Stopping Cop City: Unconstitutionally Overbroad RICO Laws
- TULJ
- 4 hours ago
- 10 min read
Hiba Soban
Edited by Marissa Ambat, Josiah Jones, Sahith Mochalra, and Roohie Sheikh
“You dropped the ball!” chanted protesters at an Atlanta City Council meeting on Monday, September 9th, 2024, throwing ping pong balls at council members. Each ping pong ball was labeled with a “116,000,” symbolic of the over 116,000 signatures the group collected for a petition urging the city to put a referendum on the ballot–more than double the amount required. This referendum aimed to give residents the power to vote on whether to allow the construction of a new, $90 million police training facility–formally known as the Atlanta Public Safety Training Center, and dubbed, “Cop City.” The project has faced massive opposition both locally (in Atlanta and Georgia), and nationally, and is overseen by the Atlanta Police Foundation (APF) [1].
If constructed, it would stand as the largest militarized police training center in the nation, built over a completely clear-cut Weelaunee Forest, the largest remaining green space in Atlanta [2]. It is also known as the South River Forest, and endearingly christened one of four “lungs” of the city [3]. It is surrounded by three overwhelmingly Black residential neighborhoods– Thomasville Heights, Gresham Park, and Lakewood– that are home to a history of industrial developments. These developments include several landfills, prisons, demolished public housing sites, and trucking companies, making them vulnerable to the most extreme effects of climate change, such as flooding and extreme heat. If removed, the forest would not be able to mitigate or offset any of these effects. The Weelaunee Forest is, then, critical in the maintenance and protection of this delicately balanced biosphere, and stands to show how the international environmental justice movement is inherent to the struggle against Cop City. This movement has long highlighted the disproportionate burden placed on already marginalized communities, and these environmentally harmful projects have a cost that they often cannot afford–either fiscally or physically. Moreover, climate activism has long stressed the intersection of race, socioeconomic status, and environmental harm(s). Cop City, which is situated near historically underserved Black neighborhoods, further underscores these persisting inequities and echoes a continuing systemic pattern seen in cases like the Flint water crisis, or the construction of the Dakota Access Pipeline, where we can see the struggles that Black and Indigenous people both face in protecting their water and land, respectively, as shown between the existing support of both Standing Rock protests and residents of Flint towards the other respective movement. These protestors face similar clashes with law enforcement for their activism– arrests and felony charges, excessive force, and overall criminalization of dissent, which of course paves the way for an even more devastating legal storm.
At the heart of the Stop Cop City controversy lies Georgia's RICO Act, a statute originally passed in 1980 and modeled after the federal RICO (Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations) Act, designed to “combat organized crime and racketeering activities” [4]. Unlike the federal RICO Act, the Georgia state law is notable for including a broader definition of “racketeering activity,” allowing for various offenses that may not qualify under federal law, such as certain white-collar crimes and activities that do not meet the federal threshold for organized crime [5]. The state law permits “predicate” acts–actions that are otherwise legal when done individually, but which can be prosecuted as part of a “conspiracy” if linked to a broader “pattern” of racketeering behavior–in their expanded definition [6]. Essentially, it allows for the “use of predicate offenses as basis for conviction on separate offenses” [7].
Most crucially, this definition includes activities such as organizing protests, which, if prosecutors can link to illegal acts committed by others within the protest group, may result in severe criminal charges for organizers or even participants. This flexibility has significant implications for civil rights, as it permits the prosecution of activists or protest organizers if their actions are seen as supportive of criminal acts, even if those acts are committed by others. The leveraging of legal mechanisms to suppress dissent would seem counterintuitive to our country’s ethos, but is not new…from the Alien and Sedition acts of 1798, to the FBI’s use of COINTELPRO (Counterintelligence Program) starting 1956, to the Anti-Riot Act of 1968, to the the Patriot Act post-9/11…the US Government has not shied away from targeting organized protest as a threat to public order [8] [9]. These intelligence abuses may even suggest a racially motivated undercurrent, specifically unleashing methods of surveillance, infiltration, and other covert tactics to target groups like Black Nationalists, New Leftists and KKK/White Hate groups [10]. The implications of Georgia’s RICO law contributing to this extend further than just Cop City in this present moment– they could set a precedent for stifling a wide range of other social movements, a protected constitutional right and democratic principle of dissent– all in the name of security, acceptability, and “appropriate” democratic participation.
The question of what exactly constitutes racketeering activity under Georgia’s RICO statute has been a subject of continuing legal scrutiny. What exactly constitutes racketeering activity? In the case of Kilby v. State (2015), the courts elaborated on the types of actions that can lead to a RICO charge, particularly in relation to protests and the breadth of what a RICO charge or conviction entails [11]. In August 2023, an indictment was filed against 61 defendants, dubbed the “RICO 61,” who were charged under this statute in connection to protests against the construction of Cop City. Three defendants included organizers from the Atlanta Solidarity Fund, created in 2020 to secure legal counsel and bail money for activists and protesters. The prosecutors argued under these charges that the defendants were involved in a coordinated effort to use both lawful protests and unlawful activities–such as vandalism and arson–to further their anti-police objectives. Although several of the defendants were acquitted of all charges, a significant number were convicted on lesser offenses, such as trespassing, vandalism, or conspiracy to disrupt governmental operations. These convictions, then, highlight the now-blurred line between legitimate protest and actions deemed criminal under Georgia’s RICO law, further fueling criticism of the law’s overreach. Civil liberties groups have celebrated some acquittals as partial victories, though concerns remain about the precedent set by using RICO laws against protest movements.
The legal challenges surrounding Georgia’s RICO laws are deeply connected to the broader history of protest movements, particularly those rooted in environmental and civil rights concerns. Protests against Cop City began earnestly in 2020, initially focusing on the environmental impact of the project. However, as the plans progressed, the movement broadened its scope to include concerns about the militarization of police forces and its implications for civil liberties. The ‘Stop Cop City’ campaign builds on longstanding efforts by local grassroots organizers opposing prison construction and its related environmental destruction. In 1999, three groups– Critical Resistance (a prison abolitionist organization), the National Lawyers Guild, and Friends of the Kangaroo Rat (an environmental advocacy group)– launched a campaign against the the California Department of Corrections’ efforts to build a prison in Delano, home of the United Farm Workers [12]. The campaign argued that clearing at least 480 acres of farmland posed extreme environmental hazards, and that the State’s Subsequent Environmental Impact Report (a key part of the environmental review process) required further scrutiny. On October 23, 2000, CDC filed a motion to strike, asserting that petitioners Critical Resistance and the National Lawyers Guild Prison Law Project “lacked standing to bring the CEQA action” because their legal objectives “had nothing to do with the environment,” but rather, “to stop all prison construction on political grounds” [13]. Although the suit was unsuccessful, the construction project was delayed by nearly six years, with its completion conditioned on multiple environmental mitigation measures. The prison did not open until 2005, and no subsequent prison projects were pursued in California until 2013.
Although that movement had some success, in recent years, such protest movements have faced increasing legal pressures, including charges of domestic terrorism against some of the same activists involved in the Cop City protests. These efforts to criminalize protest activity further highlight the tension between state power and First Amendment rights–which is why critics argue that Georgia’s RICO law is overly broad in its application to activities that would not likely traditionally fall under racketeering at the federal level. This expansion of prosecutorial power raises wider constitutional concerns, particularly in regards to free speech and the right to protest.
The overbreadth doctrine is a legal principle rooted in constitutional law, holding that laws may be struck down if they restrict more speech or conduct than necessary to achieve their intended purpose. In the case of Georgia’s RICO statute, civil rights organizations argue that the law is unconstitutionally overbroad because it criminalizes a range of behaviors that are protected by the First Amendment. The Supreme Court has long defined this as the doctrine “holding that if a statute is so broadly written that it deters free expression, then it can be struck down on its face because of its chilling effect–even if it also prohibits acts that may legitimately be forbidden” [14]. The present concern is that a law that tries to criminalize a wide range of speech or activities (such as Georgia’s RICO statute) could have a “chilling effect” on people’s willingness to engage in protected First Amendment activities–even if a connection is tenuous or indirect–out of fear of prosecution. In the case of Georgia’s RICO statute, critics argue that the law is so sweeping that it risks discouraging individuals from participating in protests, organizing demonstrations, or generally expressing dissent–actions fundamental to the participation and principle of the First Amendment–simply because they could be swept into a case connecting them to alleged criminal acts by others and be construed as part of a larger, illegal enterprise, resulting in self-censorship and by-design engagement with free expression. Officials “have used these laws to arrest and sometimes prosecute protesters who may have been part of a crowd involving isolated violence, but who themselves were engaged only in peaceful and constitutionally protected expression” [15] [16]. In cases like this, the Supreme Court has reaffirmed that laws must be carefully tailored so that they do not go too far in restricting speech or activity that is protected by the First Amendment. The Court has ruled that a law that “deterrers” constitutionally protected free expression–even if it prohibits some legitimately illegal conduct–must be narrowly written to avoid infringing on constitutionally protected rights.
There are a couple of key features of overbroad protest-related laws that can be identified in order to examine what kinds of statutes present such room for correction or elimination. Georgia’s RICO law is particularly vulnerable to overbreadth concerns due to its sweeping definition of “racketeering.” Overbreadth is closely related to the concept of unconstitutional “vagueness,” applicable when a reasonable person cannot distinguish between what is “racketeering” and what is not because of the difficulty encountered in assigning permissibility to otherwise clearly protected expression [17]. The Supreme Court recognized overbreadth in Thornhill v. Alabama (1940) and Cantwell v. Connecticut (1940), but “did not invalidate the statute in question, calling instead for a limiting construction of its applications,” which would be a major redefining of its applicative qualities and capacities [18] [19] [20]. Overall, overbreadth has been an increasingly relevant debate, given the specific laws that have been rolled out in recent years to criminalize or covertly discourage protests–whether they originate in personal/partisan motivations of lawmakers to suppress unfavorable speech or originate in genuine tension between protected expression and anti-violence/anti-damage preventative protest-aftermath.
It has now been over two years since the death of Manuel Esteban Paez Teran, who many know as “Tortuguita,” a prominent activist in the Stop Cop City movement. It has become so clear that the bureaucracy accompanying the violent repression that Cop City protestors are dealing with is one symptom of a larger issue: overbroad laws do, in fact, “negatively affect discourse and democracy because they are particularly prone to use (and abuse) against dissenting or unpopular viewpoints” [21], when those views are the most crucial for getting a balanced civilian discretion on the nature of activism in the United States. It is clear that “while a core First Amendment purpose is to deny government officials ‘the power to determine which messages shall be heard and which suppressed,’ overbroad laws weaken that purpose by empowering law enforcement officials with excessive discretion, enabling them to deter peaceful protest” [22]. The lack of trust in our laws and government officials is detrimental to our democracy– but even more so, to people’s right to lawfully assemble in defense of their liberties, livelihoods, loved ones’ livelihoods, and lands.
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