By Andrew McCarthy
Saturday, March 21, 2020
Earlier this week, Jim Geraghty posted about the decision
by Dare County, N.C., to close its borders to non-residents. Is it merely a
reaction, or an overreaction, to the coronavirus pandemic creeping
across the nation?
The county’s move raises all sorts of constitutional
questions about federalism. At what level of government do we properly resolve
such questions — federal, state, county, municipal? Do Americans have a settled
right of travel — intrastate, interstate, international — that applies at all
times, or is the law flexible in this regard (as it can be regarding the
imposition of martial law in times of war, invasion, and insurrection)? If a
county can ban the entry of non-residents from its territory, can it ban the
exit of residents, or at least of their property?
We could bat these questions around for some time. The
bottom line, however, is that there are probably no settled legal answers. We
miss that in normal times of peace and prosperity, when the rule of law
governs. But in crisis, we see the limits of law. In essence, these questions
call for political determinations. They turn on the perception of peril
at a given time, which is a function of fluid circumstances that cannot be
forecast with precision.
The law also works best when we are confident we know
enough about a topic to regulate for all future conditions. The law works well
for bank transactions, and especially for bank robbery. For infectious-disease
outbreaks . . . maybe not so much.
Of course, the books overflow with laws. Last weekend,
for example, President Trump issued a formal emergency declaration under the
1988 Stafford Act (formally, the Robert T. Stafford Disaster Relief and
Emergency Assistance Act). It endows the president with unilateral powers to
support states and localities when their capacities are overwhelmed by a
catastrophe affecting public health or safety — including by making federal
emergency relief funds (currently, about $50 billion) available.
The president has floated the notion of triggering the
act’s more potent declaration of a “major disaster.” Legally, that seems
unlikely: The Stafford Act says such a declaration must be requested by the
affected state(s), and its terms are confined to physical infrastructure
damaged by natural catastrophes (e.g., hurricanes and earthquakes), not by
pathogens that infect people but do not destroy structures. Yet, if states hard
hit by COVID-19 were to make the request, and the president responded with
additional tranches of federal assistance, how punctilious do we really think
Americans would be about statutory construction?
Meanwhile, on Wednesday the president invoked the Defense
Production Act of 1950 (as most recently amended in 2009). He had been urged to
do so by Washington hands, particularly Democrats — everyone from putative
presidential nominee Joe Biden and Senate minority leader Chuck Schumer to a
growing chorus in the House.
The DPA seems ominous from the perspective of a
free-market society committed to the protection of property rights. Under it,
private industry may be mandated to accept and prioritize government orders and
contracts to meet what the president unilaterally determines to be
national-defense needs. As of this writing, Trump’s triggering of the DPA is
mere exhortation. He is encouraging private corporations to produce the medical
testing and treatment components that are urgently needed; but so far, he has
not presumed to order them to do anything.
Still, were he to do so, it would not be extraordinary.
(At least the fact of such a directive’s issuance would not be unusual; the
substance might be.) In DPA’s 70 years on the books, executive administrations
have invoked it dozens of times. These have been fairly uncontroversial. For
the most part, the act has simply facilitated the production of
security-related goods and services through loan guarantees and the waiver of
legal restrictions that otherwise inhibit private corporations.
Indeed, the Truman administration explicitly forswore
reliance on the DPA in 1952, when the president directed his commerce secretary
to seize and operate steel mills. A labor strike during the Korean War had
halted production and threatened to leave the armed forces without vital
supplies. The Justice Department relied mainly on what it posited was Truman’s
constitutional authority, arguing that the DPA’s seizure provisions were “much
too cumbersome, involved, and time-consuming for the crisis which was at hand.”
That last bit is a quote from the famous ruling in which
the Supreme Court invalidated Truman’s seizure (Youngstown Sheet & Tube
Co. v. Sawyer). It’s a part of the history that is very much worth noting.
In the aftermath of World War II, there was a massive
downsizing of the armed forces and defense production — not just because the
war ended but because our development of nuclear weapons fed an assumption that
conventional military capabilities were no longer as essential. The Soviet
tyranny in Eastern Europe, the Communist triumph in China’s civil war, and the
Korean Conflict burst that assumption — just as, 40 years later, the rise of
jihadist terrorism would explode the rose-tinted assumption that the Soviet
collapse had ushered in a “peace dividend” of waning military power, of
security assured by global legal processes.
In the early 1950s, things seemed suddenly dire. Such
emergency measures as the DPA and the seizure of the steel mills may have
appeared reasonable. Over time, though, threats — or at least our comprehension
of them — become clearer. Gradually, DPA powers were tapered back. By 1952, the
Supreme Court was willing to strike down wartime executive actions as
excessive, something the justices had been notoriously unwilling to do during
World War II. The Korean War was serious, but it was not a potentially
existential peril. It warranted significant deference to national-security
needs; it did not warrant upending our fundamental conceits about economic
liberty and the relationship between citizens (the sovereign) and the state
(the servant).
We have to be mindful of this dynamic.
Heather Mac Donald caused something of a stir last week
when she argued that the governmental reaction to the coronavirus pandemic was
dangerous overkill. For any individual, the chance of death by COVID-19 is
vanishingly small, but the governmental reaction — federal, state, county,
municipal — has inexorably evolved into a shutdown of the U.S. economy. The
cure, Heather contended, was worse than the disease. She pointed out that there
were 34,200 deaths from influenza in our country last year, yet we did not
grind society to a halt. The same chord has been struck by the editors of the Wall
Street Journal, Victor Davis Hanson, and Steven Malanga, among others.
Our estimable John McCormack ably countered that
Heather’s flu comparison substantially understates the matter. The most
reliable information indicates that the fatality rate of coronavirus is about 1
percent, which is ten times the 0.1 percent rate for flu. As John points out,
that means, assuming an identical number of total cases, 34,200 flu deaths
would translate to 342,000 COVID-19 deaths. Obviously, the loss of over 300,000
Americans (and, in addition, hundreds of thousands more worldwide) would be a
tragedy of epic proportions.
That said, I think Heather’s main point is well taken.
Her New Criterion essay was entitled “Compared to What?” Her objective
was not to compare the fatality rates of coronavirus versus flu. Even in the
absence of a vaccine, vastly more people will not contract COVID-19 than
will be infected; and vastly more people who get it will recover (most without
a severe bout) than will die. She first calculated the percentage of Americans
who had died from COVID-19, which she put at .000012 percent (that was
based on 41 deaths a week ago; as this is written, the total stands at 217,
which computes to .000066 percent — still statistically negligible). The
essay’s “compared to what” question addressed whether this minuscule chance
that any random one of us could die from coronavirus justifies locking down the
economy. If the lockdown goes on much longer, it could put millions of people
out of work, destroy additional trillions of dollars in wealth, and lead to
surges of suicides, drug addiction, divorce, broken families, crime, and other
societal disasters.
It is not sustainable for government to combat the
disease by ordering communal and commercial activity to cease, then trying to
compensate increasingly destitute citizens by borrowing and printing money to
throw at them.
This is, and has to be, the pattern of political
determinations: Err on the side of safety, but abate if, with the context of
better information, living more realistically with the threat begins to appear
less dire than the alternatives. Here, the coronavirus shutdown may have been
an understandable first reaction, even a justifiable one. But it has to be
weighed against the catastrophic consequences. And it has to factor in our
improving understanding of the threats and the behaviors that mitigate it —
hand washing, other rudimentary hygiene, social distancing, avoiding large
crowds for now, extra safeguards for the elderly and people with preexisting
health problems, and so on. If we do these things, many fewer people
(especially vulnerable people) will be exposed.
Even with all that, and even if we can minimize the
number infected and eventually reduce the fatality rate, it is entirely
conceivable that thousands more people will die from COVID-19 than die from
flu. But tragic as that outcome would be, it would pale in comparison to the
ruin that looms if we do not resume a semblance of normal life.
No matter what happens, the law — i.e., the Trump
administration’s conclusions about its DPA, Stafford Act, and constitutional
authorities — will have little to say about it. The history of this country is
one of ceding authority to the chief executive, to an extent commensurate with
the public’s sense of real threat, particularly lethal threat on a mass scale.
Later, Congress and the courts push back, but only once the perception of peril
ebbs. They push back with law. Yet, the extent to which law is a real barrier
to future presidential muscle-flexing, for good or ill, depends not on what the
statutes and opinions say, but on how scared we are.
Politics, not law.
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