The Roundtable
Welcome to the Roundtable, a forum for incisive commentary and analysis
on cases and developments in law and the legal system.
on cases and developments in law and the legal system.
 By Sanjay Dureseti
Sanjay Dureseti is a sophomore at the University of Pennsylvania and an associate editor of the Penn Undergraduate Law Journal. The election of Donald Trump as president has ushered in a period of unprecedented uncertainty. Never has a person bereft of any political or military experience taken the oath of office of president. Along with his status as a governmental neophyte, Trump ran a campaign in which he refrained from articulating substantive policy points about a variety of issues, leaving the country in the dark about his plans to implement his legislative agenda. But perhaps the biggest shadow looming over Trump’s future is the status of several pending and active lawsuits against the incoming President and his vast conglomerate. 75 cases involve Trump and his holdings, and, though many of them are frivolous, several legitimate charges could threaten the stability of his regime. Trump, in the days after his electoral victory, attempted to postpone some of these trials until after his inauguration. These civil claims, other than potentially derailing the transition of power from President Barack Obama to his successor, also raise fundamental questions about the judicial liabilities, or lack thereof, that face the highest office in the land.
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 By Sanjay Dureseti
Sanjay Dureseti is a sophomore at the University of Pennsylvania and an associate editor of the Penn Undergraduate Law Journal. Immigration has been a cornerstone of American culture since the colonial era. The country’s political principles of Lockean liberalism are rooted in the early colonists’ cross-Atlantic voyage for self-governing autonomy. As an early destination for religious dissidents, opportunistic entrepreneurs, and the outcasts of European society, the United States and its constitutional principles are deeply intertwined with the idea of a social sanctuary, a secular haven for freedom from oppression of any kind. When these ideals have been put into practice, however, the results have left much to be desired. Despite their massive role in perpetuating rapid industrialization and technological innovation throughout America’s short history, immigrants have long been singled out as social pariahs. In the early twentieth century, the federal government, in response to waves of immigration from Central and Eastern Europe, enacted a variety of restrictive statutes to stop this flow of foreigners. The most prominent and far-reaching was known as the Johnson-Reed Act, which implemented quotas that allowed greater allocations of visas to Western European countries and lowered visa availability for other European countries to a paltry two percent of the existing foreign-born population. [1] Most non-white immigrants were banned entirely, as Johnson-Reed prevented influxes from the “Asiatic Barred Zone,” which included Southeast Asia, the Indian subcontinent, and Japan. [2] Though they were not included in this law’s provisions, China could not allow emigration to the U.S. under the purview of the 1884 Chinese Exclusion Act.  By Sanjay Dureseti
Sanjay Dureseti is a sophomore at the University of Pennsylvania. Drawing concrete lines between the United States’ deeply entrenched religious influence and its political institutions has always been an impossible task. From Thomas Jefferson’s efforts to prevent the Church of England’s stranglehold on Virginia’s colonial government to modern-day protests against public school prayer, the country’s legal history is filled with instances of the enduring battle between religious liberty and federal regulation. The separation of church and state finds its roots in the Constitution- specifically, in the Establishment Clause of the First Amendment. While the Supreme Court’s view of the Establishment Clause has evolved over the years, modern interpretational precedent was set in Everson v. Board of Education (1947).The case expanded the Establishment Clause beyond the purview of the federal government, as it used the Due Process Clause to bind states to the same standard of religious neutrality that Congress abides by. [1] The decision allowed the development of a more secular brand jurisprudence throughout the twentieth century. In addition, cases like Flast v. Cohen (1968), which permitted taxpayers to take legal action against governmental support for religion, and Lemon v. Kurtzman (1971), which restricted federal funding to parochial schools, have ensured the Establishment Clause’s wide-ranging application. [2][3]  By Sanjay Dureseti
Sanjay Dureseti is a rising sophomore at the University of Pennsylvania and an associate editor of the Penn Undergraduate Law Journal. After Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump clinched the presidential nominations for America’s two major political parties, the country’s electorate and press started focusing on the vitriolic and vainglorious stump speeches that will define the remainder of this election cycle. Despite the victories of Clinton and Trump, the general tone amongst voters with regards to the Republican and Democratic nominees has been one of begrudging acceptance. The party bases, despite their overarching desire for unification, have painted their respective choices as the lesser of two evils, with two-thirds of voters declaring both Trump and Clinton to be untrustworthy and dishonest. [1] The existence of such an uninspiring duo, other than galvanizing more extensive support for major alternative entities like the Libertarian and Green parties, begs the question of how the two managed to get chosen in the first place. While both Trump and Clinton won solid portions of the popular vote, their unpopularity suggests that the institutional structures of the nomination system may obscure the true will of the American electorate.  By Sanjay Dureseti
Sanjay Dureseti is a freshman at the University of Pennsylvania and an associate editor of the Penn Undergraduate Law Journal. NOTE: Since this article was written, the FBI dropped its case against Apple on March 28 as the bureau was able to unlock the assailant’s iPhone on its own. In the wake of brutal December 2015 terror attacks in San Bernardino, California, the usual political aftermath of mass shootings unfolded. The issue of gun control once again reared its divisive head. [1] Nativist, anti-Islamic sentiment, spurred by the rhetoric of various presidential candidates, further gripped the national consciousness. [2] But perhaps the most lasting and important consequence of the San Bernardino shootings, other than the loss of 14 lives, has been the developing legal conflict between Cupertino-based technology giant Apple and the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI.) Given the California assailants’ jihadist roots, carefully cultivated by years of secret adherence to extremist philosophies, the Bureau wanted access to a locked iPhone that belonged to one of the shooters. When requested to construct proprietary software that would allow “backdoor” access to the iPhone, Apple vehemently refused, citing its commitment to never weaken its security features. [3] In response, the FBI obtained a court order that required Apple’s cooperation, a directive that the tech company intends to fight. With both parties set to enter the legal battleground, this case could prove to be a massive landmark in the perpetually evolving dialogue surrounding state surveillance. After revelations of government data-mining brought to light by Edward Snowden, a majority of Americans have become concerned with the potential overreach of governmental institutions with access to increasingly sophisticated technology. [4]  By Sanjay Dureseti
Sanjay Dureseti is a freshman at the University of Pennsylvania and an associate editor of the Penn Undergraduate Law Journal. The death of Supreme Court Associate Justice Antonin Scalia reverberated throughout the United States. In some cases, his passing and what it represented incited tacit celebration, joy that a man deemed social progress’ greatest enemy could no longer battle against inevitable change. Others deeply mourned his demise, citing the justice’s unabashed intellectualism and praising him as a champion of Constitutional purity and originalist thought. Regardless of the nation’s opinion of Scalia, his death has set off a political firestorm, with both parties vying to determine the future of the judicial branch. Senate Republicans have vowed to prevent any confirmation procedures from unfolding, thereby rendering President Obama’s nominating powers moot. [1] The party is using its Congressional control to incite one more fight from Obama before his Presidency comes to an end in January. It also hopes that with a presidential victory in November the future of the Court will be theirs to decide.  By Sanjay Dureseti
Sanjay Dureseti is a freshman at the University of Pennsylvania and an associate editor of the Penn Undergraduate Law Journal. On November 20th, 2014, President Barack Obama announced his enactment of executive orders meant to drastically overhaul the immigration system of the United States. In circumventing the legislative authority of the Republican-controlled Congress, Obama expanded a 2012 program known as Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA), which will now allow over 1.2 million young undocumented immigrants to apply for deportation deferrals and work permits. [1] An additional 4 million undocumented residents, of all age groups, will also be eligible for work authorization and federal authorities will shift the focus of deportation to undocumented felons. Congress unsurprisingly balked at the President’s decisions, with the majority party threatening both political and legal retribution. Along with declaring Obama’s actions a “brazen power grab,” Republican lawmakers declared the President’s overhaul as unconstitutional and as an imperial overstep of executive power. Over a year later, Congress has made good on its promise to challenge the President on legal ground. The Supreme Court recently announced that it would address his executive actions and rule on their legality in their upcoming judicial term. [2]  By Sanjay Dureseti
Sanjay Dureseti is a freshman at the University of Pennsylvania and an associate editor of the Penn Undergraduate Law Journal. As Paris recovered from a coordinated set of brutal terrorist attacks that left hundreds dead, the rest of the world waited to see how France would respond. The government acted swiftly; President Francois Hollande threw the country into lockdown, declared a state of emergency, sealed borders, and banned public demonstrations. Given practical worries over the safety of the citizenry, such measures seemed appropriate reactions to the attacks in their immediate aftermath. However, several weeks after the incidents, these restrictive rules remain in place, threatening the very fabric of France’s constitutional values. On November 30, peaceful protests emerged, decrying the cancellation of the Paris People’s Climate March, a large demonstration targeted at world leaders meeting in Paris for the 2015 Climate Change Conference. Thousands gathered in the Place de la Republique, but the activists soon clashed with police, and riot troops fired tear gas at masked protesters. Hundreds were arrested under rules imposed by France’s state of emergency and Hollande was quick to condemn the demonstrations as “scandalous.” By all interpretations of the law, the French government violated the age-old right to peacefully assemble, laid out in one of the crown jewels of French republicanism, the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen [1].  By Sanjay Dureseti
Sanjay Dureseti is a freshman at the University of Pennsylvania and an associate editor of the Penn Undergraduate Law Journal. On October 26, the University of Mississippi lowered the state flag, which includes f the notorious Confederate “Stars and Bars” insignia, from a visible spot on campus. This followed a heated debate amongst the members of the student body, reflecting a larger dialogue that has gripped much of the South. The use of the Confederate flag is a thorny issue, one rooted in centuries-old racial and cultural strife. For a large portion of Americans, the flag epitomizes slavery, segregation, and is a painful and unnecessary reminder of a dark chapter in national history. For many others still, the flag is a point of pride and a patriotic symbol of Southern unity. While it is clear that the question of the Confederate image provokes unambiguous emotional reactions, the legal implications of its use are not so obvious.  By Sanjay Dureseti
Sanjay Dureseti is a freshman at the University of Pennsylvania and an associate editor of the Penn Undergraduate Law Journal. Martin Winterkorn, the now-former CEO of German automobile giant Volkswagen AG, recently admitted to his company’s use of secret software to fool diesel emissions tests. When the United States’ Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) caught wind of VW’s duplicity, they launched an investigation that revealed further disturbing truths. Estimates state that 11 million road-bound cars, ranging from cheaper models to luxury vehicles, are programmed with Volkswagen’s “defeat device.” [1] Such emissions standards have been the cornerstone of the EPA’s regulatory approach since its inception. Concerns for the effects of vehicular pollution first arose in 1960s and 1970s, when the postwar boom led to an explosion in automobile manufacturing, causing rampant atmospheric contamination. [2] President Richard Nixon, in an attempt to harness the electoral potency of the environmental issue, decided to form an umbrella organization designed to engage in all realms of environmental protection. [3] |
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