In the last few months various
federal and state agencies have gathered up enormous fines from the big banks. The Economist estimates the total at
$35 billion, with Bank of America (rumored in the $15 billion range) and others
still to be heard from. Among the recent contributors to the public fisc were
JPMorgan Chase ($15 billion for dicey mortgage sales and foreclosures), BNP
Paribas ($8.9 billion for money laundering), and Citigroup ($7 billion for misleading
investors).
So the question for today is: Can the
banks have done any of these things? Or more generally, in what sense can a
corporation be said to do anything?
After all, a corporation is simply an organizational form for doing business. It
doesn’t have beliefs or desires, and it cannot act except through individuals.
So when we say that a corporation “did” something—laundered money or lied to
investors, for example—what we really mean is that individuals acting for the corporation did the laundering or lying.
Saying that the corporation did something is merely a façon de parler: useful in many contexts, misleading in others.
There is a legal doctrine, respondeat superior, that makes a business owner (including a corporation) responsible
for the tortuous acts of an employee. For example, if an employee driving a
truck on the owner’s business negligently injures a pedestrian, the owner can
be liable for the employee’s negligence. It’s not that the employee is excused;
both he and the owner are liable. But
it’s usually the owner that gets sued because that’s where the money is.
Early in the twentieth century the
concept of respondeat superior was
ported over from tort law to criminal law: A corporation could be criminally
liable for the criminal acts of its employees. A corporation can’t go to jail
of course, but it can pay a fine, lose a governmental license, or have certain
business practices enjoined. Much later in the twentieth century, in the wake
of Enron and other gaudy scandals, the penalties for corporate crimes were
greatly increased. (An article
by Joan McPhee, a partner at the Boston law firm of Ropes & Gray,
explains the evolution.)
Of course, when we say the
corporation pays a fine, loses a license, or has its conduct curtailed, we
should understand that we’re really talking about consequences for individuals.
For the most part, it’s the corporation’s stockholders, not “the corporation,”
who bear the costs. (Similarly, if someone forges your name on a check, it’s
you and not your checking account that will be the loser.) But why should the
stockholders suffer for the illegal act of a corporate employee? There are a number
of explanations, not all equally plausible.
First, if the employee’s conduct
benefited the corporation, as it might where a corporate customer is defrauded,
it seems only fair that the corporation/stockholders return the ill-gotten
gains. But this explains only a small part of what’s been going on recently,
where no one bothers to reckon how much the corporation may have profited and
little thought is given to paying over the fines to the victims of the
employees’ acts.
A second explanation is that the
guilty employees usually don’t have the resources to fully compensate the
victims. But this argument would never pass muster outside the corporate
context: If your neighbor defrauds someone but can’t fully compensate his
victim, should you have to pay the difference? In any case, little of the fines
go to the ostensible victims of the fraud or other illicit conduct.
A better reason for making
stockholders pay is that the possibility of punishment will encourage them to prevent
illicit conduct. In a modern US corporation, the stockholders elect the
company’s directors, who in turn elect and monitor the company’s officers.
Unlike the directors, who only serve part-time, officers are full-time
employees who run the day-to-day affairs of the corporation, including hiring
and firing lower-level employees. If the stockholders can be punished with heavy
fines, they will elect responsible directors, who will in turn appoint responsible
officers, who will in their turn institute measures to prevent criminal
conduct, including more closely monitoring the corporation’s employees.
Corporate
officers don’t like to explain to more senior officers or to directors why
their operations incurred governmental wrath, not to mention heavy fines. But
the problematic conduct usually would have occurred up and
down the line: Employees and officers engaged in illegal conduct, and more
senior officers, directors, and stockholders were not sufficiently attentive. However,
as one moves from employees to officers to directors to stockholders, the
ability to control the conduct of underlings, and the degree of culpability, rapidly
erode. So why does the least culpable group, the stockholders, take nearly all
the hit?
One reason is that the process is
controlled by prosecutors and corporate officers, and it is in their mutual
interest that things work this way. One manifestation of this mutuality is that
while corporate crimes must be committed by the corporation’s employees, the
guilty individuals usually suffer no punishment more grievous than losing their
jobs. (Their legal costs are almost invariably paid by the corporation—that is,
by the stockholders.)
For a prosecutor, pursuing
corporate employees for criminal activities raises all sorts of problems. For
one thing, it requires amassing detailed evidence as to the employees’
activities. Moreover, juries are much more likely to punish an abstract entity
like a corporation than a flesh-and-blood employee, so indicting individuals
can prove embarrassing. (In the Tap Pharmaceuticals case, for example, the
company settled for $875 million and an onerous corporate integrity agreement,
after which a jury acquitted the 13 corporate employees whose supposed crimes
were the basis for the charges against the company.) And massive fines, of a
size that no employee could pay, are profitable for the government and produce
headlines that can make a prosecutor’s career (the Rudi Giuliani effect).
On the corporate side, no one wants
to go to jail, least of all well-paid corporate directors and officers. Far
better to take the question of individual guilt off the table and lumber the
stockholders with the fine. (Directors and officers are usually stockholders
too, but they bear only a miniscule percentage of the economic damage.) Most
important, a criminal conviction—even an indictment—can be a death knell for a
company. (The accounting firm Arthur
Andersen collapsed after being indicted. Its subsequent conviction was posthumously
overturned
by a unanimous Supreme Court.) Better to settle for a sum that, while
impressively large, does not threaten the company’s existence.
The result is that corporate
criminal prosecutions have turned the Justice Department into a kind of protection
racket. Since no individuals are charged and the corporation cannot risk an
indictment, let alone a conviction, prosecutors do not have to put any facts
before an independent judge and jury. Instead, the prosecutors and the corporation
simply agree on a dollar settlement that will be large enough to burnish the
prosecutor’s resume while permitting the corporation to survive without having
any executives go to jail.
Viewed this way, corporate criminal
prosecutions resemble certain types of civil actions. In most states there is
“strict liability” for death or injury caused by defective products. That is,
the victim needn’t prove negligence in the design of the product, only that it
was defective. Even though no one at the manufacturer was derelict in their
duty, the corporation is still required to compensate the victim. The usual
explanation for such a rule is that where someone is victimized by a faulty
product, it’s the corporation that was best placed to avoid the injury by
preventing the product defect.
Whatever you may think of strict product
liability, the similarities with corporate criminal prosecutions are dwarfed by
the differences. Most obviously, a plaintiff in a product liability case will
have to prove to a court that the product was truly defective, that the defect
caused the injury, and the amount that will adequately compensate for the
injury. In a corporate criminal prosecution, in contrast, prosecutors will not
have to prove that a crime was committed or the amount of the damages because the
corporation cannot risk going to court. Moreover, no part of the settlement
need go to the ostensible victims. (As Floyd
Norris noted in The New York Times,
in Citigroup’s recent $7 billion settlement of charges that it misled investors
in mortgage-backed securities “there seems to have been no effort to quantify
just how much Citigroup’s improper behavior cost investors,” and “there is
nothing in the settlement to benefit most of those affected.”)
It’s understandable that prosecutors
will want to raise money for the government and to make their careers, and that
corporations will want to avoid oblivion. But what makes this situation
possible is public anger over particular corporate scandals such as Enron and,
more generally, over the recent recession. But anger is a poor guide to action.
Anger over 9/11 leads us to blame Muslims generally, with results both silly—stopping a mosque near the World
Trade Center site—and tragic—invading Iraq. In each case there is what we might
call a metaphysical confusion, which leads us to punish innocent individuals
who are connected in our minds with an abstract entity, Islam or the
corporation. (Strangely, many people who attack the Supreme Court decisions in Citizens United and Hobby Lobby by denying that a
corporation can have speech or religious rights seem willing to accept that a
corporation can have the mental state—mens
rea—requisite for the commission of a crime.) The result in the corporate
context is a corporate version of lynch law where, without any determination by
an independent fact-finder, innocent stockholders are hung, drawn, and quartered.
—Stan
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