, 82 Phil. & Phenomenological Res. 436 (2011). In The Metaphysics of Harm, Hanser develops a third conception of harm. That conception takes harms to be events that injure basic human goods, not the ensuing conditions of impairment. Basic goods are “those [goods] the possession of which makes possible the achievement of a wide variety of the potential components of a reasonably happy life. . . . [B]asic goods . . . include certain fairly general physical and mental powers or abilities. The power of sight, for example, is a basic good for human beings.” Matthew Hanser, The Metaphysics of Harm, 77 Phil. & Phenomenological Res. 421, 440–41 (2008).

 [73]. See Shiffrin, supra note 60, at 383. In sharpening the concept of harm in this way Shiffrin is, in part, criticizing Raz’s conception as too broad. See id. at 389 n.48. By contrast, she is further articulating Thomson’s conception, though Thomson might not accept the sharpening. See, e.g., Thomson, supra note 55, at 227–48, 250–51, 253–71; Thomson, supra note 72, at 439, 443 (defending the thesis that harm identifies a state or condition that it is non-comparatively bad to be in).

 [74]. Seana Shiffrin, Wrongful Life, Procreative Responsibility, and the Significance of Harm, 5 Legal Theory 117, 123 (1999).

 [75]. See, e.g., Restatement (Second) of Torts §§ 7, 15 (Am. Law Inst. 1965).

 [76]. Restatement (First) of Torts § 15 (Am. Law Inst. 1934).

 [77]. Restatement (Second) of Torts § 15 cmt. a. Section 7 distinguishes “bodily harm” from “injury,” with “injury” covering cases in which a “legally protected interest” is invaded, but no harm is done. A harmless trespass would be an injury in this sense. Id. § 7.

 [78]. Restatement (Third) of Torts: Liability for Physical and Emotional Harm § 4 (Am. Law Inst. 2010). The Restatement (Third) extends the idea of harm as an impaired condition to include the impairment of property. The philosophical conception of harm is concerned only with harm to persons. The question of how to account for the importance of property damage to tort is peripheral to the concerns of this Article. Offhand, the easiest way to make the extension would appear to be to draw upon the fact that we have rights in property. Those rights give rise to claims against others that they not damage our property, and make impairment of our property a harm to us.

 [79]. Mich. Comp. Laws. § 500.3135(5) (2017). “A person remains subject to tort liability for noneconomic loss caused by his or her ownership, maintenance, or use of a motor vehicle only if the injured person has suffered death, serious impairment of body function, or permanent serious disfigurement.” Id. § 500.3135(1). A recent Michigan Supreme Court case, McCormick v. Carrier, 795 N.W.2d 517, 521–23 (Mich. 2010), applied this concept of impairment in an instructive manner. Plaintiff’s foot was broken and bruised when defendant’s truck ran it over. The foot healed, though it continued to ache occasionally. With the healed foot the plaintiff could perform the same work he performed prior to the injury but the post-injury foot hampered his fishing and other recreational activities. The court found impairment because plaintiff’s ability to lead his normal life was adversely affected.

 [80]. Pleural thickening, a condition in which the lining of the lung thickens, may be the most common form of cellular damage which does not, by itself, count as physical harm. Because the harms of asbestos exposure are progressive, pleural thickening is a harbinger of asbestosis and mesothelioma. See D.T.D. Hughes, Lung Disease Related to Exposure to Asbestos, 14 Med. Sci. & L. 147, 148–49 (1974).             

 [81]. Burns v. Jaquays Mining Corp., 752 P.2d 28, 30 (Ariz. Ct. App. 1987) (quoting Prosser & Keeton on the Law of Torts § 30 (W. Page Keeton ed., 5th ed. 1984)).

 [82]. Id. Accord In re Haw. Fed. Asbestos Cases, 734 F. Supp. 1563, 1567 (D. Haw. 1990); Owens-Illinois, Inc. v. Armstrong, 591 A.2d 544, 560–61 (Md. Ct. Spec. App. 1991), rev’d in part on other grounds, 604 A.2d 47 (Md. 1992). Contra Verbryke v. Owens-Corning Fiberglas Corp., 616 N.E.2d 1162 (Ohio Ct. App. 1992), abrogated by Ackison v. Anchor Packing Co., 897 N.E.2d 1118, 1124–25 (Ohio 2008) (the lower court holding that pleural thickening constitutes bodily harm).

 [83]. Medical monitoring costs, for example, are very likely to be incurred if a patient presents with subclinical damage from asbestos. The psychic costs are even larger. Persons afflicted by such changes live under “sword[s] of Damocles” that are beginning to drop. This is a real and serious psychic burden, as the Supreme Court has noted. Norfolk & W. Ry. Co. v. Ayers, 538 U.S. 135, 150 (2003) (quoting Alley v. Charlotte Pipe & Foundry Co., 74 S.E. 885, 886 (N.C. 1912)) (“In the course of the 20th century, courts sustained a variety of other ‘fear-of’ claims. Among them have been claims for fear of cancer. Heightened vulnerability to cancer . . . ‘must necessarily have a most depressing effect upon the injured person. Like the sword of Damocles,’ he knows it is there, but not whether or when it will fall.”).

 [84]. Erving Goffman, Stigma: Notes on the Management of Spoiled Identity 41–104 (1963). Psychological harm follows not far behind. Impaired psychological capacities wreak similar havoc with normal lives. Child sexual abuse, for instance, usually leads to serious harm because it usually damages the capacity to trust other people and so impairs the formation of normal and valuable human relationships. Disfigurement is, intuitively, a core case of harm, but not an easy case to explain. The role of normal human appearance in social relations probably explains the importance of disfigurement as a harm. See id. at 51–53.

 [85]. In Davis v. Consolidated Rail Corp., 788 F.2d 1260, 1263 (7th Cir. 1986), Judge Posner remarks that “the loss of a leg is a terrible disfigurement, especially for a young man,” even if the victim “is able to walk with the aid of prosthetic devices, to drive, to work, and in short to lead almost a normal life.” The plaintiff had had one leg severed just below the knee and most of the foot on the other leg sliced off in a railroading accident. Id. at 1262. Precisely because the idea of harm as impairment is not a part of the economic theory to which Judge Posner subscribes, this appeal to ideas of disability and disfigurement is revealing.

 [86]. Influential psychological research by Daniel Kahneman and others has shown that people’s ordinary judgments about gains and losses violate the prescriptions of expected utility theory because people treat financial losses and gains differently. See generally Daniel Kahneman et al., Anomalies: The Endowment Effect, Loss Aversion, and Status Quo Bias, 5 J. Econ. Persp. 193 (1991). People regard losing a sum of money as involving more disutility than failing to acquire an equivalent sum. See id. at 194, 199–203. The implication of this research is that people are stubbornly irrational. Sometimes, people’s irrational aversion to loss is used to justify standards of precaution which require more than efficient precaution. See David A. Dana, A Behavioral Economic Defense of the Precautionary Principle, 97 Nw. U. L. Rev. 1315, 1324–26 (2003). There is an obvious resemblance between the asymmetry of harm and benefit and the asymmetry of gain and loss, but it is a mistake to conflate the two. Harms result in impaired conditions whereas losses generally do not. Harms are qualitatively different from benefits; losses are not qualitatively different from gains. Moreover, insofar as the psychological research implies that people make irrational judgments, that conclusion runs contrary to the argument developed here that people have good reason to treat harms and benefits differently. Those reasons are rooted in considerations having to do with autonomy, not expected utility. Last, the aim of Kahneman’s research is to identify and understand the operation of various cognitive processes. The aim of this Article is to show that we have good legal and moral reasons to treat harms and benefits differently. Good reasons and psychological propensities are very different matters. Psychology can no more establish what we have good reason to believe than philosophy can determine how ordinary processes of cognition operate.

 [87]. See Fennell, supra note 69, at 1361, 1363–65 and accompanying text.

 [88]. This involves evaluating risk impositions from representative “standpoints” and considering the “generic reasons” relevant to those standpoints. Kumar, Risking, supra note 57, at 41. See also Kumar, Contractualism, supra note 57, at 256–57. The presumptively relevant standpoints are the standpoints of potential injurers and victims. Often these standpoints must be revised and refined to analyze a particular circumstance well.

 [89]. See Scanlon, supra note 13, at 235.

 [90]. See generally T.M. Scanlon, Preference and Urgency, in The Difficulty of Tolerance: Essays in Political Philosophy 70 (2003).

 [91]. My discussion here leans backwards a bit, in the sense that it places primary weight on somewhat older cases. There are two reasons for doing so. First, the earlier cases are foundational and in that way more important. Second, recent cases exhibit something of a tendency to reinterpret these standards through the lens of cost-benefit analysis. That tendency obscures the differences among the standards. Others, especially, David Driesen, have interpreted these standards differently. See generally David M. Driesen, Distributing the Costs of Environmental, Health, and Safety Protection: The Feasibility Principle, Cost-Benefit Analysis, and Regulatory Reform, 32 B.C. Envtl. Aff. L. Rev. 1 (2005). See also Waisman, supra note 57, at 1275–89 (discussing this disagreement and a qualified endorsement of the view I take here).

 [92]. As noted supra in Part I, however, it is debatable whether this relation is necessary. For a discussion of circumstances where it is arguably not cost-justified to engage in an activity in the first place and where the activity is also governed by feasibility analysis, see supra note 16 and accompanying text.

 

 [93]. Food Quality Protection Act of 1996, Pub. L. No. 104-170, sec. 405, § 408(b)(2)(A)(ii), 110 Stat. 1489, 1516 (codified as amended at 21 U.S.C. § 346a (2012)) (requiring reduction of pesticide residue on foods to a “safe” level, where “safe” means there is “reasonable certainty that no harm will result”).

 [94]. See Union Elec. Co. v. EPA, 427 U.S. 246, 258 (1976) (stating that the Clean Air Act’s three-year deadline purposely “leaves no room for claims of technological or economic infeasibility.”).

 [95]. Act to Amend the Clean Air Act, Pub. L. No. 101-549, 104 Stat. 2399 (codified as amended at 42 U.S.C. §§ 7401–7671).

 [96]. 42 U.S.C. § 7412(f)(1).

 [97]. Id. § 7412(f)(2)(A).

 [98]. Id.

 [99]. See id. In their important 2014 paper, Michael Livermore and Richard Revesz argue that this kind of regulation (which they call “health-based”) is fatally afflicted by two problems: the “stopping-point problem” and the “inadequacy paradox.” Livermore & Revesz, supra note 11, at 1186, 1188. The “stopping-point problem” is that “when costs cannot be considered, it is difficult to justify any stopping point other than zero.” Id. at 1187. The “inadequacy paradox” is that health-based regulation has not led to more stringent regulatory standards. This latter claim is meant to challenge the consensus of all the parties to the decision in Whitman v. American Trucking Ass’ns, 531 U.S. 457 (2001). This Article takes no position on the “inadequacy paradox.” It does, however, offer an interpretation of safety-based regulation which is not subject to the stopping-point problem. As the text explains, safety-based regulation stops when the remaining risk is insignificant. One cannot help but wonder if the “stopping-point problem,” as Revesz and Livermore conceive it, is at least in part an artifact of their own commitment to think in terms of maximizing value. To maximize value, you must pursue benefit up to the point where further pursuit no longer increases value. If you can never consider cost—and if risk reduction is always beneficial—maximizing value requires reducing risk until there is no risk at all remaining, and that is either impossible or undesirable. The logic here is compelling only if you accept value-maximization as an ideal. This Article argues that safety-based regulation finds its justification in an alternative, non-maximizing framework. Within that framework, “insignificance” makes sense as a stopping point, and the pressure to reduce risk indefinitely does not exist.

 [100]. Hercules, Inc. v. EPA, 598 F.2d 91, 103–04, 112–14 (D.C. Cir. 1978).

 [101]. Federal Water Pollution Control Act Amendments of 1972, Pub. L. No. 92-500, 86 Stat. 816 (1972) (codified as amended at 33 U.S.C. §§ 1251–1376).

 [102]. Hercules, 598 F.2d at 111.

 [103]. Id. at 104.

 [104]. 42 U.S.C. § 7412(d)(2).

 [105]. Occupational Safety and Health Act of 1970, Pub. L. No. 91-596, 84 Stat. 1590 (codified as amended at 29 U.S.C. §§ 651­–678).

 [106]. Krugman, supra note 1.

 [107]. Indus. Union Dep’t, AFL-CIO v. Am. Petroleum Inst., 448 U.S. 607, 615 (1980). The Court noted the importance of this threshold inquiry: “We agree with the Fifth Circuit’s holding that § 3(8) requires the Secretary to find, as a threshold matter, that the toxic substance in question poses a significant health risk in the workplace and that a new, lower standard is therefore ‘reasonably necessary or appropriate to provide safe or healthful employment and places of employment.’ Unless and until such a finding is made, it is not necessary to address the further question whether the Court of Appeals correctly held that there must be a reasonable correlation between costs and benefits, or whether, as the federal parties argue, the Secretary is then required by § 6(b)(5) to promulgate a standard that goes as far as technologically and economically possible to eliminate the risk.” Id. at 614–15. The toxin in question was benzene. Id. at 615.

 [108]. See id. at 639–40.

 [109]. See Keeton et al., supra note 42, at 1238–39, 1252–53 (discussing the technological feasibility prong of feasibility analysis).

 [110]. See id. at 1253–55 (discussing the economic feasibility prong).

 [111]. United Steelworkers of Am., AFL-CIO-CLC v. Marshall, 647 F.2d 1189, 1263 n.102 (D.C. Cir. 1980).

 [112]. Am. Textile Mfrs. Inst. v. Donovan, 452 U.S. 490, 509 (1981). American Textile involved occupational exposure to cotton dust, which causes brown-lung disease. Id. at 490–91.

 [113]. Id. at 500, 503.

 [114]. Am. Iron & Steel Inst. v. Occupational Safety & Health Admin., 577 F.2d 825, 832 (3d Cir. 1978).

 [115]. Id. at 834 (quoting Soc’y of Plastics Indus. v. Occupational Safety & Health Admin., 509 F.2d 1301, 1309 (2d Cir. 1975)).

 [116]. Id. at 833–34.

 [117]. Id. at 835.

 [118]. Id. at 833.

 [119]. United Steelworkers of Am., AFL-CIO-CLC v. Marshall, 647 F.2d 1189, 1264–66 (D.C. Cir. 1980) (emphasis added) (citations omitted).

 [120]. Portland Cement Ass’n v. Ruckelshaus, 486 F.2d 375, 378 (D.C. Cir. 1973) (citation omitted).

 [121]. Id. at 387.

 [122]. Id. at 389.

 [123]. Id. at 387.

 [124]. 33 U.S.C. §§ 1311(b)(2)(A), 1314(b)(2)(B), 1317(a)(2) (2012).

 [125]. Id. § 1311(b)(1)(A).

 [126]. Id. § 1311(b)(2)(A).

 [127]. EPA v. Nat’l Crushed Stone Ass’n, 449 U.S. 64, 76 n.15, 79 (1980).

 [128]. Id. at 74.

 [129]. Id. at 71 n.10 (citation omitted).

 [130]. Rybachek v. EPA, 904 F.2d 1276, 1290–91 (9th Cir. 1990) (internal quotation marks omitted).

 [131]. United Steelworkers of Am., AFL-CIO-CLC v. Marshall 647 F.2d 1189, 1272 (D.C. Cir. 1980).

 [132]. Id. at 1263 n.102.

 [133]. Id. at 1265 (citations omitted) (quoting Indus. Union Dep’t, AFL-CIO v. Hodgson, 499 F.2d 467, 478 (D.C. Cir. 1974)).

 [134]. Id. at 1272.

 [135]. See AFL-CIO v. Marshall, 617 F.2d 636, 662 (D.C. Cir. 1979), aff’d in part, vacated in part sub nom. Am. Textile Mfrs. Inst. v. Donovan, 452 U.S. 490, 536, 540–41(1981).

 [136]. Am. Textile, 452 U.S. at 531 (citation omitted).

 [137]. Id.

 [138]. Id. at 530–36.

 [139]. AFL-CIO, 617 F.2d at 655, 661 (citations omitted).

 [140]. Am. Textile, 452 U.S. at 530 n.55 (citations omitted).

 [141]. Occupational Exposure to Hexavalent Chromium, 71 Fed. Reg. 10,100, 10,299–300 (Feb. 28, 2006) (to be codified at 29 C.F.R. pts. 1910, 1915, 1917–1918, 1926). “OSHA’s obligation is not to determine whether any plants will close, or whether some marginal plants may close earlier than they otherwise might have, but whether the regulation will eliminate or alter the competitive structure of an industry.” Id. at 10,281. I am grateful to Dov Waisman for calling this report to my attention. My discussion follows his. See Waisman, supra note 56.

 [142]. Occupational Exposure to Hexavalent Chromium, 71 Fed. Reg. at 10,300. The standard at issue determines a permissible exposure limit for a particular toxic substance.

 [143]. Waisman, supra note 56, at 675.

 [144]. Occupational Exposure to Hexavalent Chromium, 71 Fed. Reg. at 10,301.

 [145]. Id.

 [146]. Id. at 10,301–02.

 [147]. Id. at 10,102 (quoting Indus. Union Dep’t, AFL-CIO v. Hodgson, 499 F.2d 467, 478 (D.C. Cir. 1974)).

 [148]. Safety-based risk regulation requires the elimination of significant risks, whereas feasibility-based regulation only requires the elimination of such risks if feasible. There has been some retreat from this requirement of late. See Waisman, supra note 57, at 1263 n.1 (noting that the “safety-based” approach is “somewhat less prevalent” than feasibility analysis).

 [149]. See Indust. Union Dept., AFL-CIO v. Am. Petroleum, 448 U.S. 607, 639–59 (1980).

 [150]. Id. at 614–15. Section 3(8) of the Act provides: “The term ‘occupational safety and health standard’ means a standard which requires conditions, or the adoption or use of one or more practices, means, methods, operations, or processes, reasonably necessary or appropriate to provide safe or healthful employment and places of employment.” 29 U.S.C. § 652(8) (2012).

 [151]. Id. at 641–42.

 [152]. The impossibility of preventing all accidental injury is a fundamental fact that any approach to accident law must acknowledge. James Buchanan, for example, begins his defense of caveat emptor in products liability law with the following comment:

It is useful to note at the outset that accidents cannot be prevented, in the sense that the probability of occurrence cannot be reduced to zero. We live in an uncertain world, whether we like it or not, and the working properties of either human or material agents cannot be completely specified. Any discussion of products liability, therefore, involves only the possible modification in the probability distribution of accidents.

James M. Buchanan, In Defense of Caveat Emptor, 38 U. Chi. L. Rev. 64, 64 (1970). From a very different perspective, Ernest Weinrib gives a Kantian explanation of negligence law from the ground up by noting that everyone must both act in the world and accord an equal right to others to do so. See Ernest J. Weinrib, Toward a Moral Theory of Negligence Law, 2 Law & Phil. 37, 49–50 (1983).

 [153]. Ira S. Bushey & Sons, Inc. v. United States, 398 F.2d 167, 171 (2d Cir. 1968) (Friendly, J.). See also Taber v. Maine, 67 F.3d 1029, 1037 (2d. Cir. 1995) (Calabresi, J.).

 [154]. Exner v. Sherman Power Constr. Co., 54 F.2d 510, 512–13 (2d Cir. 1931).

 [155]. See Daniel A. Farber, Toxic Causation, 71 Minn. L. Rev. 1219, 1252, 1229–31 & n.55 (1987).

 [156]. 42 U.S.C. § 7412(f)(2)(A) (2012). See also supra notes 9499 (describing the regulatory aims of the Clean Air Act).

 [157]. See Am. Textile Mfrs. Inst. v. Donovan, 452 U.S. 490, 495–96 & n.8 (1981).

 [158]. As Lewis Sargentich puts it, “[t]he risk to be averted must be . . . noteworthy in comparison with other risks of the same activity that might also be reduced further by costly measures.” Keeton et al., supra note 45, at 23-7 to -8.

 [159]. In 2015, there were 10.9 automobile accident fatalities for every 100,000 people. Fatality Analysis Reporting System (FARS) Encyclopedia, Nat’l Highway Traffic Safety Admin., http://www-fars.nhtsa.dot.gov/Main/index.aspx (last visited Feb. 1, 2018).

 [160]. In 2015, the death rate for all cancers was 185.4 for every 100,000 people. Sherry L. Murphy et al., Deaths: Final Data for 2015, Nat’l Vital Statistics Rep., Nov. 27, 2017, at 1, 6 tbl.B, https://www.cdc.gov/nchs/data/nvsr/nvsr66/nvsr66_06.pdf.

 [161]. See, e.g., S. Rep. No. 103-349, at 76 (1994) (“[T]he term ‘reasonable certainty of no harm’ means an increased risk of cancer to an individual exposed over a lifetime of no more than one in one million.”).

 [162]. Kathryn Kelly’s critical account of the origins of the one-in-a-million standard lends some support to this hypothesis. Two scientists randomly chose a safety standard of one in one hundred million in a 1961 article attempting to define when exposure to a substance could be considered “safe.” The FDA adopted that number in a 1973 notice in the Federal Register, and changed it to one in one million by the time that final rule was issued in 1977. See Kathryn E. Kelly, The Myth of 10-6 as a Definition of Acceptable Risk, Presentation at the Annual Meeting of the Air and Waste Management Association 4–5 (June 1991).

 [163]. See, e.g., Chris Woodyard, New Toyota Sudden Acceleration Claim Surfaces, USA Today (Sept. 11, 2014, 9:17 PM), http://www.usatoday.com/story/money/cars/2014/09/11/toyota-corolla-nhtsa-unintended-acceleration/15477263.

 [164]. See generally Grimshaw v. Ford Motor Co., 174 Cal. Rptr. 348 (Ct. App. 1981) (affirming judgment against an automobile manufacturer for damages sustained by a driver arising from gas tank explosion).

 [165]. In 2015, fires occurred in 0.1% of the vehicles involved in all traffic crashes. Nat’l Highway Traffic Safety Admin., Traffic Safety Facts 2015, at 86 tbl.39 (2017), https://crashstats.nhtsa.dot.gov/Api/Public/Publication/812384.

 [166]. Aspects of the Pinto’s design made the failure of its gas tank even more salient. In comparison with other subcompact cars, the design of the gas tank was substandard. Schwartz, supra note 32, at 1027–28.

 [167]. Some readers may worry that what is at work here is simply an “availability heuristic,” a form of irrationality made famous by Amos Tversky and Daniel Kahneman in Availability: A Heuristic for Judging Frequency and Probability, 5 Cognitive Psych. 207 (1973). In some cases, this worry may be well-founded. In other cases, the framework deployed by the “availability heuristic” literature may be guilty of reductionism by treating qualitatively different risks as if they were identical. The only way to settle the matter is by determining if we have good reasons to fear some risk (e.g., gas tank explosions) more than another risk.

 [168]. See supra notes 104 & 107 and accompanying text.

 [169]. See John Rawls, Political Liberalism 181 (1993) (listing five primary goods as basic rights, freedom of opportunity, participation in political and economic institutions, income and wealth, and self-respect).

 [170]. See supra Part III.C.1.

 [171]. Food Quality Protection Act of 1996, Pub. L. No. 104-170, sec. 405, § 408(b)(2)(A)(ii), 110 Stat. 1489, 1516 (codified as amended at 21 U.S.C. § 346a (2012)).

 [172]. The “exclusionary” character of safety-based risk regulation is not odd in an important sense. Most norms of practical reason instruct people to disregard some relevant reason(s). See generally Joseph Raz, Practical Reason and Norms (1975). We are investigating something more particular here: why exclude costs entirely?

 [173]. See Rawls, supra note 169, at 187–90 (describing primary goods as “citizens’ needs”). This conception of certain goods as primary is the flip side of the coin of the general badness of physical harm.

 [174]. Both the safety and the feasibility norms are especially protective of those most imperiled by the risks that these norms regulate. When the distribution of burdens and benefits is at issue, “our attention is naturally directed first” to the claims of those who bear the greatest burdens, “because if anyone has reasonable grounds for objecting to the principle it is likely to be them.” Scanlon, supra note 57, at 145.

 [175]. See Scanlon, supra note 13, at 235; supra text accompanying note 89.

 [176]. Am. Textile Mfrs. Inst. v. Donovan, 452 U.S. 490, 495–96 & n.8 (1981) (quoting Occupational Exposure to Cotton Dust, 43 Fed. Reg. 27,350, 27,352–54 (June 23, 1978); Occupational Exposure to Cotton Dust, 41 Fed. Reg. 56,498, 56,500–01 (Dec. 28, 1976)) (“Byssinosis is a ‘continuum . . . disease,’ that has been categorized into four grades. . . . Known generally as the Schilling classification grades, they include: ‘[Grade] 1/2: slight acute effect of dust on ventilatory capacity; no evidence of chronic ventilatory impairment. [Grade] 1: definite acute effect of dust on ventilatory capacity; no evidence of chronic ventilatory impairment. [Grade] 2: evidence of slight to moderate irreversible impairment of ventilatory capacity. [Grade] 3: evidence of moderate to severe irreversible impairment of ventilatory capacity.’”).

 [177]. Id. at 498.

 [178]. Id. at 500.

 [179]. Id. at 504 (quoting Occupational Exposure to Cotton Dust, 43 Fed. Reg. at 27,359–60).

 [180]. Id. (quoting Occupational Exposure to Cotton Dust, 43 Fed. Reg. at 27,360) (noting also that PELs for some other milling activities were set at 500 μg/m3 on technological-feasibility grounds).

 [181]. This kind of generalization test is common in ordinary negligence analysis. See, e.g., Grace & Co. v. City of L.A., 168 F. Supp. 344, 348–49 (S.D. Cal. 1958) (holding that it would be unreasonable to rule that the defendant should have inspected a graphite water pipe, which had not been inspected in forty years and which damaged plaintiff’s property when it burst, because the costs of unearthing and inspecting every buried pipe every two to three years “would be prohibitively expensive and economically unfeasible”); Clinton v. Commonwealth Edison Co., 344 N.E.2d 509, 515 (Ill. App. Ct. 1976) (holding that the plaintiff’s proposed precaution of requiring the defendant utility to insulate the 720-volt power line that had electrocuted a fifteen-year-old boy was unreasonable as a matter of law because it would be “tantamount to requiring defendants and all who are engaged in the business of supplying electrical service to insulate all of their lines”).

 [182]. The Court considered this type of argument in Whitman v. American Trucking Ass’ns, 531 U.S. 457, 466–67 (2001) (citations omitted):

[R]espondents argue . . . . [that] the economic cost of implementing a very stringent standard might produce health losses sufficient to offset the health gains achieved in cleaning the air—for example, by closing down whole industries and thereby impoverishing the workers and consumers dependent upon those industries. That is unquestionably true, and Congress was unquestionably aware of it. . . . Section 110(f)(1) of the CAA permitted the Administrator to waive the compliance deadline for stationary sources if, inter alia, sufficient control measures were simply unavailable and “the continued operation of such sources is essential . . . to the public health or welfare.”

 [183]. In India, some beggars are purposefully disfigured in order to play on sympathies and make more money. Randeep Ramesh, Indian Doctors Accused in ‘Arms-for-Alms’ Scandal, Guardian (July 31, 2006), http://www.theguardian.com/world/2006/jul/31/india.randeepramesh. In Bangladesh, the “beggar mafia” will often “intentionally impair healthy children in various cruel methods and force[] them to get into beggary.” Abdullah Al Helal & Kazi Shahdat Kabir, Exploring Cruel Business [sic] of Begging: The Case of Bangladesh, 3 Asian J. Bus. & Econ. [n.p.] (2013). These examples show that there are social conditions under which people cannot live decent lives—not that physical integrity is just another commodity to be consumed.

 [184]. T.M. Scanlon, Rights and Interests, in Arguments for a Better World: Essays in Honor of Amartya Sen: Volume I: Ethics, Welfare, and Measurement 68, 71 (Kaushik Basu & Ravi Kanbur eds., 2009).

 [185]. 21 U.S.C. § 346a(b)(2)(A)(ii) (2012).

 [186]. See id. § 346a(b)(2)(C).

 

Prosecutorial Constitutionalism – Article by Eric S. Fish

From Volume 90, Number 2 (January 2017)
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As adversary lawyers, prosecutors seek to convict defendants. But as government officials who take an oath of office, prosecutors must interpret and apply the Constitution in good faith. These two roles are at odds. The first pushes prosecutors to argue for narrow readings of defendants’ constitutional rights, while the second pushes prosecutors to enforce the Constitution evenhandedly. The crucial question is: when should prosecutors be adversary advocates, and when should they be quasi-judicial implementers of constitutional protections? This Article argues that prosecutors should adopt the latter role in situations where the adversary system fails to fully protect constitutional rights. This happens when judges are unable to effectively control prosecutors’ actions (for example, with regard to the duty to reveal exculpatory evidence), and also when judges underenforce constitutional rights out of concern for the separation of powers or the limitations of judicial doctrine (for example, with regard to charging decisions and plea bargains). In such situations, prosecutors should preserve defendants’ constitutional rights even if judicial doctrine does not require it, and even if doing so lowers the chance of obtaining a conviction.

But individual prosecutors should not be expected to decide by themselves when to switch between these two roles. Rather, prosecutors’ offices should, and in some cases already do, establish constitutional protections through internal policies that govern prosecutorial decisionmaking. Such policies can be found in places like the American Bar Association’s Rules of Professional Conduct, the United States Attorneys’ Manual, and the State of Washington’s Recommended Prosecution Standards. Indeed, although these documents are not presently understood as tools of constitutional enforcement, they protect defendants’ constitutional rights above the baseline set by judges in a wide variety of areas: charging decisions, plea bargaining, grand jury proceedings, the disclosure of exculpatory evidence, exonerations, and more. Consequently, these systems of regulation for prosecutors function as important (and understudied) sites of constitutional norm articulation.


 

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