In August 1849, outspoken proslavery Missouri Supreme Court Judge James H. Birch sued Unionist Senator Thomas Hart Benton of Missouri for slander because he had publicly accused Birch of having kept “his own negro wench” and whipped his wife because she had dared to complain about it. On first impression, the lurid accusation and resulting lawsuit might seem merely colorful window dressing for the virulent sectional politics of the late antebellum period. Benton's objectionable utterances certainly exemplify the verbal pyrotechnics that, after the Mexican War, often accompanied public debate over the question of whether African-American bondage was to extend across the continental United States. But the vituperation that gave rise to Birch v. Benton, in fact, marked the beginning of one of the most widely-publicized episodes in the struggle pitting the champion of Jacksonian democracy in the trans-Mississippi Southwest against a powerful cadre of proslavery leaders who sought to end his thirty-year career in the United States Senate. According to legal historian Gerald T. Dunne, the politicized nature of the case and its contentious appeal to the Missouri Supreme Court provided the critical catalyst for lawmakers in the state to amend its constitution in 1850 to replace lifetime tenure for judges with periodic voter choice. The landmark constitutional revision both instituted popular election of judges and shook up the composition of the proslavery high court, including the removal of Judge Birch.

In the summer of 1809 a flotilla of boats arrived in New Orleans carrying more than 9,000 Saint-Domingue refugees recently expelled from the Spanish colony of Cuba. These migrants nearly doubled the population of New Orleans, renewing its Francophone character and populating the neighborhoods of the Vieux Carré and Faubourg Marigny. At the heart of the story of their disembarkation, however, is a legal puzzle. Historians generally tell us that the arriving refugees numbered 2,731 whites, 3,102 free people of color, and 3,226 slaves. But slavery had been abolished in Saint-Domingue by decree in 1793, and abolition had been ratified by the French National Convention in 1794. In what sense and by what right, then, were thousands of men, women, and children once again to be held to be “slaves”?

On January 24, 1913, the trustees of the Dalcho School, a segregated, all-white public school in Dillon County, South Carolina, summarily dismissed Dudley, Eugene, and Herbert Kirby, ages ten, twelve, and fourteen, respectively. According to testimony offered in a subsequent hearing, the boys had “always properly behaved,” were “good pupils,” and “never …exercise[d] any bad influence in school.” Moreover, the boys’ overwhelmingly white ancestry, in the words of the South Carolina Supreme Court, technically “entitled [them] to be classified as white,” according to state law. Nevertheless, because local whites believed that the Kirbys were “not of pure Caucasian blood,” and that therefore their removal was in the segregated school's best interest, the court, in Tucker v. Blease (1914), upheld their expulsion.

In 1848, Parliament created the Court for Crown Cases Reserved, in which all of the common law judges heard and decided questions reserved by trial judges in criminal cases. As Sir John Baker explains, this was “a court of record, which would now sit in public and give reasons for its decisions,” even though “the reservation of cases was still at the discretion of the trial judge and the court did not have the powers of the court en banc in civil cases.”

In his thoughtful and informative article on the twelve judges and judicial review, James Oldham illuminates an important if little-studied corner of eighteenth and nineteenth-century judicial practice. For centuries judges in criminal (and civil) cases had reserved questions that presented peculiar difficulties related to procedure or the interpretation of statute to the consideration of their colleagues. We seldom glimpse much of the substance or form of these deliberations. They were private and informal discussions, although by the eighteenth century the participants in these meetings observed well-understood conventions. Oldham outlines what these rules and practices involved. Decisions, for instance, did not have to be unanimous. The majority opinion took on the force of precedent, even though the deliberations often survived only in unpublished notes or the memories of the judges. Oldham gives a strong reading to this practice. Judges not only determined which cases would be referred to their colleagues, they exercised considerable discretion in ruling on the objections that had been raised. He views this process as offering another example of the power of the judges to shape the character of legal proceedings in early modern England. They were not only correcting procedural mistakes that arose during a trial; they were actively interpreting statute. In doing so, they demonstrated their decisive role in controlling the operation of criminal justice over the long eighteenth century.

Each of these four lapidary papers scratches a stylus across fixed categories and settled understandings: embedding the legal history of the Americas in the African history of crime and punishment; uncovering the intellectual history of the metropole in the social history of the colonies; using the restless contingency of biography to trouble the most durable of historiographical boundaries, that between slavery and freedom. Taken together, they dismantle and then suggestively refit the history of slavery and law in the time of revolution and emancipation.

In April 1929, an unremarkable man—a local entrepreneur and defendant in a minor lawsuit—entered the High Court of Nyasaland (contemporary Malawi) and made a remarkable gesture. The son of an Indian immigrant and an African woman, Suleman Abdul Karim declared himself a “non-native” and that he should consequently be tried as such. The lawsuit brought against him concerned the ownership of a Ford truck for which he had failed to complete payment. Approximately ten months earlier on June 28, 1928, Ernest Carr of Blantyre, Nyasaland—a local auctioneer and businessman who frequently ran advertisements in The Nyasaland Times during the 1920s—had sold the Ford to Karim with a written agreement that it would be paid for with £30 as a down payment, £20 on July 31, 1928, with the remaining £50 to be paid in monthly installments of £10 starting August 31, 1928. All told, this business transaction was intended to be resolved expeditiously, with its completion by the new year of 1929. However, the minor expectation that this contract had promised was not fulfilled. Two payments were made, an initial one on the day of sale for £30 and a second several months later on November 16, this time for £8. Karim defaulted on the remaining amount. Furthermore, he failed to make an insurance premium payment of £10 to the African Guarantee and Indemnity Co. Ltd., for which Carr was a local agent. Despite these defaults, Karim had not returned the Ford. Consequently, after several more months elapsed, a claim against Karim came before the High Court on April 11, 1929.

In Nazi Germany, integration into the community of the Volk, or exclusion and persecution, were determined by the regime's categories. As legal historian Michael Stolleis has noted, this new National Socialist terminology “quick[ly] penetrat[ed] … into the old conceptual world” of German jurisprudence and the country's court system. In line with the prescriptions of the political leadership of the Hitler state, bureaucrats of the Justice and Interior Ministries in Berlin drafted novel legislation that, once issued as new laws, judges, state attorneys, and lawyers readily interpreted and put into practice. With the promulgation of the Nuremberg Laws in September 1935, the main racial designations evolved around a tripartite terminology of “full Jews [Volljuden],” “Jewish mixed breeds [Mischlinge],” and “persons of German and kindred blood.” In accordance with paragraph 5 of the first supplementary decree to the Reich Citizenship Law of November 1935, state authorities classified any descendant “from at least three grandparents who [we]re racially full Jews” as Jewish. Paragraph 3 defined Mischlinge of the first degree, introduced as a novel legal category, as Jewish Mischlinge with two grandparents “who [we]re racially full Jews.” The supplementary decrees did not explicitly delineate the term “person of German blood”, but the main commentary of the Nuremberg Laws loosely tied this term to the “German Volk” as a community comprised of six basic races, including the Nordic and East Baltic ones.

Convicted felons at the Old Bailey and on assize in nineteenth-century England had no right of appeal. They had either to submit to their fate or, if they had the means, petition the Crown for a pardon. The legal avenues for redress were limited. A writ of error would lie to a superior court for legal errors that appeared on the face of the record but by the nineteenth century this was seldom used. More significantly, it was open for the trial judge to reserve questions of law for the informal and private consideration of all the common law judges. In their illuminating studies of this practice in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, James Oldham and Randall McGowen elucidate the ways in which the judiciary used reserved cases to develop legal doctrine and to shape the operation of criminal justice. The trend toward increased formalization of procedure that they identify, culminated in 1848, when Parliament created the Court for Crown Cases Reserved (CCCR). The new court adopted the existing method of reserving cases, but was a court of record that sat and gave judgment in public. It became the highest judicial forum for the determination of questions of criminal law until 1908, when it was superseded by the Court of Criminal Appeal.

What are we comparing when we compare law and race across cultures? This was once an easier question to answer. If we take “races” to be real categories existing in the world, then we can compare “race relations” and “racial classifications” in different legal systems, and measure the impact of different legal systems on the salience of racial distinction and the level of racial hierarchy in a given society. That was the approach of the leading comparativist scholars at mid-century. Frank Tannenbaum and Carl Degler compared race relations in the United States and Latin America, drawing heavily on legal sources regarding racial definition, manumission of slaves, and marriage. They were studying relations between “white people” and “Negroes,” as well as the possibility of an intermediate class of “mulattoes.” But once we understand race itself to be produced by relations of domination, through several powerful discourses of which law is one, we are up against a more formidable challenge. We must compare the interaction of two things—legal processes and ideologies of race—in systems in which neither is likely to have a stable or equivalent meaning. Because “law” is likewise no longer as clear-cut a category as it once was; in addition to the formal law of statute books and common law appellate opinions, we now understand “law” to encompass a broad set of institutions, discourses, and processes produced by a larger cast of characters than solely jurists, legislators, and appellate judges.

The three articles published in this forum address an aspect of judicial procedure which has, understandably, been shrouded in mystery. Until 1848, the process of judicial review of Crown cases remained informal and the records of that review are terse and elliptical. Teasing out their meaning and their implications for lawmaking is thus no easy task. And while the process was formalized and made public with the creation of the Court of Crown Cases Reserved (CCCR) in 1848, the activities of this court have not attracted sustained attention from legal historians. These articles are therefore to be commended for advancing our understanding of the operation of judicial review in criminal cases prior to the establishment of the Court of Criminal Appeal in the early twentieth century.

The three articles offered in this forum on the early history of criminal appeals do us the great service of adding much of interest on this important but neglected issue in the development of Anglo–North American criminal procedure. The opaqueness of the legal history of criminal appeals stands in stark contrast to their centrality and apparent naturalness in contemporary criminal justice systems in England, Canada, and the United States. These three papers look at the period leading up to and immediately following the creation of the first formalized system of what we might call criminal appeals, the establishment of the Court of Crown Cases Reserved (CCCR) in 1848. This key period in the development of the adversary criminal trial was marked by both a concerted political effort to codify and rationalize the criminal law and by profound structural changes in the management of criminal justice.