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Online Scholarship, Perspectives

German Telemedicine for an American Patient: The Validity of Forum Selection and Choice-of-Law Clauses in International Telemedical Contracts

By Mindy Nunez Duffourc and Matthias Haag

Introduction

In May 2018, the General Assembly of German Physicians voted to lift the ban on remote treatment that was previously contained in Article 7(4) of the Model Professional Code for Physicians in Germany. The earlier rules prohibited a doctor from diagnosing or treating a patient until an in-person examination was conducted. Lifting this restriction promises to put German doctors on an equal footing with their European counterparts, many of whom are legally permitted to provide cross-border telemedical treatment within the European Union pursuant to the EU directive on the application of patients’ rights in cross-border healthcare (2011/24/EU). In addition, German providers can join the growing global telemedicine market and contribute to the international goal of using telemedicine to increase healthcare access and quality while lowering cost. Of course, increased use of telemedicine comes with the potential for increased malpractice liability. Cross-border provision of telemedicine adds additional complexity to liability concerns.

The European Union provides some legal uniformity for medical malpractice disputes arising from cross-border healthcare through Directive 2011/24/EU. For example, the Directive provides, as a default rule, that the laws of the member state providing treatment govern the underlying medical malpractice disputes. It further clarifies that the member state providing treatment is the state where the healthcare provider is established. Unfortunately, no such guidance exists for disputes arising out of cross-border treatment between telemedicine participants in the United States and Germany.

To avoid liability in a foreign state or under foreign law, healthcare providers might include forum selection and choice-of-law clauses in international telemedicine contracts. To explore questions regarding whether these clauses are valid under American and German law, I consider the following hypothetical scenario:

An American patient seeking a second opinion regarding a differential diagnosis of myocarditis discovers a telemedical service in Germany that provides second opinions from physicians at a renowned German medical center headquartered in Munich. The medical center’s website advertises international telemedicine services, which can be obtained by filling out an online form. The second opinion is not covered by the patient’s insurance and the cost of a second opinion from Germany is less than half the cost of one in the United States. As instructed by the German medical center, the patient sends her electronic medical records and radiographs to Germany for evaluation. The second opinion diagnoses the patient with stress-induced cardiomyopathy. After reading about stress-induced cardiomyopathy online, the patient decides to wait a few months before agreeing to undergo an endomyocardial biopsy to confirm the myocarditis diagnosis. Ten weeks later, the patient suffers from a stroke resulting in severe disability. A myocarditis diagnosis is later confirmed. The patient files a lawsuit in a U.S. federal district court against the German medical center and the physician who rendered the second opinion, seeking more than $75,000 in damages. The German providers ask the court to dismiss the lawsuit in favor of a German venue and/or decide that German law governs the litigation pursuant to the following language in the contract: “Any and all claims and causes of action arising out of or relating to this Agreement, whether sounding in contract or tort shall be governed by the law of the Federal Republic of Germany. The exclusive place of jurisdiction shall be Munich in Bavaria, Federal Republic of Germany.” The plaintiff claims that the choice-of-law and forum selection clauses are invalid.

Discussion

Does the U.S. court have jurisdiction to decide the validity of the choice-of-law and forum selection clauses?

The court will likely have subject matter jurisdiction over the dispute under 28 U.S.C. § 1332 because it involves U.S. citizens and foreign citizens and the amount in controversy exceeds $75,000. The court will also likely have personal jurisdiction over the German defendants under McGee v. International Life Insurance Co. because the German providers voluntarily contracted with a U.S. citizen and received a benefit and because the United States has an interest in protecting its citizens. Finally, the forum-selection clause does not divest the court of jurisdiction to determine the choice clauses’ validity.

Which law governs the validity of the choice-of-law clause in the United States?

U.S. law will govern the validity of the choice-of-law clause because validity is a threshold issue that should be decided, not under the law specified in the clause, but by the law of the forum state. Pursuant to Klaxon Co. v. Stentor Electric Manufacturing Co., a federal court sitting in diversity will likely apply state law to determine the validity of the choice-of-law clause.

Is the choice-of-law clause valid under American law?

Preliminarily, note that the hypothetical choice-of-law clause is broad enough to cover tortious and contractual medical malpractice claims. As Coyle discusses in detail, a narrower clause, only designating law to govern the agreement, would not apply to tortious medical malpractice claims in several U.S. jurisdictions.

Twenty-nine states will apply §187(2) of the Restatement (Second) of Conflict of Laws to evaluate the validity of the choice-of-law clause. Under §187(2)(b), the choice-of-law clause will not be valid if the chosen law is “contrary to a fundamental policy of a state which has a materially greater interest than the chosen state in the determination of the particular issue and which . . . would be the state of the applicable law in the absence of an effective choice of law by the parties.” In the absence of a choice, the Restatement calls for the “law of the consumer’s habitual residence.” As a result, one must evaluate the public policies of the U.S. state in which the hypothetical patient resides to determine the validity of the choice-of-law clause.

In any state, one must consider policies advancing consumer protection since the hypothetical contract is a consumer contract. Ruhl and Hall & Schneider note that consumers, and especially patients, have “inferior bargaining power” compared to their professional contracting partners, which compels many legal systems to protect consumers by restricting their freedom to choose the applicable law. In the United States, the Federal Trade Commission’s Bureau of Consumer Protection acknowledges that “many U.S. courts refuse to uphold such clauses because it would be contrary to the fundamental public policy of the consumer’s home jurisdiction.” As a result, the strength of a state’s consumer protection record will usually correspond with the likelihood that a court will invalidate a choice-of-law clause to protect a consumer in that state.

Ultimately, I agree with the Second Circuit, who, relying on Piper Aircraft Co. v. Reyno, found that the validity of a foreign choice of law clause depends on “whether the application of the foreign law presents a danger that the . . . [plaintiff] ‘will be deprived of any remedy or treated unfairly.’” The hypothetical plaintiff is not deprived of a legal remedy because §§ 823 and 280 of the German Civil Code recognize legal causes of action for medical malpractice in tort and contract, respectively. Although the lack of uniformity in U.S. jurisprudence and consumer protection laws makes it difficult to predict the validity of choice clauses in consumer contracts, I find preliminarily that the application of German law alone would likely not violate the public policy of the hypothetical patient’s home state. 

Which law governs the validity of the forum-selection clause (“FSC”) in the United States?

There is a possibility that a U.S. federal district court would apply German law to determine the validity of the foreign FSC. Both the Fourth and Tenth Circuits have applied foreign law designated in a choice-of-law clause to determine whether a foreign FSC was mandatory or permissive. However, since my hypothesis challenges the validity, not interpretation, of the FSC and additionally challenges the validity of the choice-of-law clause, I predict that U.S. law will govern FSC validity.

Next, I consider whether state or federal procedural common law governs FSC validity. Though there is a circuit split and the Supreme Court has not addressed the question in a diversity case, the Court did indicate in Stewart Organization, Inc. v. Ricoh Corporation, The Bremen v. Zapata Off-Shore Co., and Atlantic Marine Construction Co. v. U.S. District Court that federal law triumphs. Even Kincaid, who provides an in-depth analysis of these two possibilities and argues that an Erie vertical choice-of-law analysis calls for the application of state law, admits that “[a] majority of circuits uses federal law to govern validity.” I thus conclude that federal law would govern the validity of the hypothetical FSC.

Is the forum selection clause valid under American law?

In Bremen, the Supreme Court presumes foreign FSCs in international contracts are valid unless the clause is unreasonable or unjust, contravenes a strong public policy of the forum state, or was the product of fraud or overreaching. This presumption stems from a hesitance to interfere with the “smooth functioning and growth of global commerce” as well as general principles of international comity and respect for foreign tribunals.

As noted above, many states further the public policy objective of protecting consumers by limiting their freedom to pre-select a forum. Though Bremen highlighted the existence of “an arm’s-length negotiation by experienced and sophisticated businessmen” in upholding the validity of a foreign FSC, the Court later in Carnival Cruise Lines, Inc. v. Shute found that the FSC on a ticket was valid and enforceable against a cruise ship passenger in a personal injury lawsuit. The Court explained that the defendant’s cruise line had an interest in limiting the fora in which it might be sued and avoiding costly litigation related to forum disputes. It also noted that the defendant’s savings from a valid FSC benefited passengers through reduced fares.

Following Carnival, the inclusion of an FSC in a consumer contract, even one of adhesion, is not enough to invalidate FSCs. Federal case law reveals that exceptions to the presumptive validity of FSCs are usually limited to cases in which the selected forum is unsafe for travel (8th Circuit), the plaintiff would be deprived of a legal remedy (9th Circuit, E.D. La.), the parties would be forced into multiple or piecemeal litigations (D.N.D., N.D. Ill., D. Minn.), the parties and the dispute have no connection to the chosen forum (W.D. Tenn.), enforcement would violate statutory venue provisions (7th Cir., W.D. Tex., N.D. Ill., M.D. Ga.), the chosen state’s consumer protection laws do not apply to the plaintiff (S.D. Texas), and the plaintiff is deprived of a right to jury trial (C.D. Cal.).

The hypothetical case does not require travel to a dangerous country; the patient would not be deprived of a legal remedy or forced into multiple or piecemeal litigations; and the dispute has a clear connection to Germany. Conversely, she would be deprived of a jury trial. More importantly, all U.S. states have regulated in the area of telemedicine to protect patients. Although only Louisiana’s telemedicine law provides a statutory venue provision, there is a compelling argument that all states have expressed a strong public policy interest in protecting patients and regulating medical practice in their jurisdictions.

Additionally, state telemedicine regulations can be considered a measure of consumer protection unavailable in Germany because a provider’s violation of telemedicine laws could support a negligence finding against the provider. Like one California federal court, I find it persuasive that the combined effect of a choice-of-law clause and FSC would deprive the plaintiff of the protection that the states’ telemedicine policies aim to provide. While it is most likely that federal courts in Louisiana and California would invalidate the hypothetical FSC as violating public policy, it is also possible that the post-Carnival exceptions to the presumptive validity of FSCs might expand to include cases involving telemedicine consumer contracts in all states, given the universal regulation of telemedicine.

Nevertheless, a complete analysis requires a consideration of these questions under German law as well.

Does the court in Munich have jurisdiction to decide the validity of the choice-of-law and forum selection clauses?

German law, which includes EU law, governs jurisdiction in Germany. Article 4 of Brussels I Recast vests jurisdiction in German courts because the defendant’s providers are domiciled in Germany. Additionally, there is a sufficient connection between the actions giving rise to the lawsuit and Germany as discussed in Recital (16). Finally, §§12, 13, and 17 of the German Code of Civil Procedure give the Munich court power to decide this dispute.

Which law governs the validity of the choice-of-law clause in Germany?

Rome I Article 3, in conjunction with Articles 10 and 11, provides the law for determining the validity of a contractual choice-of-law clause. Under Article 10, German law determines the clause’s material validity with the caveat that U.S. law applies to determine valid consent. In addition, Article 11 requires the application of U.S. law to govern the formal validity of the choice-of-law clause in a consumer contract.

Is the German choice-of-law clause valid under German law?

The principle of supremacy of EU law indicates that Rome I governs contractual obligations and Rome II governs non-contractual obligations. Rome I Article 6 provides special rules for consumer contracts. I will assume that the professional medical services in the hypothetical sufficiently targeted the United States. The hypothetical choice-of-law clause is allowed under Article 6.2, but the choice cannot deprive the patient of mandatory protections afforded by U.S. law, as that is the law of her habitual residence. As a result, if the applicable U.S. law would invalidate the choice-of-law clause, thereby not allowing the patient to derogate from the law of her habitual residence, then the German court would find that Rome I does not allow the patient to choose German law to govern her contract claims. Of course, as discussed above, it is difficult to predict a U.S. court’s position on the validity of the choice-of-law clause in this contract and this difficulty would likely lead a German court to find that the application of U.S. law is not mandatory and thus to honor the parties’ choice of German law.

For tort claims, Rome II Article 14 only allows a consumer agreement to a choice-of-law clause “after the event giving rise to the damage occurred.” In the absence of a choice, as in the hypothetical, Article 4 designates the law of the country where the damage occurs to govern tort claims. However, because the hypothetical parties entered into a contract that is “closely connected with the tort/delict in question,” German law would likely govern the tort claims as well.

Which law governs the interpretation of the forum selection clause in Germany?

According to Article 25 of Brussels I Recast, German law would govern the FSC’s substantive validity.

Is the forum selection clause valid under German law?

German Code of Civil Procedure §38 governs the substantive validity of the FSC. Parties can agree to a German forum when: (1) one of the parties is not a German resident, (2) the agreement is concluded or confirmed in writing, and (3) the chosen forum is the place of the German party’s residence or administrative center. The FSC’s formal validity is governed by Brussels I Recast, Article 25, under which the electronic agreement in the hypothetical satisfies the writing requirement. Furthermore, as noted, one of the parties is not German and the chosen forum corresponds with the German party’s residence. Thus, the hypothetical FSC is valid under German law.

Conclusion

The substantive laws governing medical malpractice in the United States and Germany are similar – both have fault-based medical negligence systems and apply similar standards of care – but differences in the countries’ procedural laws make a forum choice significant. For example, the lack of jury trials, use of uniform damage award tables, and cost-shifting rules in Germany lead to significantly lower awards for pain and suffering compared to those in the United States.

The increasing availability and use of telemedicine across international borders raises questions regarding the proper law and forum for international telemedicine disputes, especially those concluded outside of the European Union. Although American and German courts have not yet encountered such a dispute, the hypothetical considered here suggests that a direct telemedicine interaction between a German provider and an American patient could be subject to the jurisdiction and laws of the United States even when choice clauses designate German law and jurisdiction.

Mindy Nunez Duffourc is currently a Ph.D. candidate at the University of Passau and attorney at Burglass Tankersley in Louisiana. She served as an Alexander von Humboldt German Chancellor Fellow from 2016-2017. She received her J.D. from the University of North Carolina in 2008.

Matthias Haag is an 9th semester German law student at the University of Passau. He also works as a research assistant at the Chair of Public Law, Media and Information Law at the University.

Online Scholarship, Perspectives

Is EULEX a Step Back for International Rule of Law Missions?

By: Drini Grazhdani

Introduction

International development efforts to build functional rule of law systems around the world are often faced with two impediments: reforming old deep-rooted systems, and changing the mindset and behaviors of the people who work within those systems. However, the case of Kosovo was somewhat different. In 1999, when the United Nations established its peacekeeping mission in Kosovo, the country had neither a rule of law system, nor people working within it—including judges, prosecutors, and police. Because Kosovo’s legal system was essentially a “tabula rasa,” or blank slate, rule of law development in Kosovo had a chance to succeed. Moreover, over the past 19 years, the international community has exercised decision-making power at all levels of the rule of law system in Kosovo, which is unique amongst its rule of law efforts. First the UN Mission in Kosovo (“UNMIK”), and now the European Union Rule of Law Mission in Kosovo (“EULEX”), have deployed international police, investigators, prosecutors, and judges to ensure that Kosovo fights corruption, as well as organized and interethnic crime. The mandate of EULEX is coming to an end in 2020. How successful has EULEX been? What lessons can be learned for the future deployment of similar missions? Finally, how will this legacy affect the development of international law?

Kosovo under UNMIK

In June 1999, the UN Security Council adopted Resolution 1244, which authorized an international civilian and military presence in Kosovo by establishing UNMIK. The Special Representative of the Secretary-General (“SRSG”) represented UNMIK. Resolution 1244 directed UNMIK to demilitarize Kosovo, ensure the return of refugees and displaced persons, create democratic institutions, organize free and fair elections, and prepare Kosovo for its final political status — which at the time was envisioned as either statehood or some other form of autonomy. Regarding the establishment of a rule of law system, the resolution focused on “maintaining civil law and order, including establishing local police forces and meanwhile through the deployment of international police personnel to serve in Kosovo.”

By 2003, UNMIK had deployed 4,389 international police officers, and it had recruited and trained 5,247 Kosovo police officers. According to a United States Institute of Peace (“USIP”) Special Report, UNMIK “established a program of international judges and prosecutors (“IJP”) that was the first of its kind in the world.” Following the example of Kosovo, IJP were “also appointed in East Timor, and later to the Special Court of Sierra Leone and the Special Panel of the State Court of Bosnia and Herzegovina.”

However, while IJP subject matter jurisdiction in these countries was usually limited by law to prosecuting war crimes, IJP in Kosovo had full jurisdiction. As the USIP report noted, the IJP in Kosovo had jurisdiction over “new cases and cases already assigned to Kosovan jurists.” Nevertheless, UNMIK’s efforts to establish a functioning rule of law system immediately encountered serious problems, such as: (1) the question of what should be the applicable law in Kosovo; (2) a lack of judicial infrastructure and personnel; and (3) the inability of UNMIK to deal with war crimes.

As one article argued, UNMIK’s “failure to establish a responsive and efficient judicial system as part of the transitional administration in Kosovo eroded local support for UNMIK and the international community at a time when it was most needed.” For the next five years, political developments stagnated in Kosovo. UNMIK lacked a clear exit strategy, which contributed to increased interethnic tensions and a lack of public support for the UN mission. The March 2004 surge in attacks on minorities revealed that UNMIK and the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (“NATO”) peacekeeping force had, to some extent, failed to provide security in the north of Kosovo.

The Ahtisaari Plan and Kosovo’s Declaration of Independence

The violent unrest in March 2004 made clear that the final political status of Kosovo must be determined in order to maintain peace in the Balkans. In 2005, the United Nations appointed Kai Eide, a Norwegian diplomat, as a Special Envoy to undertake a comprehensive review of Kosovo. Following the recommendations of Kai Eide, the UN Secretary-General appointed Martti Ahtisaari as the Special Envoy for the Future Status Process for Kosovo. Prishtina and Belgrade were expected to negotiate the final status of Kosovo However, Serbia did not want to be part of any agreement that guaranteed Kosovo’s independence. Following the stalemate of the negotiations, Martti Ahtisaari continued his work and drafted the Comprehensive Proposal for the Kosovo Status Settlement (“CSP”), informally called the “Ahtisaari Plan.”

The Ahtisaari Plan outlined the process of transitioning Kosovo to an independent country, as well the structures of the main institutions in Kosovo, with a focus on creating a constitutional and legal framework where ethnic minorities living in Kosovo would have their rights protected. While Prishtina accepted the plan, Belgrade strongly refused it. Russia’s political opposition to the Ahtisaari Plan, and any other plan that included the option of an independent Kosovo, made it clear to the international community that efforts to endorse the Ahtisaari plan at the UN Security Council would have been futile. Russia’s position was a function of the historical, cultural, and religious ties that Russia has with Serbia, as well as Russia’s ambition to become a political leader in the Balkan region. These failed attempts to reach an agreement pushed Kosovo, with the support of its American and EU partners, to start the process of declaring its independence. In this declaration, the Ahtisaari Plan served as the basis of Kosovo’s constitutional, legal, and political framework. The Parliament of Kosovo declared Kosovo’s independence on February 17, 2008. The UN Security Council could not reach an agreement on the Ahtisaari plan’s proposal for supervised independence in Kosovo. Because of this stalemate, UNMIK adopted a position of neutrality and re-configured its presence in Kosovo.

The Establishment of EULEX

Days before Kosovo’s declaration of independence from Serbia in 2008, as part of its assistance
to ensure a professional and independent rule of law, the EU deployed a new mission in Kosovo: EULEX. EULEX is the largest Common Security and Defense Policy (“CSDP”) mission to date, and the first of its kind outside the EU. With the largest budget of any EU mission, EULEX had adequate resources to succeed. Given Kosovo’s newly built institutions were at that time unreliable, both at handling sensitive criminal cases and at operating free from political influence, Article 12 of the Ahtisaari Plan foresaw the EU mission as the best solution for helping the newly independent country strengthen its rule of law.

The need to strengthen Kosovo’s justice system was crucial after it declared independence. The provisional institutions of Kosovo and UNMIK were not able to solve crimes committed during and after the war. In addition, they did not have the stamina to tackle high profile corruption cases. This is where EULEX was supposed to come in. Nevertheless, in the past ten years, EULEX has failed to achieve its goals and objectives. This failure has had significant consequences for Kosovo. Corruption is pervasive, and voters have lost hope that high-level politicians can be prosecuted either by EULEX or by the local authorities. Because of this, Kosovo is lagging behind in the European integration process and is the only country in the region which is denied the Schengen visa liberalization regime. One of the main conditions for visa liberalization that the EU imposed on Kosovo is a reduction in organized crime and corruption.

The Failures of EULEX

The following list describes the main areas where EULEX has failed in the past ten years:

1.1.   Inability to garner public support

According to a survey conducted by the Kosovo Center for Security Studies in 2012 and 2015, the approval rates for EULEX have been dropping each year. In 2015, 54 percent of the respondents stated that they did not trust EULEX. In addition, EULEX is listed below Kosovo’s domestic prosecution system and courts when it comes to citizens’ perceptions and their faith in these judicial institutions. According to this study, Kosovars did not believe that EULEX could combat corruption in Kosovo.

1.2.   Inadequate and insufficient staffing

Staffing has been one of EULEX’s biggest problems. The mission largely relied on seconded staff, representing 80 percent of the entire mission. The seconded staff came from both EU and non-EU States. The EU States seconded their staff for short periods with inflexible contracts. For the seconded judges, this meant that they did not have sufficient time to investigate organized crime and other cases of criminal justice. According to the Kosovar Institute for Policy Research and Development, which published a comprehensive analysis of EULEX, some of the seconded staff did not meet the professional requirements of the positions filled. These personnel issues compromised the ability of EULEX to fulfill its mission.

1.3.   Failure in northern Kosovo

According to the European Court of Auditors, EU interventions in the north of Kosovo “have been very limited and there has been almost no progress in establishing the rule of law.” These issues stemmed from EULEX’s inability to move freely throughout the northern municipalities. In 2011-12, local Kosovo Serbs in the north, influenced by the Serbian Government, raised barricades in order to disrupt the movement of people and goods throughout northern Kosovo. As a result, EULEX was not able to ensure the enforcement of the rule of law, leaving the population of that area free to violate numerous laws, including smuggling and interethnic crime.

Despite EULEX’s failure to enforce the rule of law in this region, it is worth mentioning that EULEX successfully facilitated the integration of the Kosovo Serb police forces into the Kosovo police and the integration of the judiciary of northern Kosovo into Kosovo’s national judiciary. This integration of the police and the judiciary was made possible by the first agreement of principles governing the normalization of relations between Kosovo and Serbia in 2013.

1.4.   Corruption scandals that damaged public image beyond repair

The allegations that EULEX was involved in corrupt activities in Kosovo became public in 2014. The British Prosecutor who was serving with EULEX, Maria Bamieh, publicly announced that she was forced from her job as a prosecutor after she claimed that she “found evidence senior staff had taken bribes and were colluding with murderers.” EULEX denied these claims, stating that Prosecutor Bamieh was fired because she revealed secret information to the Kosovo daily newspaper, Koha Ditore. The European Commission reacted to these allegations by appointing an independent legal expert to investigate. This expert found no issue with the way EULEX treated Bamieh and concluded that the allegations were unfounded. In November 2017, Chief Judge Malcolm Simmons resigned from EULEX. He accused the mission of corruption and the British Foreign Office and the EU for not taking action against such corruption. EULEX responded by stating that Chief Judge Malcolm Simmons himself was the subject of an investigation for corruption. These allegations were widely reported in the Kosovo press and gravely eroded the image and the credibility of EULEX.

UN Peacekeeping Missions, EULEX, and the Future of International Rule of Law Deployments

The purpose of UN peacekeeping missions is broader than the development of the rule of law. Currently, there are 14 UN peacekeeping missions around the world. These missions also focus on, among other things, civilian protection, conflict prevention, promoting human rights, empowering women, and delivering field support.

However, EULEX’s main objective was to establish and strengthen the rule of law in Kosovo. Unlike other UN missions, which focus on building the capacities of rule of law institutions, EULEX had full jurisdiction and responsibility for restoring rule of law. Moreover, EULEX did not have to start from scratch, as it inherited a system and staff from UNMIK’s rule of law department. For these reasons, many anticipated that EULEX would succeed. Some commentators expected Kosovo’s rule of law institutions to meet EU standards within a decade.

The European External Action Service, an organization which helps the EU’s foreign affairs chief carry out the Union’s Common Foreign and Security Policy, has deployed other rule of law missions around the world. However, these missions are non-executive. This makes Kosovo the only country where the most prominent international rule of law organizations have deployed missions that possess judicial and governing authority. Despite the narrow focus of both the United Nations and the EU on Kosovo’s rule of law system, the results achieved by these organizations have fallen short.

The failure of EULEX calls into question the capabilities of every current and future international rule of law mission which falls under the competences of the UN Security Council and the EEAS.  The next country which may require a similar mission is Syria. The first indictments for war crimes in the Syria war are already taking place. However, international tribunals, such as the International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia, function outside the country and do not have the same framework and mechanisms as a deployed rule of law mission. Opposition from the Assad government will also likely hinder the ability to establish such a mission within Syria.

Nevertheless, future missions in Syria and elsewhere should be built on the lessons learned from Kosovo, reflecting objectively on what worked and what did not. While UNMIK and EULEX were considered unbiased and thus seemingly had an advantage working on issues that involved interethnic conflicts, the lack of accountability mechanisms and corruption inhibited these missions from realizing their goals.

Conclusion

On June 8, 2018, the Council of the EU extended EULEX’s mandate until June 2020. This decision ended EULEX’s executive powers over the Kosovo judiciary. With this new mandate, EULEX will monitor selected cases and trials. The main reason for the extension of EULEX’s mandate is related to the work of the Kosovo Specialist Chambers (“KSC”) and Specialist Prosecutor’s Office (“SPO”). The KSC, established in 2015, is a Kosovo court which is based in The Hague and will deal with the allegations that Dick Marty, a former member of the Parliamentary Assembly of the Council of Europe, raised. In a report, Dick Marty highlighted “that serious crimes had been committed during the conflict in Kosovo, including trafficking in human organs.” Article 28 of Kosovo Law No.05/L-053 on KSC and SPO also gives the head of EULEX the competence to appoint judges. While the indictments that the SPO brought against the former members of the Kosovo Liberation Army are still pending, the success of this office remains uncertain.

For Kosovo’s rule of law system to improve, it was essential for EULEX to succeed in its initial 10-year mandate. EULEX, and previously UNMIK, exercised executive power over the judiciary of Kosovo. This marked a new phase in international law. However, despite this development, Kosovo’s rule of law system is the weakest link in the institution-building process. EULEX’s shortcomings need to be analyzed objectively to guide the planning of future missions in post-conflict societies. In the wake of EULEX, future international rule of law missions need to focus on (1) appointing judges and prosecutors that have high integrity and experience, (2) establishing a high security clearance system for individuals appointed to work within the mission, and (3) establishing an efficient accountability mechanism for the mission’s staff before the missions deploy.

Drini Grazhdani works as a Legal Specialist for Millennium DPI Partners L.L.C. in the USAID-funded Justice System Strengthening Program in Kosovo. In addition, he taught courses on international business law, criminal law, and introduction to law at private colleges in Prishtina. Drini Grazhdani holds an advanced LL.M. degree in International Civil and Commercial Law from Leiden Law School.

Online Scholarship, Perspectives

A Vision for the Future of Private International Law and the Internet – Can Artificial Intelligence Succeed Where Humans Have Failed?

By Dan Jerker B. Svantesson

There are countless news stories and scientific publications illustrating how artificial intelligence (AI) will change the world. As far as law is concerned, discussions largely center around how AI systems such as IBM’s Watson will cause disruption in the legal industry.  However, little attention has been directed at how AI might prove beneficial for the field of private international law.

Private international law has always been a complex discipline, and its application in the online environment has been particularly challenging, with both jurisdictional overreach and jurisdictional gaps. Primarily, this is due to the fact that the near-global reach of a person’s online activities will so easily expose that person to the jurisdiction and laws of a large number of countries. Thus, online users ranging from individuals to the largest online companies are subject to unpredictable legal consequences when using the Internet. It also places stress on courts and regulators as jurisdictional claims frequently exceed relevant enforcement capabilities. Indeed, broad jurisdictional claims may force regulators to be selective in terms of targets to pursue, which will arguably undermine the rule of law principle that all are treated equally before the law. Despite intensive work by some of the world’s brightest legal minds, we are seemingly still far from solutions to these difficult situations.

This Post outlines the ways in which AI might help solve some of these challenges in private international law, as well as some issues that must be considered before getting to that stage. In doing so, the Post focuses explicitly on private international law as applied to Internet activities, though the general discussion is relevant to private international law more broadly.

What is AI?

The Council of Europe defines AI as “a set of sciences, theories and techniques whose purpose is to reproduce by a machine the cognitive abilities of a human being. Current developments aim, for instance, to be able to entrust a machine with complex tasks previously delegated to a human.”

The Council also notes the distinction between what has been termed “strong” AI, with the ability to “contextualize very different specialized problems completely independently,” and “weak” to “moderate” AI, with the ability to “perform extremely well in their field of training.”

“Strong” AI is generally beyond the reach of current technologies. Fortunately, none of the tasks outlined below that AI may perform for private international law require “strong” AI; thus, the required technology already exists. All that remains is to:

  1. construct suitable modeling of private international law;
  2. ensure access to the required data; and
  3. feed the modeling and data into an appropriate AI system.

While the idea sounds relatively simple on paper, clearly much work lies ahead.

Private International Law Modeling – Finding the “Correct” Point of Departure

For “weak” to “moderate” AI, the starting point for utilizing AI to help address the concerns expressed above is to create an appropriate model of private international law applicable to the Internet world. Like pioneering scholars such as Phan Minh Dung and Giovanni Sartor, I propose doing so based on modular argumentation:

“Modular argumentation offers itself as an appropriate platform for representing private international laws and different national laws as it allows knowledge to be split in separate modules. Moreover, it enables the different knowledge modules (which may represent legal systems or part of them) to be used by referring to each one of them specific issues. This is done by calling the relevant module and asking it to answer specific queries.”

The limited modeling that has been done of private international law has focused on assessing whether a given country can: (1) claim jurisdiction (and which domestic court is competent), and (2) apply its laws to a given scenario.  This approach is natural given that this is also very much the focus of private international law as a discipline (in addition to matters of declining jurisdiction, as well as recognition and enforcement). Yet it is not the emphasis of the task discussed here.

The number of laws a person is expected to comply with when engaging in online activities is not static; rather it varies depending on a range of factors and is context-specific. Imagine, for example, that person X in Canada sends an email to a person in China, relating to the activities of a person in Romania. In this example, primarily three countries’ laws (Canada, China, and Romania) are relevant. Imagine further that the same person X also posts information on a US social media site on which she has “friends” in 100 different countries. In the context of this latter activity, person X is exposed to the laws of a vast number of countries due to the great reach of the posting. Thus, for any specific activity, we can speak of a “contextual legal system” consisting of the norms of all relevant states’ laws that the person in question is expected to abide by.

Knowledge of the number of applicable laws can be a useful diagnostics tool to highlight situations of “hyperregulation” in which:

  1. the complexity of a party’s contextual legal system amounts to an insurmountable obstacle to legal compliance; and
  2. the potential for legal enforcement of (at least parts of) the laws that make up the contextual legal system is more than a theoretical possibility.

However, knowledge of the number of applicable laws does little to provide legal predictability unless we also know the countries to which the acting person is exposed. The obvious difficulties include accessing the relevant laws, getting over language barriers, and identifying which states’ laws may claim to be part of the relevant contextual legal system in the first place. Here, predictability requires nothing less than an examination of all the laws of all the states in the world, including their respective private international law rules – perhaps humanly impossible, but just the sort of task at which AI thrives.

As a clarifying point, there is a distinct difference between the domestic legal systems and the contextual legal systems discussed here. While the former typically seek to avoid contradictory norms, each contextual legal system is made up of norms from multiple states’ legal systems – norms that typically are neither coordinated nor harmonized. Thus, unsurprisingly, a contextual legal system to which a person is exposed may contain clashing norms; that is, the norms of one state may demand performance of actions that the norms of another state forbid, or the norms of one state may outline duties that directly contradict rights provided for by the norms of another state.

Where norms within a contextual legal system conflict with others, an advanced AI system could be equipped to prioritize some norms over others based on agreed criteria. A range of traditional private international law tools, such as forum non conveniens, might be applicable in this context. Other methods, such as recent work on value-consistency, will also prove valuable. Taken one step further, legal concepts from other fields of law such as competition law may prove useful in addressing clashes of norms.

In any situation involving clashing norms, it is not just a matter of determining which country’s laws shall be applied to the situation at the expense of all other laws, nor is it a simple matter of assessing whether a certain country’s laws apply to the situation. An advanced AI system could analyze a contextual legal system with norms stemming from several legal systems, all applying at once. After all, we should not restrict ourselves to something as crude as assessing whether a given country’s laws apply to the situation, because not all laws of a country are relevant in any given situation.

Imagine that legal person Y from state A enters into a purchase contract with natural person Z from state B. If state B wants to apply its consumer protection laws to the situation, those laws of state B need to have a substantial connection to the matter and state B must have a legitimate interest in applying those consumer protection laws. However, if state B, based on the same set of facts, wants to apply its corporate governance laws to Y, the connection is weaker and the interest in doing so is less legitimate. To take this example to the extreme, imagine that based on the mentioned scenario, state B wants to apply its marriage laws to all employees of legal person Y; then both the connection and the interest is non-existent.

Thus, any assessment of whether state B’s laws shall apply hinges on what norms that state seeks to apply. It is the applicability of individual norms of a certain state, rather than all its laws in their entirety, that should be in focus. This increased granularity ought to be reflected in private international law rules, and their modeling alike.

At the most basic level, the assessment of claims of jurisdiction, as well as the questions of which norms apply and how clashes between applicable norms are addressed should be guided by the following three criteria that may be seen as the jurisprudential core of the concept of jurisdiction, namely:

  1. Substantial connection – is there a substantial connection between, on the one hand, the matter and, on the other hand, the given state seeking to exercise jurisdiction and the norms it seeks to apply;
  2. Legitimate interests – does the given state seeking to exercise jurisdiction and apply some of its norms have a legitimate interest in the matter; and
  3. Interests balancing – is the exercise of jurisdiction and application of those norms reasonable given the balance between the state’s legitimate interests and other interests?

The modeling must take all of this into account.

The Data Needed and How to Get It

Not least due to the successes of the Free Access to Law Movement and the work, and international outreach, of organizations such as the Australasian Legal Information Institute (AustLII), a significant number of states make their laws available online, although often in their local languages.

For those states that currently do not make their laws freely available online, the laws can and ought to be digitized. This is an important step not just for the AI system envisaged here. It is arguably a necessity for any state wishing to have credibility in claiming that its laws apply to the online conduct of foreigners; after all, laws that cannot be accessed arguably are less legitimate. Further, accessibility is a prerequisite for the international influence of any given legal system.

Language differences, as well as differences in the meaning of legal concepts, will no doubt place heavy demands on any AI system constructed to meet the goals envisaged in this post. However, although in the past language barriers were substantial hurdles for humans seeking to access foreign laws, AI systems provide a promising chance to get over these barriers, now or in the near future.

Furthermore, while in an ideal world the AI system would be fed all the laws (including both primary and secondary sources) of all the countries in the world, a useful system could be devised with a considerably more limited dataset. For certain purposes, it may be sufficient that the AI system is fed a subset of laws of particular importance. These subsets may be identified in numerous ways, including by reference to specific states, specific areas of law (e.g. consumer contracting, defamation, or copyright), or specific sectoral needs (e.g. the laws particularly affecting social media or the laws particularly affecting online news publishers). At least for these more limited systems, work ought to commence immediately.

The Envisaged AI System and Its Uses

Once the modeling discussed above is completed, and the AI system has been fed the required data, the system will be capable of:

  1. Identifying the norms from multiple legal systems that together make up the relevant contextual legal system for a given activity; and
  2. Reconciling – or at least balancing – those norms in a manner that makes for a coherent system even where individual norms clash.

The question then arises of the specific uses for such a system. In answering that question there is no need to be prescriptive. However, it is possible to point to at least four such uses:

  • Predicting Legal Risks. An AI system such as that proposed above may help both natural and legal persons predict their legal risk exposure when engaging in online activities. In other words, it stands to benefit many different participants in the online ecosystem from the average Internet user to large companies such as Facebook, Google, Microsoft, and Apple.
  • Assisting lawyers and legal education. The AI system envisaged here may help lawyers construct informed and evidence-based arguments by, for example, highlighting clashes within their clients’ respective contextual legal systems. Such an AI system could also be used for legal education purposes: both as a tool for constructing and analyzing real legal cases, and for constructing hypothetical scenarios to which students have to apply their legal knowledge.
  • Law reform. An AI system such as that called for may further help law reform initiatives, of which there are many in the field of private international law (consider for example the work of numerous International Law Association Committees). The system could, for example, help identify instances of hyper regulation and propose formulations to minimize instances of conflicting laws.
  • Court support. At the extreme end of the scale, the type of AI system discussed may even be utilized by courts either to inform the court, or indeed, to directly or indirectly decide disputes.

It goes without saying that the requirements placed on the envisaged AI system, such as transparency, explainability, consistency, accountability, and fairness, may vary depending on the use to which the system is put. Clearly, for example, such factors would be paramount for a system used by courts.

Conclusion

Any time one writes about the future, the line between optimism and naivety is a thin one. On the one hand, one shouldn’t downplay the challenges of embarking on the mission to construct an AI-driven system to help revolutionize private international law. On the other hand, however, it would be a missed opportunity not to start envisioning what may be achieved when the technology makes such a mission more feasible.

Sufficiently advanced AI technology exists and is developing further at great speed. If humans are about to entrust their lives to AI as the driver of cars, and if AI is believed to have the ability to disrupt the legal industry, AI should also be utilized to solve some private international law challenges.

Professor Svantesson is a Professor in the Faculty of Law at Bond University in Australia. He is also an Associate at the Swedish Law & Informatics Research Institute and a Visiting Professor at Masaryk University in the Czech Republic.

Comment, Online Scholarship

Contracts, Treaties, and the Public Space

By Jérôme Sgard

[Click Here for PDF]

Responding to Daniela Caruso, Non-Parties: The Negative Externalities of Regional Trade Agreements in a Private Law Perspective, 59 Harv. Int’l L.J. 389 (2018).

Daniela Caruso asks whether private law concepts may be instrumental in defending the interests of aggrieved third-parties to Regional Trade Agreements, or whether the former are doomed to remain ignored “non-parties.” This comment builds on her arguments and extends the discussion to the case of sovereign debts and IMF conditionality, where the parties also tend to act as “monadic,” realist, international agents. The hypothesis that emerges is pessimistic: in the absence of a developed jurisdictional order—a form of constitutionalization—third-parties and their interests are as difficult to identify as the broader public space where they should belong.

Introduction

In his 1927 doctoral thesis, Private Law Sources and Analogies of International Law, Hersch Lauterpacht contends that, being “a true offspring of the doctrine of sovereignty,” international law “was bound to reject any recourse to private law as concerned with interests deemed to be of an economic and lower order.”[1] He confronts this classical position and underlines, in particular, that “if the main distinction between private and public law is that the first regulates the relations of legal entities in a state of co-ordination, and the second the relations of those in a state of sub-ordination to one another, then, formally, international public law belongs to the genus private law.”[2] From this point onward, he explores a number of “analogies” that could be usefully drawn from the field of private law and put to use by international lawyers: contracts and quasi-contracts, to begin, but also torts and damages, arbitration, and bankruptcy.[3]

In her article, Daniela Caruso follows in the steps of Lauterpacht, although she does not mention him. And whereas her predecessor did not touch on commercial or economic matters—only on abstract legal conceptions—she considers the case of international trade agreements: can private law offer conceptual tools that might help account for the large negative externalities of Regional Trade Agreements (“RTAs”) on non-members (p. 393)? She thus echoes a long line of economic research that has tried for decades to measure the “diversion effects” of RTAs.[4] Moreover, as she draws on the private law vocabulary, she adopts a critical perspective vis-à-vis its laissez-faire expression, as predicated on formally neutral notions of privity, autonomy, and symmetry between the parties–a classic, nineteenth-century discourse which was, in fact, Lauterpacht’s implied reference. Caruso thus raises the political question of whether private law concepts, such as tort, may support a judicial strategy aimed at correcting uneven or unfair real-world economic relations (pp. 395, 409). She applies this questioning in particular to GATT Articles XXIII and XXIV and makes references to the Legal Realists’ progressive judicial strategy (pp. 421–26). She discusses in particular Oliver Wendell Holmes’s jurisprudence on labor relations (p. 416).

On the whole, and beyond the heuristic benefits of this comparison, the following conclusions of the Article are rather underwhelming: historically, the private law concepts have offered only partial and fragile support to aggrieved third parties; the two cited articles of the GATT Treaty are hard to leverage and their potential distributive outcomes are difficult to predict; and issues of jurisdiction add a further degree of uncertainty.

I. Which Jurisdiction?

A first limit of the overall argument is entirely pragmatic: Caruso’s corrective ambition regarding the present state of the world economy is premised on the existence of a final adjudicative body with the authority to identify and sanction negative externalities on “non-parties.” She underlines that the absence of a tax-and-transfer mechanism across countries is a key argument for drawing on private—rather than public—law concepts (p. 412). But she goes on to offer only vague suggestions regarding the judicial machinery that would be able to pass judgments and provide remedies: after raising doubts on the appropriateness of relying on the WTO Dispute Settlement Body (p.429), she mentions “arbitrators” without offering any more information on how they would have jurisdiction and guarantee execution of the judgment. In other words, we are back to square one: unless this dimension is fully considered, there are serious risks that the generic notion of a contract and the analogies it may be associated with become highly abstract and decontextualized, and thus inoperable. The debate may then rapidly flow back into the old natural rights discourse, where contracts are typically talked about as a self-contained and self-justificatory social institution.

This question about jurisdiction is illustrated by the way Caruso envisions the WTO trade regime. The Article seems to consider the GATT and WTO treaties as similar in nature to RTA treaties; this view is aligned with the large body of literature referenced in the Article that construes treaties as contracts between sovereigns.[5] The GATT and WTO treaties would simply present a broader, more inclusive or more comprehensive basis, though ultimately, the analogy with contracts would apply to both the GATT and WTO and the RTAs treaties in similar terms. Of course, this perspective raises a host of well-known questions, such as whether countries may adhere to multilateral treaties or conventions unilaterally after promulgation, without having been party to the drafting and without the drafters having a say. This dilemma raised became a serious obstacle as soon as multilateral agreements started to be negotiated upon at the League of Nations during the 1920s.[6]

The paradox is that, at the same time, Caruso also seems to suggest that the GATT and WTO regime is more akin to some kind of public or constitutional law, common to all sovereign states, because it establishes the “level playing field”—and a jurisdiction—on which fair and unified international markets should rest. From this viewpoint, RTAs may well be seen as specific, exclusive opt-outs—hence, as a contract-like private arrangement—while the WTO rules can be construed as a set of default rules. The broad policy debate on the various possibilities offered to post-Brexit Britain underlined this point quite well: a “no-deal Brexit” was taken to imply that Britain would only trade on the basis of WTO rules, until it enters a new generation of specific “contracts.”[7] In other words, there would be a hierarchy of norms, though no hierarchy of jurisdictions; the WTO and its Dispute Settlement Body have not established legal authority or jurisdiction over RTAs—or opt-out contracts—so the multiplication of RTAs and opt-out contracts has led to a non-hierarchic, or “anarchic,” international trade regime.[8] Hence, as Caruso rightly argues, the multiplication of RTAs fractures the global trade regime, destroys the underlying common good and leaves us with a more unfair, degraded (or “cannibalized,” p. 403) set of rules. But while she points to a broadly negative appraisal of the politics of the WTO, her overall perspective ultimately suggests that anything short of a return to fully-fledged, immaculate multilateralism would not work. At this point, private law tools may only offer to serve as a prop, at best.

II.  The Veil of Sovereignty

Moving beyond Caruso’s specific, trade-related discussion, we can take her discussion of private law analogies to other legal terrains. One problem that soon comes up is whether sovereignty is construed in terms that actually support the far-reaching contractual analogies that Caruso explores. To start with, when a country is exposed to negative externalities of an RTA to which it is not a party, those adverse effects are first perceived and recorded by private businesses whose trading conditions deteriorate. This chain of effects is significantly different than what occurs with military alliances, for instance. One should thus assume that the aggregation of these private resident agents results in a self-standing political body, with a capacity to contract with similar entities (or to sue them). But this step asks that we ignore the various underlying conditions and conflicts of interest among individual agents. The “Veil of Sovereignty,” or what economists call a “composition effect,” explains the difficulty of assessing the distributive effects of potential remedies.

Another question, following the contractual analogy as applied to sovereign, is what holds together the parties to a treaty-as-a-contract in a world without a credible adjudication and enforcement authority. The reference that Caruso makes to the “transactional” diplomacy of the Trump administration underlines the point and asks whether this new class of inter-state transactions rests on anything other than crude power relationships or strictly-aligned interests (p. 398). In other words, these “transactional” treaties would be self-enforceable. But in turn, we are prompted to ask, what was different about classic multilateral treaty-making? The fact that a major treaty member threatens to exit these treaties suggests that the latter do exercise a degree of practical constraints on the members’ discretion. Should we thus conclude that there are two classes of treaties, one of which is endowed with some kind of legal-contractual force and the other which might not?

The core question is therefore whether “contracting with a sovereign” is a proposition that makes any sense at all. Economists and specialists of International Relations have long underlined both the seminal and the problematic characters of this analogy.[9] Many economists, for example, defend that a sovereign debt contract does not rest on the “capacity to pay”—hence on a (private) notion of solvency—but on “the willingness to pay”—in other words, on the discretionary, unilateral decision of the sovereign. At this point, we are fully in the language of “the nation-state as a monadic actor” (p. 397), an animal that will only engage its peers in a self-interested, norm-free, realist mode.

A classic example in this discussion is to ask why there is such a thing as a sovereign debt market, if no rule and no court can ever bear on the behavior of a debtor country. The realist answer is that private institutions lend to sovereigns and rationally expect to be serviced because of the economic costs that a default would cause to the debtor: closed access to international finance, intense difficulties to finance foreign trade, a probable direct hit on the domestic banking sector. Debtor states would thus have a powerful incentive to protect their good reputations, which they should see as some sort of capital, the return of which would take the form of easy and cheap access to the capital markets. From this perspective, any support provided to a distressed debtor by a third party, like the International Monetary Fund, is doomed to reduce the incentives to serve the contract à la lettre and protect one’s reputation. Because such support would mitigate the costs of a possible default, it would inevitably make it more probable.[10] In other words, in a “transactional” or realist world—and contrary to the context described by Caruso—an institutional mechanism for crisis management and dispute resolution would become a source of moral hazard, and hence, of a structural decline of the market. Here, contractual discipline rests entirely on a logic of dissuasion, that is on a credible threat of retaliation. Powerful forces seem here to oppose any attempt at internalizing a concern for third-parties, or for externalities.

We may also refer here to a long list of historical or socio-legal contributions that explore how this microeconomic logic can sustain a variety of market structures. Examples include Avner Greiff’s analysis of the medieval Maghribi trade,[11] Lisa Bernstein’s classic study of New York diamond dealers,[12] or the broad literature on micro-credit or cases of privately-ordered market platform.[13] In all those cases, the exclusion of a delinquent party is loosely mediated or formalized, so that the legal character of the underlying transaction is generally narrow, if not dubious. The question from our present discussion is whether these private orders have a capacity to address the interests and grievance of non-members. And the presumptive answer is, as a rule, no.

III.  How the IMF Shapes Transactions with a Sovereign: Conditionality and Third-Parties

At the 1944 Bretton Woods Conference, the IMF received the mandate and the financial resources to support member-states at times of crisis. The problem was how the Fund could structure these financial operations to guarantee good policy outcomes and capital reimbursement. Remarkably, the solution was not found before 1953, under the form of the Stand-By Agreement (“SBA”), which was construed explicitly as neither a contract nor a treaty:[14] the father of the Fund’s legal doctrine, Joseph Gold, insisted many times that it should not be analogous to either a private bank loan nor a UN registered treaty like World Bank loans. The most visible correlate of this founding rule is that SBAs have been comprised, since then, of two separate unilateral commitments: one document is sent by the country to the Fund, where the country lists its policy commitments; and another one, issued by the Fund, then specifies that a specific amount of money will be made available to the country to use. In other words, the money is not explicitly lent—a step which would imply contractual language; it only “stands by.” More generally, no single document is ever signed by the two parties together during the whole life cycle of this proxy of a “loan.” Institutionalized rules of monitoring and enforcement (that is, conditionality) then add credibility to the word of the debtor country, in a well-structured, sequential, strategic game where both parties are expected to act in a means-end rational way.

In Joseph Gold’s writings, the rejection of the contractual language is first justified by the sheer complexity of all the variables that might affect the capacity—or indeed the willingness—of the sovereign government to remain faithful to its word. If a private law language had been adopted, breaking such contractual commitments would have proved too disruptive and therefore unhelpful.[15] Deviations over time are normal under an SBA and they should be the object of continuing discussion and negotiation, though under the ever-present threat that the whole program might be suspended or cancelled. But even at that point, the expectation built into the Fund’s rules of engagement is that negotiations should start again and a new transaction be entertained in the not-too-distant future. Membership to the IMF thus constrains how this relationship is imagined, if only because exclusion is not an option.

This strategic, non-contractual game comes with a significant correlate: the IMF has never asked that an SBA be voted on by the parliament of a crisis-country, submitted to a referendum, or be approved by a crisis-country’s highest court.[16] The Fund’s legal doctrine is also adamant that any dispute over the interpretation and execution of the initial two-way transaction should never be opened to a dispute-resolver, such as an international court or an arbitration panel; rather, it should remain entirely within the scope of the bilateral strategic discussion, which should thus be allowed to work as a self-contained forum where only two parties can enter: the IMF and the executive power of the member-country. Any extension of this discussion to a third party, even if it were affected by the agreement, is alien to this transactional logic. The logic of the realist, non-contractual SBA appears to thus confirm an emerging hypothesis, namely that in a post-multilateral trade regime, just as in a sovereign debt (or micro-credit) market, transactions between monadic borrowers remain possible. Legal engineers have designed viable models of transactions in which enforcement do not rest on a judicial authority with enforcement capacities. There is a suggestion, however, that there is no room here for third parties or for a recognition of their interests and claims.

 Conclusion

At least three salient and converging questions thus emerge from the present discussion: can private law concepts be leveraged in favor of third parties, or non-parties, in an environment devoid of a binding hierarchy of jurisdictions? Should the GATT and WTO treaties be envisaged as some kind of default rules, or indeed as the multilateral Grundnorm of international trade, that may potentially support “non-parties” in RTAs as they ask for redress? And does the self-contained structure of the IMF SBA illustrate a more general rule, whereby transnational legal orders may have strong, specific regulatory effects, although without ever being in a position to interact and negotiate formally with third parties?[17]

These three themes, in other words, all raise a question of constitutionalization, defined as a set of norms and norm-enforcing authorities that establishes the division between private and public, allowing for both a capacity to govern and for the defense of a set of basic rights. We know that these conditions are absent from today’s global world, where the public and the private are undifferentiated. Hence, the question that Caruso ultimately raises is whether the present state of third parties reflects the impossibility in general to identify, in legally effective terms, the notions of a public good and of a public space. Who are “non-parties,” if not the silent and invisible representatives of “the public”?


   Suggested citation: Jérôme Sgard, Contracts, Treaties, and the Public Space, 59 Harv. Int’l L.J. Comment (Apr. 25, 2019), https://journals.law.harvard.edu/ilj/2019/04/sgard_contracts/.

[1] Hersch Lauterpacht, Private Law Sources and Analogies of International Law ix (1927).

[2] Id. at 81.

[3] See, e.g., id. at 253.

[4] See, e.g., Mian Dai, Yoto Yotov & Thomas Zylkin, On the Trade-Diversion Effects of Free Trade Agreements, 122 Econ. Letters 321 (2013); Christopher Magee, New Measures of Trade Creation and Trade Diversion, 75 J. Int’l Econ. 349 (2008).

[5] See Curtis J. Mahoney, Treaties as Contracts: Textualism, Contract Theory, and the Interpretation of Treaties, 116 Yale L.J. 824, 834–38 (2007).

[6] See, e.g., Convention on the Execution of Foreign Arbitral Awards, Sep. 26, 1927, 92 L.N.T.S. 301.

[7] See Guidance: Existing Free Trade Agreements If There’s No Brexit Deal, Dep’t for Int’l Trade (Dec. 19, 2018), https://www.gov.uk/government/publications/existing-trade-agreements-if-the-uk-leaves-the-eu-without-a-deal/existing-trade-agreements-if-the-uk-leaves-the-eu-without-a-deal [https://perma.cc/H5SX-XHF9] (U.K.); see also What Would a No-Deal Brexit Mean for Trade?, Economist (Feb. 15, 2019), https://econ.st/2YZEI9qk [https://perma.cc/B4T5-DMW9].

[8] See, e.g., K. Kwak & G. Marceau, Overlaps and Conflicts of Jurisdiction between the World Trade Organization and Regional Trade Agreements, in Regional Trade Agreements and WTO Legal System (L. Bartels & F. Ortino eds., 2010); Armand C.M. de Mestral, Dispute Settlement Under the WTO and RTAs: An Uneasy Relationship, 16 J. Int’l Econ. L. 777 (2013).

[9] See, e.g., Eric Posner, The Perils of Global Legalism (2009); John J. Mearsheimer, The False Promise of International Institutions, 19 Int’l Security 5, 5 (1994).

[10] Jonathan Eaton, Sovereign Debt, Reputation and Credit Terms, 1 Int’l J. Fin. Econ. (1996); D. Gale & M. Helwig, Reputation and Renegotiation: The Case of Sovereign Debt, 30 Int’l Econ. Rev. 3 (1989); Roland Vaubel, The Moral Hazard of IMF Lending, 6 World Econ. 291 (1983).

[11] Avner Greiff, Contract Enforceability and Economic Institutions in Early Trade: The Maghribi Traders’ Coalition, 83 Am. Econ. Rev. 525 (1993).

[12] Lisa Bernstein, Opting Out of the Legal System: Extralegal Contractual Relations in the Diamond Industry, 21 J. Legal Stud. 115 (1992).

[13] Beatriz Armendariz & Jonathan Morduch, The Economics of Microfinance (2005); Jérôme Sgard, The Simplest Model of Governance Ever Seen? The London Corn Market (1885-1914), in Oxford Handbook of International Economic Governance (Eric Brousseau, Jean-Michel Glachant & Jérôme Sgard eds., forthcoming).

[14] Joseph Gold, The Interpretation by the International Monetary Fund of its Articles of Agreement II, 16 Int’l & Q. L. Rev. 289 (1967); Joseph Gold, The Law and Practice of the International Monetary Fund with Respect to “Stand-By Arrangements”, 12 Int’l & Comp. L.Q. 1 (1963).

[15] Joseph Gold, The “Sanctions” of the International Monetary Fund, 66 Am. J. Int’l L. 737 (1972).

[16] Id.

[17] Transnational Legal Orders (T. Halliday & G. Schaffer eds., 2015).

Essays, Online Scholarship

Human Rights, Diplomatic Wrongs

By Doug Cassel

The Inter-American Commission on Human Rights is one of several international human rights bodies actively undermined by the current U.S. Administration. Disrespect for the Commission is a gross miscalculation. It disserves both our values and our interests.

The Commission is the human rights watchdog of the Organization of American States. Its seven members are elected by the 34 participating governments of the OAS to serve in their personal capacities as experts. The Commission processes complaints; publishes hard-hitting reports; requests governments to adopt precautionary measures; refers and litigates cases against the 22 mostly Latin American States which accept the contentious jurisdiction of the Inter-American Court of Human Rights; facilitates friendly settlements; and issues press releases denouncing human rights reversals and lauding advances.

In recent months, for example, the Commission’s advocacy may have played a role in the release of one hundred protesters from prison in Nicaragua and was instrumental in securing a UN Human Rights Council resolution condemning serious human rights violations in that country.

With its wide-ranging powers collectively conferred by governments, the Commission is the most authoritative and credible human rights body in the Western Hemisphere. Past U.S. Administrations have nearly always supported it. They understood that encouraging respect for human rights in the Americas not only promotes our values, but also stimulates economic development, while helping to avoid wars, civil strife, and refugee flows.

Hence the United States funds most of the Commission’s regular budget. We nominate U.S. citizens for election by OAS member States to serve on the Commission. We urge other governments to participate in Commission proceedings.

But enter the current Administration. Its first step was to instruct our diplomats not to attend Commission hearings on two sensitive cases against the US. Our boycott put us in the company of only two other countries: Cuba and Nicaragua.

In June 2017 the candidate nominated by the State Department for election to the Commission (this writer) was defeated. Senior Department officials lifted nary a finger to win the election.

That same month, Republican Senators Ted Cruz and Mike Lee published an op-ed calling on the Trump Administration to reassess U.S. funding of the OAS, because of the Commission’s positions on abortion and gay marriage.

Later that year, the first budget under the Trump Administration was adopted. The United States paid its assessed quota of about $50 million toward the total OAS budget of about $83 million. However, because the regular OAS budget for the Commission is woefully inadequate (only about $5 million to $7 million annually), the Commission depends on additional voluntary contributions. In 2015, the US had voluntarily contributed an additional $2 million to the Commission; in 2016, $3.2 million; and in 2017, $2.7 million. In 2018, under the new Administration, the United States contributed zero.

In December 2018, Cruz, Lee and seven other anti-abortion Senators asked Secretary of State Mike Pompeo to cut off all US funding of the Commission, because of its support for women’s reproductive rights.

Whatever one’s position on that contentious issue, the Senators’ proposed remedy – a total cut-off of US funds – was grossly disproportionate. For example, of 259 press releases issued by the Commission in 2018, only one focused on abortion. In contrast, 41 focused on repression in Nicaragua, 12 on Venezuela, 12 on Guatemala, six on Honduras, and 43 on acts of murder or violence in other countries.

In March 2019 Secretary Pompeo responded to the Senators by firing what may be a warning shot at the Commission. The State Department announced a cut of $210,000 in funding for the OAS, equivalent to about 5% of US funding for the Commission.

Shortly before this announcement, in February, the United States again boycotted a Commission session. And in March the United States let pass the deadline without nominating a candidate to serve on the Commission.

At a time when human rights crises overwhelm several countries in the Americas, the Commission’s work is of critical importance. We must hope that future Administrations will once again appreciate the Commission’s vital role in our troubled hemisphere.

Essays, Online Scholarship

The Future of Planetary Defense and International Law

Editor’s Note: The following piece is a reflection from Georgetown Professor David Koplow on the space law panel he moderated at our International Law Symposium on March 9, 2019.

The panel on “The Future of Planetary Defense and International Law” addressed the provocative legal, scientific, and policy questions regarding what should be done if it is discovered that a large asteroid is on a collision course with Earth?

This problem is significant because: a) we know that asteroids do strike the planet all the time, although most of them are too small to notice or care about; and b) an impact by a large asteroid could, depending upon its size, composition, and other factors, cause devastation on a local, regional, or even global scale. At the moment, there is no known such threat on the horizon, but astronomers acknowledge that they are currently unable to detect, identify, and track a large number of potentially hazardous objects. Even more worrisome, humans have no tested, reliable, in-place capability for promptly and effectively responding to such a danger, especially if it were detected with little advance warning time.

In response, NASA and its counterpart space agencies in other countries have undertaken efforts to survey the population of near-Earth objects and to develop techniques that could be employed to deflect a dangerous intruder. Sophisticated experiments are underway or planned to study the nature and characteristics of asteroids and to explore mechanisms for altering their trajectories – but these are far from completion.

Although the subject of planetary defense lies overwhelmingly within the realm of science and technology, there are interesting and important legal aspects, too, and the panel addressed two of special note.

The first legal conundrum arises from the possibility that one conceivable technique for attempting to alter the trajectory of an oncoming asteroid would be to employ the vast power of a nuclear explosion on, inside, or near it.  Indeed, if the warning time were short, that may prove to be the only effective deflection technique. However, key provisions in some important, long-standing, and widely-adhered-to treaties stand in the way.  These instruments were crafted with problems vastly different from planetary defense in mind – they were designed to pre-empt a nuclear arms race in space, and they have proven remarkably successful in foreclosing what could otherwise have developed into a dangerous and destabilizing exoatmospheric competition. The difficulty in reconciling these very distinct types of objectives – dodging an oncoming asteroid and foreclosing additional military applications in space – may prove to be a severe international challenge.

A second principal legal issue arises from the possibility that an attempt to divert an asteroid might, unfortunately, prove to be only “partially” successful.  Suppose that the human intervention was unable to maneuver the asteroid sufficiently to make it miss Earth altogether, but did serve to alter its trajectory somewhat, so that it impacted Country X, instead of Country Y, where it would have struck if nothing had been done. Under applicable treaties, a country has “absolute” liability for damage caused on the surface of the Earth by its activities in space. That legal standard could result in an enormous exposure – the state(s) that in good faith exercised their best efforts to try to save the planet from an impact might incur an enormous financial responsibility for all the harm suffered by Country Y.

The most promising route considered by the panel for addressing both these legal issues is to exercise the powers of the United Nations Security Council. Under Chapter VII of the U.N. Charter, the Security Council holds a unique law-making ability, and possesses the authority to supersede the provisions of other treaties. If prompted by a genuine emergency, the Security Council could therefore authorize states to exert their best efforts for planetary defense, notwithstanding the provisions of the arms control treaties and it could likewise modify the usual liability standards. Of course, it will not be easy or automatic to draft suitable provisions that would deftly address the dangers and the costs without unleashing an unwanted arms competition and without leaving Country Y to fend for itself in response to a catastrophe.

 

David A. Koplow, Professor of Public International Law and National Security Law at Georgetown University Law Center

 

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