Robert L. Greenberg[1]

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Introduction

On August 16, 2016, the United States Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit issued a landmark decision on a series of cases relating to businesses and individuals in the state-legal cannabis business. In United States v. McIntosh,^[2] the Court heard ten cases challenging the United States Department of Justice (DOJ) prosecution of medical marijuana patients. These cases involved criminal defendants who were charged with violations of federal narcotics laws while ostensibly in compliance with the laws of their respective states.^[3] The court determined that federal law prohibits the prosecution of these cases when the defendants are otherwise in compliance with state law. The impact of this decision is discussed infra.

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Steven Zeidman[1]

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Introduction

New York State courts, like many other state and federal courts, have seen an increase in cases that pit lawyer versus client; where the lawyer wanted to proceed in one way and the client wanted to go in another direction. The resulting decisions, often inconsistent and irreconcilable, reflect the difficulties in navigating the lawyer-client relationship.

Recently, the New York Court of Appeals again waded directly into the muddy waters of attorney versus client decision-making.^[2] On the face of it, the Court was deciding whether counsel needed his client’s consent before telling the prosecutor that his client would not exercise his statutory right to testify in the Grand Jury.^[3] However, lurking beneath the surface are the larger and related questions of who, between lawyer and client, has ultimate decision-making power, and what information lawyers must provide clients about their rights.

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Professor Janet Calvo[1]

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On November 9, 2016, the U.S. Supreme Court will hear arguments in Lynch v. Morales-Santana.[2] The case directly addresses the constitutionality of gender differences in the acquisition of U.S. citizenship by statute through parentage.[3] But the case is infused with issues about the historical record of discrimination based in gender, non-marital birth, race and imperialism in U.S. law. The outcome of the case will be legally and socially significant because of the standards the Court may apply to gender discrimination and to a remedy for discrimination in the context of citizenship and because of the societal message sent regarding parental responsibility for non-marital children grounded in gender stereotypes.

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Brandon Buskey*

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Introduction

Henry Montgomery has survived the remarkable arc of the Supreme Court’s evolution juvenile sentencing. In 1970, Louisiana sentenced him to die in prison for the murder of a police officer, a crime he committed when he was seventeen years old.[1] The sentence was mandatory, and it was perfectly legal. At that time it was also perfectly legal to execute juveniles. A generation later, the Supreme Court barred the execution of children under age sixteen in 1988,[2] but the next year refused to extend the bar to all juveniles.[3] Not until 2005 did the Court exempt all juveniles from the death penalty.[4] In half a decade, the Court ruled that juveniles could not be imprisoned for life without any possibility of release for non-homicides.[5] A mere two years later, yet forty-six years after Mr. Montgomery’s conviction, the Court declared, in Miller v. Alabama,[6] that mandatory life sentences like Mr. Montgomery’s were unconstitutional.

Miller confirmed the lessons of these prior decisions that children’s youth and immaturity make them categorically different for sentencing purposes, and that life imprisonment without parole is akin to the death penalty for juveniles. Thus, automatically sentencing children to a lifetime of imprisonment “poses too great a risk of disproportionate punishment.”[7] The Eighth Amendment’s protection against “cruel and usual punishments” therefore prohibits such sentences.

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Nikki Whetstone*

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Introduction

New York has two separate judicial systems within Family Court: one for children who are considered “victims,” and another for those who are considered “offenders.” Children whose parents are suspected of abuse/neglect are placed in dependency court, under the guise that the state must step in as parens patriae to protect the well-being of the child.[1] On the other hand, children who are accused of committing a crime are placed in delinquency court, with the purpose of protecting society and holding the youth accountable for their actions, while also attempting to rehabilitate them.[2] However, often the same social and familial circumstances lead children to become involved in both systems, simultaneously yet separately becoming both the “victim” and the “offender” in the eyes of the court. Despite recent efforts to reform the family court system, New York fails to address the needs of youth who are involved in both delinquency and dependency court.

This paper first examines the separate theoretical and historical foundations of both New York dependency and delinquency court, including their differing rationales and treatment of children. Part II of this paper evaluates the correlation between victimization and offending, and the connection between dependent youth and their subsequent involvement in the delinquency system (“dual-status youth”). Finally, part III explores the “dual victim-offender” framework and offers this as a lens to be used by Family Court to inform their view of children and, in turn, reform the way children are treated in the system.

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Lindsay Lee Cowen*

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Introduction

These days, the world knows South Korea (“Korea”) as the land of Samsung,[1] kimchi,[2] and k-pop,[3] for which its upsurge in popularity owes “Gangnam Style” much thanks.[4] Below the surface of this most recent hallyu, or “Korean wave”[5] of popular culture ascendency across the globe, lies the darker side of Korea. Numerous articles have scrutinized its colossal plastic surgery industry, questioning the motives behind such procedures and crowning Seoul the new plastic surgery capital of the world.[6] A generation of transnational adoptees has renewed attention in what, during the 1988 Summer Olympics,[7] was labeled the country’s greatest shame: mass exportation of unwanted babies.[8] Media outlets have exposed a “remote island where the enslavement of disabled salt farm workers is an open secret.”[9]

Nonetheless, the hallyu surges forward. Tourism rates in 2015 nearly tripled those from only a decade prior.[10] College student study of foreign languages has declined nearly 7% since 2009, yet enrollment in Korean-language classes increased 45% from 2009 to 2013.[11] In 2014, The Huffington Post launched “Huffpost Korea” and published an article proclaiming what the country can teach “the rest of the world about living well,”[12] while ignoring its low happiness index and high suicide rate.[13]

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Matthew J. D’Emic[1]

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Introduction

It has been a rough year for the criminal justice system in America. Racially charged confrontations in various jurisdictions have caused citizens to question both the substantive and procedural fairness of our justice system. Calls for reform of the grand jury process, court transparency, and other facets of the criminal justice system sound far and wide. Protestations of “no justice, no peace”—an accusation of systemic injustice—echo across the country.[2]

Legal scholars decry the shortcomings of judges and judging. One claims “misjudging is more common, more systematic, and more harmful than the legal system has fully realized.”[3] Yet another presumes “judges generally are prone to error because of . . . informational, cognitive, and attitudinal blinders,” concluding, “I do not think that the vast majority of trial judges are good . . . .”[4]

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Sara AbiBoutros[1]

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The use of public space to peacefully assemble is essential to the success of any social movement fighting for social justice. Without a space for people to come together, it would be impossible to engage with one another, to plan, and to make our civil disobedience visible to the public. The convergence of public and private institutions to curtail the use of space to quash free speech is evident through the repression of the Free Speech Movement (“FSM”) in the 1960s and Occupy Wall Street (“OWS”) in 2011. At their core, the FSM and OWS were both protesting the socio-political landscape and the power structure. Both movements used symptoms of this larger issue, such as limiting free speech and the use of public space, to create such tension that society could no longer ignore injustice. Through this approach they were able to gain political concessions; but more importantly, they radicalized previously non-politically active individuals and changed the way people think.

The FSM was able to galvanize support through confrontations with a university’s administration,[2] while OWS attempted to create the world in which it envisioned. Different ideologies of civil disobedience played a part in shaping the movements and the tactics they chose to utilize. Off-shoots of OWS, such as Occupy Sandy and Strike Debt, show that the principles of the movement could be used as a model to achieve tangible successes in multiple arenas.

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