By Kevin D. Williamson
Tuesday, June 02, 2020
For reasons that do not bear going into here, the mostly
forgotten novelty singer C. W. McCall came up in conversation with my brother
the other day, and I ended up watching the 1978 film Convoy, which was
inspired by the McCall song of the same name. In the late 1970s, truckers were
the new cowboys, and Convoy is a kind of slapstick Western that pits
admirable but law-breaking truckers against corrupt police officers. It ends
with Kris Kristofferson’s antihero (known by his CB handle, “The Rubber Duck”)
attempting to perpetrate a suicide bombing against a bunch of cops and soldiers
blocking a border crossing into Mexico. A silly movie like Convoy can’t
end like that, so instead a deus ex machina contrivance delivers the
cops and the soldiers and the Rubber Duck, too, to safety. Even so, it is a
rousing ode to lawlessness and terrorism — and the most popular film of Sam
Peckinpah’s career.
Speaking of movies . . .
When Harvey Weinstein was sued by several women who
claimed to have suffered sexual harassment or sexual assault at his hands and
put some tens of millions of dollars on the table to settle the complaints,
some blockheads denounced the accusers as women who “just want money” rather
than genuine justice. The same thing was said about people who reached
settlements with Michael Jackson after accusing him of sexually abusing them as
children. The criticism begs the question. Who says that justice cannot take
the form of money? Who says justice cannot take the form of other kinds of
compensation?
Consider a less emotional kind of offense: Imagine that a
powerful business executive had defrauded me of $100,000. That’s a lot of
money. Now, imagine that I also had him dead to rights on the fraud and was
ready to go to the police, when he made me an offer: What if he returned my
$100,000, plus interest generously calculated for the time I was deprived of my
money, plus $1 million in further restitution. Would I, the victim of the
crime, rather have my money back plus $1 million, or spend months and years
watching an uncertain criminal case build to a climax that might — might
— end up looking something like six months in jail plus probation? I’d take the
$1 million. Some people would look at that as the rich being able to buy their
way out of criminal accountability; I’d look at it as the victim of a crime
getting justice in the form of something that left him better off, rather than
justice in the form of something that did not leave him better off. If
one of Weinstein’s victims would rather have a check than add a little to his
prison time, who are we — who are any of us — to tell her that she is wrong?
I am an optimist with a generally libertarian view of the
individual’s relationship to the state, and for a long time I had very high
hopes for private justice, by which I do not mean the abolition of the state
and its legal mechanisms but the supersession of it by more fruitful
alternatives in some circumstances. Many good-faith disputes already are better
handled in voluntary arbitration than through the traditional courts,
especially when they involve highly specialized matters with which judges and
juries are sure to be unfamiliar. Many kinds of hurt and suffering cannot be undone,
simply locking offenders away in cages is not always the best course of action
for the victim or for society at large (and those interests may not be
identical), and other alternatives often are preferable. There is a question of
balancing restitution, rehabilitation, and deterrence. But there are also the
more fundamental questions: Does this leave the victim better off in real
terms? Does it make the general society safer?
Private justice can go wrong easily and dramatically, as
events in the past few weeks have shown. There is nothing wrong, in principle,
with laws permitting citizen arrests in certain circumstances, but that can
quickly turn into bloodthirsty vigilantism, as in the case of Ahmaud Arbery.
For a less lethal example, think of the case of Amy Cooper and Christian Cooper
and that now-infamous Central Park confrontation. Christian Cooper was
practicing a form of private justice: People are supposed to keep their dogs on
leashes in the Ramble, Amy Cooper did not comply, and Christian Cooper, who had
prior experience with this problem, was carrying dog treats, promising Amy
Cooper that he was going to do . . . something, and “you’re not going to
like it.” (I disagree with my friend Kyle
Smith that this was an obvious threat to poison her dog; the threat was
vague and might have meant any number of things.) Christian Cooper was
practicing a pretty benign form of private justice in lieu of calling the NYPD
every time somebody failed to leash a dog. Amy Cooper, who clearly did not like
being called out on her petty offense, threatened to call the police and say
that she was being threatened by an African-American man. Many of her critics
insist that this was her in effect seeking to have him assassinated; if that
really is the case, then the problem is the NYPD, not Amy Cooper, and it is not
going to be solved by the personnel department at Franklin Templeton, with its
uneven sense of justice.
(Franklin Templeton is much more forgiving of much more
serious offenses if you happen to be the son of one CEO and the brother of two
others.)
The case for private justice is, in part, that if we can
resolve a private dispute without dispatching men with guns to the scene, then
we are better off doing so; but if we are better off doing so because our
law-enforcement authorities cannot be trusted to behave in a less than
willfully homicidal fashion, then we have a problem that private justice is not
going to solve.
Which brings us to Minneapolis and beyond. My friend and
colleague Andy McCarthy believes that it took too long to arrest and charge Derek
Chauvin in the case. (Indeed, Andy was registering this complaint on a National
Review podcast when the arrest was announced.) I do not have Andy’s
criminal-justice background (he is a former federal prosecutor, of terrorists
among others), but it did not seem to me that the few days it took to arrest
Chauvin was an unbearable delay of justice. One wants the authorities to move
with some deliberation in these matters.
We might consider the rioting and the arson, then, as
another attempt at private justice. One theory of the riots is this: Believing,
with good reason, that the police will seek to protect their own and that
officers who break the law will enjoy considerations that that typical offender
would not, that racial injustice is systemic, and that reform is unlikely or
impossible in the foreseeable future, the disorder and destruction is
understood as a kind of fine on society at large. These riots fail as an
attempt at private justice on the fundamental grounds: They do not leave the
specific victim (or, in this case, his survivors) any better off, they do not
actually advance the project of reforming police practice, and they leave
society worse off, especially in the case of many of the communities on whose
behalf the protesters purport to agitate. Of course it is the case that most of
the looters and hell-raisers are not thinking things through in these terms,
but I am not sure that really matters to our understanding of the situation.
Criminal violence as social sanction is not an unfamiliar
idea: The theory of the riot is a lot like the theory of lynching, another
violent crime that once was excused as rough justice. Lynching is a stain on
American history, but there are other examples of criminal acts used as social
sanction that were and are generally tolerated and sometimes even celebrated.
In his famous essay on animal-trespass law, “Of Coase and Cattle,” Robert
Ellickson found that the ranchers of Shasta County, Calif., rarely sued one
another for damage caused by stray animals. Rather than sue one another or file
legal complaints, the ranchers generally engaged in forms of private justice
that had almost nothing to do with the formal assignment of rights and
obligations under the actual law. This was made possible by a norm of “neighborliness,”
reciprocity, and long-term relationships with repeated personal interactions,
which make pettiness socially awkward. When there were actual legal disputes,
Ellickson found, those cases normally involved newcomers who had not been
habituated to community norms or situations in which one of the parties
believed the other to be acting dishonestly and dishonorably, for example with
one rancher going to law because another “had not only deliberately trespassed,
but had also aggravated the offense by untruthfully denying the charge.”
But legal means were not the only means, and they were
not the preferred means. These law-abiding, neighborly ranchers would
also resort to unquestionably criminal acts.
Another common response to repeated
trespasses is to threaten to kill a responsible animal should it ever enter
again. Although the killing of trespassing livestock is a crime in California,
six landowners — not noticeably less civilized than the others — unhesitatingly
volunteered that they had issued death threats of this sort. These threats are
credible in Shasta County, because victims of recurring trespasses,
particularly if they have first issued a warning, feel justified in killing or
injuring the mischievous animals. Despite the criminality of the conduct (a
fact not necessarily known to the respondents), I learned the identity of two
persons who had shot trespassing cattle. Another landowner told of running the
steer of an uncooperative neighbor into a fence. The most intriguing report
came from a rancher who had had recurrent problems with a trespassing bull many
years ago. This rancher told a key law enforcement official that he wanted to
castrate the bull — “to turn it into a steer.” The official replied that he
“would have deaf ears” if that were to occur. The rancher asserted that he then
carried out his threat.
This is roughly the equivalent of someone vandalizing
your car for being illegally parked in front of their house. We had some
neighbors’ guests pull accidentally into our driveway instead of our neighbors’
over the weekend, and we would have been perfectly happy to have them park
there — we like our neighbors, and we have reciprocal ongoing relations with
them that smooth over the little frictions that proximity brings. But much of
modern urban life, with its institutional attitudes and endless bureaucracies,
is not very well suited to cultivating the neighborliness that Ellickson wrote
of, and that is especially true of relationships across cultural, racial, and
class lines, which, given the fallen nature of human beings, are almost always
more difficult than relationships among people who are like us.
Which brings me back to Convoy: It was made less
than a decade past the worst bout of political violence and civic unrest the
United States had seen since the Civil War, and almost exactly ten years after
George Wallace had prefigured Donald Trump’s promise that “when the looting
starts, the shooting starts.” Convoy was itself part of a cinematic
convoy, a little peloton of films such as Smokey and the Bandit
glorifying charismatic outlaws who triumphed over wicked cops, fat old white
men played by such actors as Ernest Borgnine and Jackie Gleason.
Many conservatives have noted accurately that the same
progressive media figures who had their dresses over their heads about the
anti-lockdown protests engaged in practically yogic exertions to put the
violence and looting in Minneapolis and elsewhere in the best possible light
and to give the most sympathetic possible account of it. These same progressive
solons heaped abuse on the Tea Party protests, which were portrayed as a lynch
mob in waiting, and every other episode in which a Republican has stepped into
his penny loafers and raised a placard, back to the so-called Brooks Brothers
Riot of 2000. They are not wrong to note the double standard.
At the same time, it surely is the case that if Convoy
were a 2020 film about black outlaws or pissed-off Arabs, it would not receive
the kind of welcome it did when it was a cri de cœur from white (mostly)
truckers, and poor old Sam Peckinpah would be run out of town as an
America-hating so-and-so. Bias isn’t a plot against the public good — it’s a
consequence of the fact that we all live inside the scanty space of our skulls.
We are not an entirely orderly people, we Americans. We
live by a shared idea rather than shared blood, and more than any other people
in the world are defined by a group of legal and political documents rather
than by ancient consanguinity. We salute George Washington, but there’s a little
Whiskey Rebellion in us, too, a little John Brown, a little Patrick Henry, a
little μολὼν λαβέ — and we are a lot more tolerant of that among white
people than among others, especially among African Americans. I want order in
Minneapolis and elsewhere. I want people to be safe and secure in their homes
and businesses. There isn’t any liberty without peace. The riots are not
leaving anybody better off, but consider that video of George Floyd’s death:
Does that look like peace to you?
We are looking for that peace, and the justice that
sustains it, in different ways. As Ellickson wrote, one of the most common
means of “self help” for people seeking justice through private means is
gossip, which is, essentially, what those Twitter mobs are: weaponized gossip.
One of the many shortcomings of weaponized gossip is that gossip need not be
true: Ask Brett Kavanaugh, or the Covington kids, or the University of
Virginia, or the Duke lacrosse team . . . A kind of private justice is what
Christian Cooper was after with his dog treats, and then with the video that
led to Amy Cooper’s losing her job for an incident in her private life that had
nothing to do with her work. Destruction of property as a means of sanction? It
is happening in Minneapolis and other cities right now. But it happened before,
on a smaller scale, among those Shasta County ranchers, too. Why did they
resort to that? It wasn’t a lack of courts or lawyers or police officers.
It was a lack of mutual respect, honesty, honor, and
neighborliness — the priceless things that cannot be had for a sum of money or
drilled up out of the ground but can only be cultivated, slowly, painstakingly,
with great effort and in great humility.
The terrifying truth that we must keep in mind in troubled times such as these is that the world is what we make of it, a vast structure that we build one brick at a time with our own decisions. We can proceed with charity and grace, or we can proceed with violence and the threat of violence. The choice is yours and mine, as it always has been.
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