If you asked the average American to name unprotected or vulnerable groups, “fashion models” would be unlikely to leave anyone’s lips. After all, models are living a life of plane tickets and Prada . . . right?

Fashion is fueled by appearances, and this is not only true of each respective garment or collection, but also of the fashion world generally. One foundational facade is that everyone within the industry lives a life of carefree glamor. On social media, models pose with everything from borrowed bags to subsequently discarded burgers. In interviews, they deliver carefully scripted narratives. In reality, the industry has what attorneys in a recent (and rare) instance of model versus agency class action litigation called “a dark underbelly.”

Due to nearly unfettered control by their agencies and the pervasive knowledge that they are replaceable, fashion models inhabit a world rife with financial exploitation, sexual harassment, and severe eating disorders. While these dangers are multifaceted, they could all be mitigated through one change: recognizing models’ status as employees. Models are currently classified as independent contractors; however, when one examines the relevant factors, it becomes evident that they should be classified as employees. The most important factor in determining employee status is control, and though agencies exercise far greater control over models than the average employer does over employees, the parties ostensibly do not share an employer/employee relationship. Without employee status, models (many of whom are underage) remain without the essential protections afforded to other U.S. workers. In fact, more legal protections exist for the sale of actual clothing hangers than for the workplace health and safety of the individuals known as “human clothing hangers.”

This Article identifies the issues within the fashion industry and explores how correctly classifying models as employees would provide them with long-overdue protection. Utilizing arguments rooted in everything from torts to contracts, incorporating sources ranging from the Uniform Commercial Code to supermodel autobiographies, and vivifying the experience through anecdotes from fictional model Macey Buchanan, this Article explores how the all-too-common injustices within the fashion industry could be remedied through one simple change.

Models are clothed in different outfits daily, but dignity, safety, and simple legal rights remain excluded from the proverbial wardrobe. It is time our system updated its look.

This Article argues that the expanding use of the state secrets privilege by the executive branch impairs litigants’ right to a fair trial. The state secrets privilege allows evidence to be barred from discovery when the government asserts that disclosure of such material would threaten national security. This oftentimes leads to the suit being dismissed, leaving the litigants without recourse.

United States v. Reynolds established the formal recognition of the modern use of the state secrets privilege. The decision in Reynolds enumerated a five-factor analysis (the “Reynolds factors”) which serve as a guide for evaluating the validity of the use of the privilege. This Article explains the “Reynolds factors”—their shortcomings, improper interpretation in subsequent cases, and an analysis of potential future uses. The need for an updated procedure is highlighted by a discussion of contemporary case law and statutes, an inquiry into the acquiescence of judicial and congressional authority, and a policy argument for expanded judicial intervention.

Matters of national security, of course, must be handled with extreme sensitivity and care. But sensitivity does not mean expansive deference to the executive branch. There is not a one-size-fits-all solution when the privilege is invoked. But by limiting judicial deference through in camera review, the judiciary upholds and adheres to the constitutional need to enforce limits and encourage balance throughout the government.

The presented solutions in this Article consist of different paths that lead to the same outcome: less judicial deference via the use of in camera review.

Since the U.S. Supreme Court overruled Roe and Casey and returned the issue of abortion to the states, attention has shifted to state constitutions: Do state constitutions protect the right to an abortion? Florida is one of the few states whose constitution contains an explicit right of privacy. That provision, Article I, Section 23, was adopted by the voters in 1980. It states: “Every natural person has the right to be let alone and free from governmental intrusion into the person’s private life except as otherwise provided herein. This section shall not be construed to limit the public’s right of access to public records and meetings as provided by law.” Not a decade later, the Florida Supreme Court held that section 23 protected the right to an abortion, and the court reaffirmed that holding in the decades since. But the Florida legislature recently passed, and the governor signed, a surely unconstitutional law that largely bans abortions after fifteen weeks—setting up a challenge to the court’s abortion precedents. The state and prolife activists believe that those precedents are wrong. Invoking originalism, they say that the original meaning of section 23 was that it protected only the right to informational privacy—the right to control personal information—not the right to an abortion. The larger implication of their argument is that Section 23 does not protect the right to decisional privacy, which is a person’s right to make certain kinds of important decisions.

Is that right? I seek to answer that question here by applying the principles of public meaning originalism, the dominant version of originalism. After explaining the basics of originalism, I engage in a careful, phrase-by-phrase analysis of Section 23’s text. Then, I examine the history of Section 23 at length, covering the general background, an earlier and unsuccessful attempt in 1978 to amend the Florida Constitution to add a privacy right, the successful proposal in 1980 that resulted in Section 23, and post-approval history. Applying the principles of public meaning originalism to assess the historical evidence, my conclusion is that the original understanding of Section 23 was that it would protect informational privacy and decisional privacy, including the right to an abortion.

Originalism is more influential than ever in the federal judiciary and legal academia in 2023, yet it presents as many puzzles as ever, too. What significance should we attribute to Justice Kentanji Brown Jackson’s relatively favorable remarks about originalism? Should the U.S. Supreme Court’s decision in Dobbs be viewed as originalist? Why would some scholars desiring to defend progressive and inclusive case law seek to recharacterize evolving contemporary norms as a product of historically grounded originalism? How should we conceive of originalism when self-described originalist scholars maintain that their version of theoretical originalism should be dissociated from the methods or analyses put forward in practice by self-identified originalist judges? From an interdisciplinary perspective provided by scholarly work in the academic field of fan studies, dynamics like these are not so puzzling after all.

For at least the past half-century, originalism has played a prominent role in U.S. constitutional theory. For a quite similar length of time, Star Wars has been a popular culture phenomenon in the United States. Both involve highly contestable issues of interpretation of an iconic text, including the scope and solidity of its initial meanings and the evolution of the text itself over time. Both involve publicly prominent historical narratives that place disproportionate emphasis on certain individuals and influences, nostalgia for an inauthentic past in service of present objectives, and an undercurrent of backlash against changes that bring more inclusion and pluralism. Both demonstrate, in their own ways, the inevitability of interpretive disagreement and the impossibility of divining a singular objectively provable meaning when the text at issue not only contains numerous generalities and indeterminacies, but also carries a profound emotional, cultural, and personal significance to its interpreters and the broader community in which their interpretive analysis occurs. Consequently, while it may be more intuitive to associate a global media franchise like Star Wars with analysis of fandom, the dynamics present in originalism have many significant parallels. When viewed through the lens of this comparison, we can ask the question: is originalism a fandom?

In Vega v. Tekoh, following a violation of Tekoh’s Miranda rights, Tekoh brought a 42 U.S.C. § 1983 civil rights claim against the offending officer and the officer’s department, citing a Fifth Amendment violation. The Supreme Court denied the claim and held that the Miranda rules do not implicate the Fifth Amendment, but rather are prophylactic. The Court proclaimed a Miranda violation cannot, alone, be a basis for a § 1983 claim. Since the 1966 Miranda decision, the Court has not provided any meaningful deterrence of Miranda violations, but rather has denigrated Miranda’s protections. Vega was a missed opportunity to reinforce Miranda and bring Miranda’s rules within the ambit of the Fifth Amendment. This Article critically examines the Court’s Vega decision, from its disregard of its own precedent to its disingenuous analysis of the cost-benefit of reinforcing Miranda’s rules.