Introduction
“Dead, dead, dead.”1 This quote might have referred to any number of apparent casualties of the 2023 Supreme Court Term — from the Court’s decades-old approach to reviewing agency action (“Chevron deference”),2 to federal prosecutors’ chances of holding former President Donald J. Trump accountable for alleged interference with the 2020 presidential election,3 to the billionaire Sackler family’s bold attempt to use a corporate bankruptcy settlement to finalize their liability for the opioid crisis.4
The quote in fact referred to a case that Court-watchers and the media have already largely forgotten, Acheson Hotels, LLC v. Laufer.5 At oral argument on the morning of October 4, 2023, Justice Kagan pronounced Laufer dead on arrival.6 In a rare display of consensus, her most conservative colleagues appeared to agree. Article III of the U.S. Constitution constrains the Court to adjudicating only live “Cases” and “Controversies,”7 and this one appeared “dead as a doornail,” in Justice Alito’s words;8 “finished,” in Justice Thomas’s.9
Seven months earlier, when the Court agreed to hear Laufer, the case presumably looked alive — and useful.10 The Court’s review of this dispute promised to resolve disagreement among lower courts over whether a disabled “tester” plaintiff like Deborah Laufer had standing to enforce the Americans with Disabilities Act of 199011 (ADA) against a hotel that she admittedly had no intention of visiting in person.12 By the time of oral argument, however, the facts had changed in crucial ways.13 Laufer, who “ha[d] sued hundreds of [other] hotels” over alleged noncompliance with the ADA, learned that a district court had suspended her lawyer from legal practice, following findings of unethical behavior in prior lawsuits that Laufer had brought.14 Following this news, Laufer “voluntarily dismissed her . . . suit[]” against Acheson Hotels, as well as all pending suits against other hotels, and “filed a suggestion of mootness” with the Supreme Court.15 At oral argument, her appellate counsel went so far as to assure the Court that Laufer would never file an ADA lawsuit again.16 Ultimately, the Court agreed to treat the case as moot.17 Seven Justices joined a majority opinion warning against efforts to “evade our review” and supplementing the order of dismissal with an order of vacatur, effectively erasing the First Circuit’s standing determination.18 No longer suitable for making law for the nation, Laufer would make no law at all.
Dead and disappeared, Laufer might be the least important decision of the 2023 Term — a Term that, in the words of one major newspaper, “[r]emade America” itself.19 But from another perspective — that of this Foreword — Laufer is an ideal starting point for reflection.
Consider, first, how Laufer reached the Court. The Court chose it from among thousands of petitions for review, via an opaque but high-stakes process.20 Many cases end here, with no explanation.21 Laufer was instead lifted up. When the dispute later disintegrated, some Justices sounded frustrated. “[S]ignificant resources have already been invested in this case,” Justice Barrett noted during oral argument.22 “[W]e may have to come up with another case,” Chief Justice Roberts remarked, referencing the need to find a different vehicle for answering the legal question Laufer had presented.23 In other words, the concern was not only about resources already spent, but also about having to spend resources again, in pursuit of the same end.24
These comments are both mundane and profound. They are mundane because of course the Justices ought to be concerned about answering important legal questions of national significance. So too should they care about institutional resources. These comments are profound in revealing the constructedness of the Court’s “merits docket,” the assemblage of the sixty-or-so cases that the Court chooses to consider every term,25 along with the much smaller number of cases that it must hear (where jurisdiction is mandatory).26 The vast discretionary portion of the docket is decidedly not an objective representation of the legal questions that matter most to the American people.27 If it were, it is not obvious that “tester” plaintiffs would be on the agenda (despite the important role they can play in enforcing antidiscrimination laws28). Nor, despite the Court’s self-presentation, does the merits docket consist of legal issues that incontrovertibly must be decided now by the nation’s apex court.29 Laufer became part of the 2023 Term because it had the potential to resolve a “circuit split” within the appellate courts.30 But so did other cases that the Court declined to take up during the same time frame.31 In reality, the Court’s merits docket is a highly curated collection of controversies — not unlike an archive of historical sources or an exhibit at a museum, but with a different function and much more formal power.
“Curation” occurs most obviously via case selection, but also at other decision points — some of which became unusually salient during the 2023 Term. In addition to deciding which cases warrant review, the Court decides when a case is most suitable for review (that is, at what stage of the litigation and on what sort of underlying record), which legal question(s) to consider, how to sequence arguments, and when to issue decisions.32 Curation also occurs further upstream, via signals in prior decisions and oral arguments about what sort of litigants should petition for review and which questions they should raise.33 (The same types of signals warn other litigants to steer clear of the Court if they can.34) To be sure, it would be hard to dispute the rightful place of some items on the Court’s agenda each term, but this should not distract us from the contestable choices the Court makes when curating the vast majority of its docket.
These exercises of curatorial discretion matter in at least two ways. The first and most obvious pertains to lawmaking: In adjudicating particular cases, the Court will make the law of the land, with immediate and significant consequences for the law’s subjects.35 Whatever one thinks about the merits of the 2022 decision Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization,36 for example, the Court chose to take that case and chose to decide it as it did.37 (Court-watchers may recall that the court below had adhered, if grudgingly, to Supreme Court precedent, leaving no error to correct under then-governing law.38) Dobbs’s revocation of a constitutionally protected zone of reproductive autonomy has already had a profound impact.39
Similarly consequential, and flowing from other discretionary judgments, was the Court’s decision in Trump v. United States,40 which followed from a federal grand jury’s indictment of former President Trump on charges relating to his refusal to accept his defeat in the 2020 presidential election.41 After the Court of Appeals for the D.C. Circuit rejected Trump’s arguments regarding presidential immunity,42 Trump urged the Supreme Court to weigh in.43 But the Court was not required to do so. It could have denied certiorari and allowed the D.C. Circuit’s decision to stand.44 It could have issued a summary affirmance.45 Instead, the Court accepted review and, at the very end of the Term, issued a decision that insulates wide swaths of presidential conduct from criminal prosecution.46 During the Court’s consideration of this case, Trump was actively campaigning for a second term in office and also deeply embroiled in litigation (“fighting 91 felony counts, across four different jurisdictions”).47 At the time of this writing, the legal and political consequences of Trump v. United States continue to unfold.
Acts of docket discretion also produce a second set of consequences — even more central to this Foreword — and these are narratives.48 Legal decisions provide opportunities to tell particular stories — about what happened and why; about what is changeable and what is fixed; about who “we” are as a people and who is not our concern.49 Laufer, a standing case, was an opportunity to tell a story about injury, with all of that concept’s legal and rhetorical power.50 Like other recent standing cases, it asked what counts as an injury, how we know when injury has occurred or is likely to occur, and which injuries have legal remedies.51 In fact, Laufer offered up multiple tales of injury: On one side were small business owners who felt targeted — even “violated” — by plaintiffs like Laufer;52 on the other side, disabled Americans whose encounters with inaccessible hotels left them feeling frustrated, degraded, and invisible.53 In treating Laufer as moot, the Court largely restrained itself from weaving any of these stories into an official narrative — other than to cast Laufer herself as something of a villain.54 But the space that Laufer occupied on the Court’s highly selective docket reminds us of the Court’s power to do this crucial storytelling work.
This now “dead” case also primes us to ask questions about who, if not Laufer, benefitted from the Court’s narrative-making power during the 2023 Term — and why. Out of a cast of characters that prominently featured masculine strivers55 (hardworking fishermen,56 risk-taking investment fund managers,57 stormers of the U.S. Capitol58), stories emerged about overzealous federal prosecutors and administrators. Sympathy also seemed to flow toward misunderstood politicians,59 encumbered Christian believers,60 and beleaguered local governments,61 even if they did not get everything from the Court that they came for. From the perspective of the conservative legal movement, members of these groups have suffered under generations of liberal and progressive policies, as well as via judge-made doctrines that have tilted against them. In the 2023 Term, as in other recent Terms, the Court opened its doors to these concerns and gave them a respectful hearing.62
“Claims to victimhood are claims to power,” communications scholar Lilie Chouliaraki has noted63 — making it noteworthy that the narratives in principal opinions simultaneously declined to give prominent roles to several groups that media outlets had treated sympathetically. These included pregnant emergency room patients,64 people affected by gun violence,65 people experiencing homelessness,66 and those endangered at the U.S. Capitol on January 6, 2021.67 Principal opinions acknowledged individual hardships,68 as well as challenging social realities,69 but refused to confer the status of victimhood on these groups, or give them agency in describing their harms.70 Still other groups and experiences had no place at all on the Court’s docket and therefore less presumptive access to national conversations about what justice requires.71 Victims of police misconduct, for example, were largely absent,72 despite persistent calls for the Court to revisit a judge-made doctrine (qualified immunity) that has often prevented them from holding law enforcement officers accountable.73
In the background, meanwhile — and sometimes right on the surface — were narratives about the Court itself: whom it serves, how it relates to other governmental institutions, and how Americans ought to understand its role. Amidst what many commentators have called a legitimacy crisis,74 these narratives illuminate how members of the Court’s conservative supermajority would like to be understood — both by today’s public and by the court of history.75
These different facets of Supreme Court decisional power — the power to decide what to decide and the power to craft and disseminate narratives — matter in different ways, but are united in at least one respect. They each produce a particular distribution of concern: an investment of time, resources, possibility, and understanding that can translate into distributions of other valuables, including power, legitimacy, opportunity, wealth, and protection.76 Each distribution also translates into further concern, both from the Court and from the institutions that take direction and meaning from what the Court does, including lower courts, the media, law schools, and academia.
Drawing on insights from history — a discipline that has long grappled with the non-neutrality of the questions we seek to answer, the knowledge we produce, and the judgments we make — this Foreword is a call to see and interrogate the Court’s distribution of concern, including concern for its own stature and authority. It is also a call to recognize the choices, recent and more distant, undergirding this distribution. Such an approach could yield insights into many eras, but the current Court has features that make this focus especially apt. These include the Court’s shrinking merits docket77 (raising the stakes of each case) and a decisional and rhetorical style that determinedly resists the kind of analysis I am asking for, by appearing to welcome limits on the Court’s discretion and by eschewing talk of consequences.78
To explore this theme, this Foreword proceeds in three main Parts, each of which loosely analogizes the work of the Court to the work of professional historians. I do so not because of the Court’s own embrace of history (although I touch on this topic). Rather, I take this approach because of how deeply historians have thought about (1) the possibility of “neutrality” — this Court’s shibboleth — and (2) the power that inheres in every decision we make about how to find and convey truth.
Part I — Curation — critically examines docket construction in the 2023 Term. Dipping into the petitions for certiorari, this Part also offers glimpses of a docket that might have been, to underscore that non-wealthy people, navigating predatory economic circumstances, were available for the Court’s consideration, even if they did not feature prominently on the docket. Pragmatically, this demographic may have been better off evading the Court’s gaze, but the Court’s apparent disinterest in their cases nonetheless raises important questions. As Professor Erin Delaney has observed, one of the ways that the Court has “construct[ed] its legitimacy [is] through an opaque method of avoiding substantive rulings” that it does not want to make.79 As the Court curated one set of legal questions to decide, was it evading others?
Part II — Narration — argues that we should care not only about which cases the Court chose to decide, but also about the narratives that members of the majority chose to foreground. These are as worthy of analysis as the Court’s legal holdings (which other contributions to this issue discuss in depth). Particularly prominent this Term were censorious narratives about the administrative state, which appear aimed at naturalizing significant changes to administrative law. Also prominent were narratives about the Court itself — narratives that seek to convince the public of the Court’s modesty, neutrality, and farsightedness.
Part III — Erasure — addresses a phenomenon that is well known to historians but less discussed by Court-watchers: the disappearance from the record of particular people and experiences, leaving a “silence” in an authoritative body of knowledge. This Part connects the themes of the 2023 Term to the disappearance over time of cases involving government support of “the most vulnerable,” to borrow a phrase from one of the Term’s sharpest dissents.80 This disappearance has eased the way for decisions that empower the least vulnerable. These same decisions have then channeled scholars’ concern, in ways that merit acknowledgment and resistance.
Part IV concludes, with reflections on the kinds of questions that can change narratives and unlock different futures.
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* J.D./Ph.D. (History); Seaman Family University Professor, University of Pennsylvania. Sarah Barringer Gordon, Melissa Murray, William Novak, and John Fabian Witt were early and vital interlocutors. They also engaged deeply with early drafts and offered invaluable comments, as did Amna Akbar, Ashraf Ahmed, Rachel Bayefsky, Josh Chafetz, Erin Delaney, Andrew Hammond, Jasmine Harris, Jill Hasday, Scott Heerman, Serena Mayeri, Shaun Ossei-Owusu, David Pozen, Teemu Ruskola, Kate Shaw, and Noah Zatz. Other colleagues were generous thought partners at formative stages: Zohra Ahmed, Jeanine Alvarez, Corinne Blalock, Hardeep Dhillon, Ryan Doerfler, Helyeh Doutaghi, William Ewald, Brittany Farr, Sarah Gronningsater, Christen Hammock Jones, Angela Harris, Sean Hill, Amy Kapczynski, Tejas Narechania, K-Sue Park, K. Sabeel Rahman, Noah Rosenblum, Justin Simard, Marbre Stahly-Butts, and Lisa Washington. Rachel Biggio, James Callison, Kate Constant, Sara Edelman, Santoro Giuggio, Sophia Heisman-Gibbons, Allison Kunstler, Jacob Ross, Sam Rudovsky, Caroline Shoaibi, Jared Turner, and, most especially, Ethan Swift provided excellent research assistance. The student editors of the Harvard Law Review made this Foreword better in every way.