Êîíñòèòóöèÿ â êèáåðïðîñòðàíñòâå: çàêîí è ñâîáîäà çà ýëåêòðîííîé ãðàíèöåé (english/russian)
Axiom 2:
The Constitutional Boundaries of Private Property
and Personality Depend on Variables Deeper Than
Social Utility and Technological Feasibility
The
second constitutional axiom, one closely related to the private-public
distinction of the first axiom, is that a person's mind, body, and property
belong to that person and not to the public as a whole. Some believe
that cyberspace challenges that axiom because its entire premise lies in the
existence of computers tied to electronic transmission networks that process
digital information. Because such information can be easily replicated in
series of "1"s and "0"s, anything that anyone has come up
with in virtual reality can be infinitely reproduced. I can log on to a
computer library, copy a "virtual book" to my computer disk, and send
a copy to your computer without creating a gap on anyone's bookshelf. The same
is true of valuable computer programs, costing hundreds of dollars, creating
serious piracy problems. This feature leads some, like Richard Stallman of the
Free Software Foundation, to argue that in cyberspace everything should be free
— that information can't be owned. Others, of course, argue that copyright and
patent protections of various kinds are needed in order for there to be
incentives to create "cyberspace property" in the first place.
Needless
to say, there are lively debates about what the optimal incentive package
should be as a matter of legislative and social policy. But the only constitutional
issue, at bottom, isn't the utilitarian or instrumental selection of an optimal
policy. Social judgments about what ought to be subject to individual
appropriation, in the sense used by John Locke and Robert Nozick, and what
ought to remain in the open public domain, are first and foremost political
decisions.
To
be sure, there are some constitutional constraints on these political
decisions. The Constitution does not permit anything and everything to be made
into a private commodity. Votes, for example, theoretically cannot be
bought and sold. Whether the Constitution itself should be read (or amended) so
as to permit all basic medical care, shelter, nutrition, legal assistance and,
indeed, computerized information services, to be treated as mere commodities,
available only to the highest bidder, are all terribly hard questions — as the
Eastern Europeans are now discovering as they attempt to draft their own
constitutions. But these are not questions that should ever be confused with
issues of what is technologically possible, about what is realistically
enforceable, or about what is socially desirable.
Similarly,
the Constitution does not permit anything and everything to be socialized
and made into a public good available to whoever needs or "deserves"
it most. I would hope, for example, that the government could not use its
powers of eminent domain to "take" live body parts like eyes or
kidneys or brain tissue for those who need transplants and would be expected to
lead particularly productive lives. In any event, I feel certain that whatever
constitutional right each of us has to inhabit his or her own body and to hold
onto his or her own thoughts and creations should not depend solely on
cost-benefit calculations, or on the availability of technological methods for
painlessly effecting transfers or for creating good artificial substitutes.
Axiom 3:
Government May Not Control Information Content
A
third constitutional axiom, like the first two, reflects a deep respect for the
integrity of each individual and a healthy skepticism toward government. The
axiom is that, although information and ideas have real effects in the social
world, it's not up to government to pick and choose for us in terms of the content
of that information or the value of those ideas.
This
notion is sometimes mistakenly reduced to the naive child's ditty that
"sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me."
Anybody who's ever been called something awful by children in a schoolyard
knows better than to believe any such thing. The real basis for First Amendment
values isn't the false premise that information and ideas have no real impact,
but the belief that information and ideas are too important to entrust
to any government censor or overseer.
If
we keep that in mind, and only if we keep that in mind, will we be able
to see through the tempting argument that, in the Information Age, free speech
is a luxury we can no longer afford. That argument becomes especially tempting
in the context of cyberspace, where sequences of "0"s and
"1"s may become virtual life forms. Computer "viruses" roam
the information nets, attaching themselves to various programs and screwing up
computer facilities. Creation of a computer virus involves writing a program;
the program then replicates itself and mutates. The electronic code involved is
very much like DNA. If information content is "speech," and if the
First Amendment is to apply in cyberspace, then mustn't these viruses be
"speech" — and mustn't their writing and dissemination be
constitutionally protected? To avoid that nightmarish outcome, mustn't we say
that the First Amendment is inapplicable to cyberspace?
The
answer is no. Speech is protected, but deliberately yelling "Boo!" at
a cardiac patient may still be prosecuted as murder. Free speech is a
constitutional right, but handing a bank teller a hold-up note that says,
"Your money or your life," may still be punished as robbery. Stealing
someone's diary may be punished as theft — even if you intend to publish it in
book form. And the Supreme Court, over the past fifteen years, has gradually
brought advertising within the ambit of protected expression without preventing
the government from protecting consumers from deceptive advertising. The
lesson, in short, is that constitutional principles are subtle enough to bend
to such concerns. They needn't be broken or tossed out.
Axiom 4:
The Constitution is Founded on Normative
Conceptions of Humanity That Advances
in Science and Technology Cannot "Disprove"
A
fourth constitutional axiom is that the human spirit is something beyond a
physical information processor. That axiom, which regards human thought
processes as not fully reducible to the operations of a computer program,
however complex, must not be confused with the silly view that, because
computer operations involve nothing more than the manipulation of
"on" and "off" states of myriad microchips, it somehow
follows that government control or outright seizure of computers and computer
programs threatens no First Amendment rights because human thought processes
are not directly involved. To say that would be like saying that government
confiscation of a newspaper's printing press and tomorrow morning's copy has
nothing to do with speech but involves only a taking of metal, paper, and ink.
Particularly if the seizure or the regulation is triggered by the content of
the information being processed or transmitted, the First Amendment is of
course fully involved. Yet this recognition that information processing by
computer entails something far beyond the mere sequencing of mechanical or
chemical steps still leaves a potential gap between what computers can do
internally and in communication with one another — and what goes on within and
between human minds. It is that gap to which this fourth axiom is addressed;
the very existence of any such gap is, as I'm sure you know, a matter of
considerable controversy.
What
if people like the mathematician and physicist Roger Penrose, author of “The
Emperor's New Mind”, are wrong about human minds? In that provocative recent
book, Penrose disagrees with those Artificial Intelligence, or AI, gurus who
insist that it's only a matter of time until human thought and feeling can be
perfectly simulated or even replicated by a series of purely physical
operations — that it's all just neurons firing and neurotransmitters flowing,
all subject to perfect modeling in suitable computer systems. Would an adherent
of that AI orthodoxy, someone whom Penrose fails to persuade, have to reject as
irrelevant for cyberspace those constitutional protections that rest on the
anti-AI premise that minds are not reducible to really fancy computers?
Consider,
for example, the Fifth Amendment, which provides that "no person shall be
. . . compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself." The
Supreme Court has long held that suspects may be required, despite this
protection, to provide evidence that is not "testimonial" in nature —
blood samples, for instance, or even exemplars of one's handwriting or voice.
Last year, in a case called “Pennsylvania v. Muniz”, the Supreme Court held
that answers to even simple questions like "When was your sixth
birthday?" are testimonial because such a question, however
straightforward, nevertheless calls for the product of mental activity and
therefore uses the suspect's mind against him. But what if science could
eventually describe thinking as a process no more complex than, say, riding a
bike or digesting a meal? Might the progress of neurobiology and computer
science eventually overthrow the premises of the “Muniz” decision?
I
would hope not. For the Constitution's premises, properly understood, are normative
rather than descriptive. The philosopher David Hume was right in
teaching that no "ought" can ever be logically derived from an
"is." If we should ever abandon the Constitution's protection for the
distinctively and universally human, it won't be because robotics or genetic
engineering or computer science have led us to deeper truths, but rather
because they have seduced us into more profound confusions. Science and
technology open options, create possibilities, suggest incompatibilities,
generate threats. They do not alter what is "right" or what is
"wrong." The fact that those notions are elusive and subject to
endless debate need not make them totally contingent on contemporary
technology.
Axiom 5:
Constitutional Principles Should Not
Vary With Accidents of Technology
In
a sense, that's the fifth and final constitutional axiom I would urge upon this
gathering: that the Constitution's norms, at their deepest level, must be
invariant under merely technological transformations. Our constitutional
law evolves through judicial interpretation, case by case, in a process of
reasoning by analogy from precedent. At its best, that process is ideally
suited to seeing beneath the surface and extracting deeper principles from
prior decisions. At its worst, though, the same process can get bogged down in
superficial aspects of preexisting examples, fixating upon unessential features
while overlooking underlying principles and values.
When
the Supreme Court in 1928 first confronted wiretapping and held in “Olmstead v.
United States” that such wiretapping involved no "search" or
"seizure" within the meaning of the Fourth Amendment's prohibition of
"unreasonable searches and seizures," the majority of the Court
reasoned that the Fourth Amendment "itself shows that the search is to be
of material things — the person, the house, his papers or his effects,"
and said that "there was no searching" when a suspect's phone was
tapped because the Constitution's language "cannot be extended and
expanded to include telephone wires reaching to the whole world from the
defendant's house or office." After all, said the Court, the intervening
wires "are not part of his house or office any more than are the highways
along which they are stretched." Even to a law student in the 1960s, as
you might imagine, that "reasoning" seemed amazingly artificial. Yet
the “Olmstead” doctrine still survived.
It
would be illuminating at this point to compare the Supreme Court's initial
reaction to new technology in “Olmstead” with its initial reaction to new
technology in “Maryland v. Craig”, the 1990 closed-circuit television case with
which we began this discussion. In “Craig”, a majority of the Justices assumed
that, when the 18th- century Framers of the Confrontation Clause included a
guarantee of two-way physical confrontation, they did so solely because
it had not yet become technologically feasible for the accused to look his
accuser in the eye without having the accuser simultaneously watch the accused.
Given that this technological obstacle has been removed, the majority assumed,
one-way confrontation is now sufficient. It is enough that the accused not be
subject to criminal conviction on the basis of statements made outside his
presence.
In
“Olmstead”, a majority of the Justices assumed that, when the 18th-century
authors of the Fourth Amendment used language that sounded "physical"
in guaranteeing against invasions of a person's dwelling or possessions, they
did so not solely because physical invasions were at that time the only
serious threats to personal privacy, but for the separate and distinct reason
that intangible invasions simply would not threaten any relevant
dimension of Fourth Amendment privacy.
In
a sense, “Olmstead” mindlessly read a new technology out of the
Constitution, while “Craig” absent-mindedly read a new technology into
the Constitution. But both decisions — “Olmstead” and “Craig” — had the
structural effect of withholding the protections of the Bill of Rights from
threats made possible by new information technologies. “Olmstead” did so by
implausibly reading the Constitution's text as though it represented a
deliberate decision not to extend protection to threats that 18th-century
thinkers simply had not foreseen. “Craig” did so by somewhat more plausibly —
but still unthinkingly — treating the Constitution's seemingly explicit
coupling of two analytically distinct protections as reflecting a failure of
technological foresight and imagination, rather than a deliberate value choice.
The
“Craig” majority's approach appears to have been driven in part by an
understandable sense of how a new information technology could directly protect
a particularly sympathetic group, abused children, from a traumatic trial
experience. The “Olmstead” majority's approach probably reflected both an
exaggerated estimate of how difficult it would be to obtain wiretapping
warrants even where fully justified, and an insufficient sense of how a new
information technology could directly threaten all of us. Although both “Craig”
and “Olmstead” reveal an inadequate consciousness about how new technologies
interact with old values, “Craig” at least seems defensible even if misguided,
while “Olmstead” seems just plain wrong.
Around
23 years ago, as a then-recent law school graduate serving as law clerk to
Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart, I found myself working on a case
involving the government's electronic surveillance of a suspected criminal — in
the form of a tiny device attached to the outside of a public telephone booth.
Because the invasion of the suspect's privacy was accomplished without physical
trespass into a "constitutionally protected area," the Federal
Government argued, relying on “Olmstead”, that there had been no
"search" or "seizure," and therefore that the Fourth
Amendment "right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses,
papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures," simply
did not apply.
At
first, there were only four votes to overrule “Olmstead” and to hold the Fourth
Amendment applicable to wiretapping and electronic eavesdropping. I'm proud to
say that, as a 26-year-old kid, I had at least a little bit to do with changing
that number from four to seven — and with the argument, formally adopted by a
seven-Justice majority in December 1967, that the Fourth Amendment "protects
people, not places." (389 U.S. at 351.) In that decision, “Katz v. United
States”, the Supreme Court finally repudiated “Olmstead” and the many decisions
that had relied upon it and reasoned that, given the role of electronic
telecommunications in modern life, the First Amendment purposes of protecting free
speech as well as the Fourth Amendment purposes of protecting privacy
require treating as a "search" any invasion of a person's
confidential telephone communications, with or without physical trespass.
Sadly,
nine years later, in “Smith v. Maryland”, the Supreme Court retreated from the
“Katz” principle by holding that no search occurs and therefore no warrant is
needed when police, with the assistance of the telephone company, make use of a
"pen register", a mechanical device placed on someone's phone line
that records all numbers dialed from the phone and the times of dialing. The
Supreme Court, over the dissents of Justices Stewart, Brennan, and Marshall,
found no legitimate expectation of privacy in the numbers dialed, reasoning
that the digits one dials are routinely recorded by the phone company for
billing purposes. As Justice Stewart, the author of “Katz”, aptly pointed out,
"that observation no more than describes the basic nature of telephone
calls . . . . It is simply not enough to say, after “Katz”, that there is no
legitimate expectation of privacy in the numbers dialed because the caller
assumes the risk that the telephone company will expose them to the
police." (442 U.S. at 746-747.) Today, the logic of “Smith” is being used
to say that people have no expectation of privacy when they use their cordless
telephones since they know or should know that radio waves can be easily
monitored!
It
is easy to be pessimistic about the way in which the Supreme Court has reacted
to technological change. In many respects, “Smith” is unfortunately more
typical than “Katz” of the way the Court has behaved. For example, when movies
were invented, and for several decades thereafter, the Court held that movie
exhibitions were not entitled to First Amendment protection. When community
access cable TV was born, the Court hindered municipal attempts to provide it
at low cost by holding that rules requiring landlords to install small cable
boxes on their apartment buildings amounted to a compensable taking of
property. And in “Red Lion v. FCC”, decided twenty-two years ago but still not
repudiated today, the Court ratified government control of TV and radio
broadcast content with the dubious logic that the scarcity of the
electromagnetic spectrum justified not merely government policies to auction
off, randomly allocate, or otherwise ration the spectrum according to neutral
rules, but also much more intrusive and content-based government regulation in
the form of the so-called "fairness doctrine."
Although
the Supreme Court and the lower federal courts have taken a somewhat more
enlightened approach in dealing with cable television, these decisions for the
most part reveal a curious judicial blindness, as if the Constitution had to be
reinvented with the birth of each new technology. Judges interpreting a late
18th century Bill of Rights tend to forget that, unless its terms are
read in an evolving and dynamic way, its values will lose even the static
protection they once enjoyed. Ironically, fidelity to original values
requires flexibility of textual interpretation. It was Judge Robert
Bork, not famous for his flexibility, who once urged this enlightened view upon
then Justice Scalia, when the two of them sat as colleagues on the U.S. Court
of Appeals for the D.C. Circuit.
Judicial
error in this field tends to take the form of saying that, by using modern
technology ranging from the telephone to the television to computers, we
"assume the risk." But that typically begs the question. Justice
Harlan, in a dissent penned two decades ago, wrote: "Since it is the task
of the law to form and project, as well as mirror and reflect, we should not .
. . merely recite . . . risks without examining the desirability of
saddling them upon society." (“United States v. White”, 401 U.S. at 786).
And, I would add, we should not merely recite risks without examining how
imposing those risks comports with the Constitution's fundamental values of freedom,
privacy, and equality.
Failing
to examine just that issue is the basic error I believe federal courts and
Congress have made:
· in regulating radio
and TV broadcasting without adequate sensitivity to First Amendment values;
· in supposing that the
selection and editing of video programs by cable operators might be less than a
form of expression;
· in excluding
telephone companies from cable and other information markets;
· in assuming that the
processing of "O"s and "1"s by computers as they exchange
data with one another is something less than "speech"; and
· in generally treating
information processed electronically as though it were somehow less entitled to
protection for that reason.
The
lesson to be learned is that these choices and these mistakes are not dictated
by the Constitution. They are decisions for us to make in interpreting that
majestic charter, and in implementing the principles that the Constitution
establishes.
Conclusion
If
my own life as a lawyer and legal scholar could leave just one legacy, I'd like
it to be the recognition that the Constitution as a whole "protects
people, not places." If that is to come about, the Constitution as a whole
must be read through a technologically transparent lens. That is, we must
embrace, as a rule of construction or interpretation, a principle one might
call the "cyberspace corollary." It would make a suitable
Twenty-seventh Amendment to the Constitution, one befitting the 200th
anniversary of the Bill of Rights. Whether adopted all at once as a
constitutional amendment, or accepted gradually as a principle of
interpretation that I believe should obtain even without any formal change in
the Constitution's language, the corollary I would propose would do for technology
in 1991 what I believe the Constitution's Ninth Amendment, adopted in 1791, was
meant to do for text.
The
Ninth Amendment says: "The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain
rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the
people." That amendment provides added support for the long-debated, but
now largely accepted, "right of privacy" that the Supreme Court
recognized in such decisions as the famous birth control case of 1965,
“Griswold v. Connecticut”. The Ninth Amendment's simple message is: The text
used by the Constitution's authors and ratifiers does not exhaust the values
our Constitution recognizes. Perhaps a Twenty-seventh Amendment could convey a
parallel and equally simple message: The technologies familiar to the
Constitution's authors and ratifiers similarly do not exhaust the threats
against which the Constitution's core values must be protected.
Ñòðàíèöû: 1, 2, 3, 4