Posted by
Julian Sanchez at http://www.cato-at-liberty.org/the-ada-and-the-internet/
Law professor Eric Goldman
points to a “really terrible” ruling in a case called
National Association of the Deaf v. Netflix
that “has potentially ripped open a huge hole in Internet law” by
concluding that Internet sites are “places of public accommodation” for
the purposes of the Americans with Disabilities Act, simply ignoring a
boatload of precedent concluding just the opposite. As Goldman explains,
this is apt to unleash a costly and innovation-stifling flood of
litigation:
Could YouTube be obligated to close-caption videos on the
site? (This case seems to leave that door open.) Could every website
using Flash have to redesign their sites for browsers that read the
screen? I’m not creative enough to think of all the implications, but I
can assure you that ADA plaintiffs’ lawyers will have a long checklist
of items worth suing over. Big companies may be able to afford the
compliance and litigation costs, but the entry costs for new market
participants could easily reach prohibitive levels.
And then there’s linkages with other civil rights statutes, such as
Title II of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 (an anti-discrimination law)
and state laws, that use similar language as the language interpreted in
this ruling. If all of those statutes are back in play too, the range
of obligations imposed on websites–and the opportunities for aggressive
plaintiffs’ lawyers–expand exponentially. Expect lots of consumer claims
that a website discriminated against them based on an impermissible
criterion. It’s safe to say that the legal rules at issue in this case
could have billions of dollars of impact between the web coding
obligations and the potential litigation frenzies.
That wouldn’t be terribly surprising: The ADA has certainly led to its share of costly
unintended consequences in the physical realm. But there are a few reasons why the statute seems particularly ill-suited for application to the Web.
At the risk of belaboring the obvious: Web sites are not “places” at
all, except in a metaphorical sense: They are streams of information
transmitted to users. (There is, of course, some physical place where
the server is located, but
that place is typically not
physically open to the public.) The court treats this as a kind of
trivial semantic distinction rendered moot by the advance of technology,
even suggesting that it would be “absurd” to exempt Netflix and Amazon
from the rules written for the local cineplex and bookshop. But there
are actually quite a few crucial distinctions between Internet sites and
traditional brick-and-mortar businesses, which make it a rather
surprising leap to insist that a statute designed for literal “places”
naturally extends to the metaphorical digital “sites” that serve similar
functions.
First, information streams, unlike actual places, are intrinsically
made of speech.
That certainly doesn’t mean the First Amendment is some kind of blanket
get-out-of-regulation-free card for businesses engaged in online
commerce, but it does mean that expressive rights will often be
implicated when changes to the virtual “place” or “service” are
demanded, in a way they are typically not when a shop is required to
install a wheelchair ramp. Online, the boundary between being compelled
to act and being compelled to speak is especially porous. Again, that’s
not an absolute bar to regulation, but it seems odd to assume that
Congress must have intended to create such broad causes of action
against what are essentially publishers of information,
when the examples used to define “public accommodation”
very conspicuously don’t include any producers of content. “Places of
exhibition entertainment” are covered, but not the content of the
entertainment itself—which is why the ADA doesn’t require DVD makers to
provide caption tracks (though most do) or books and periodicals to run
large-print editions. As the court observes, Congress probably could not
have anticipated Netflix or Amazon when it passed the ADA in 1990—yet
it presumably had at least a passing familiarity with the concept of
magazines and videotapes. It does not seem terribly mysterious that
Congress nevertheless declined to invite the routine conflict with
expressive rights that would predictably result from shoehorning
publishers of information under the same regulatory rubric as physical
businesses.
Second, physical businesses and their customers—disabled customers in
particular—are inherently constrained by distance and the costs of
transit in a way virtual “places” are not, which importantly changes the
cost-benefit calculus for all concerned. Outside major metropolitan
areas, there may be only one or two businesses of a particular type
local to some disabled persons, which for practical purposes means they
must be able to access
that facility if they are to avail
themselves of the relevant class of goods or services at all.
Conversely, since physical businesses are generally competing only for
the patronage of the local population, owners may be more likely to
conclude that it doesn’t make economic sense to invest in accessibility
aids that will only be needed by a handful of customers.
Things are obviously quite different online. As a general rule, any
site on the Web is accessible from anyplace else, which means the
inaccessibility of any particular site is less likely to represent a
significant practical reduction of the choice set of any individual
disabled user. One common argument for imposing the ADA’s universal
obligations on physical businesses is that it may be unrealistic to
expect the disabled in particular to simply “go somewhere else” if the
nearest business can’t accommodate their needs. That argument has less
traction in a landscape without distances. But what if none (or very
few) of the businesses in a particular sphere implement some particular
desired accommodation? Online, that’s much more likely to be evidence
that it would be unduly costly or burdensome to do so—and therefore
beyond the ADA’s requirements—because sites are typically competing for a
national (if not global) pool of hearing and visually impaired
customers.
The suit against Netflix is actually an excellent illustration. The
National Association of the Deaf is arguing that Netflix runs afoul of
the ADA by failing to provide closed-captioning for
all of the
movies it makes available to “Watch Instantly” online, among other
things. Now, there are something like 35 million hearing impaired people
in the United States, and more than a million who are functionally
deaf. One can imagine the manager of the lone local theater deciding
it’s not worth even a relatively small investment to accommodate a
handful of disabled potential patrons. It’s much harder to believe that
Netflix is just arbitrarily dragging its heels in making its offerings
more appealing to such an enormous potential market: To the extent it’s
feasible to do at a reasonable cost, they have ample incentive to be
doing it without legal prodding—an incentive magnified by the speed with
which Web businesses that get complacent fall to more innovative
competitors eager to spot those missed opportunities for improvement.
(Anyone remember Altavista and Friendster?)
As Netflix’s attorneys point out, the real holdup isn’t, in fact, a
lack of will so much as an inability to act unilaterally: They’re
obliged to negotiate with the copyright owners of the movies they
stream. The court correctly responds that this
specific argument doesn’t affect whether Netflix is classed as a “public accommodation”: Rather, it’s a defense they could raise
after
that determination is made to show they’re complying with the ADA as
far as they’re able. But there are reasons to think there would nearly
always be such a defense, because the nature of the online economy
should generate far stronger pressure for
someone to step in and serve disabled users
unless
it’s infeasible or prohibitively costly—and for incumbent businesses to
preempt any new entrants who’d exploit their failure to do so. Congress
judged the ADA necessary based on the history of brick-and-mortar
businesses where the constraints of space and distance might be thought
to attenuate those pressures. Assuming, without further legislative
guidance, that the same regulatory regime is appropriate where those
constraints are absent is a bit like applying a statute prohibiting
animal cruelty in stables to car manufacturers: Cars and horses may
serve many of the same social functions, but they differ in the key
respect that provided the rationale for regulation. This may be one
reason Congress declined to augment its illustrative list of “public
accommodations” to include any purely virtual spaces when it extensively
amended the ADA in 2008.
Finally, and perhaps most importantly, users are constrained to take
physical spaces more or less as they find them. The owner can make
changes in the physical environment; the user or patron cannot. If a
theater does not provide wheelchair ramps or wheelchair-friendly viewing
spaces, there is not a whole lot a disabled patron can realistically do
to change that fact at a reasonable cost. Websites are quite different:
How they’re experienced is, in practice, always a
collaborative
fact determined partially by the code served by the site itself, and
partially by the end-user’s browser. If you are experiencing this post
as a string of written characters in medium-size on a screen, that is
not because of any natural fact about the Cato blog as a “place,” but
because you have a computer system configured to interpret the binary
stream transmitted by Cato’s servers in that way. Your current browser
could easily be reconfigured to display it as much larger text; your
operating system probably has an option to deliver that text as a
computer-generated audio; and with the right browser and peripherals,
you could render it as
Braille
or a series of odors instead. Even assuming a site’s content is
rendered in the statistically “normal” way, the fact that this content
is delivered to a highly configurable computing environment under the
end-user’s ultimate control means it will usually be vastly simpler for
adjustments necessary to compensate for special needs to be made
client-side rather than server-side.
This is self-evident for at least some cases: Given the widespread
availability of browsers and operating systems that can speak written
text out loud—however imperfectly—nobody thinks it would make sense to
require every individual Web site to provide a spoken audio file
corresponding to each page of text. As of 2012, voice recognition
software is not nearly good enough to allow automated on-the-fly
rendering of movie captions, but that doesn’t mean provision by the
provider of the audio-video stream is the only alternative. There are
online repositories like the
Internet Movie Script Database and (probably more useful in this context)
OpenSubtitles.org,
providing crowdsourced, time-synched captions for popular
movies—combining a client-side solution with a community-based third
party resource.
With physical facilities, it will often be obvious in advance which
adaptations for disabilities must be provided by the owners of the
facility itself (wheelchair ramps; wheelchair-accessible bathroom
stalls) and which are more properly the responsibility of the disabled
patron and third-party companies (the wheelchair itself). With Web
sites, this will not necessarily be nearly as clear in advance, but
there’s ample reason to expect that client-side solutions will often be
simpler and less costly. Applying the ADA to the Web effectively locks
in a presumption in favor of server-side solutions that is highly
unlikely to be optimal. Especially given the speed at which Internet
technologies and platforms evolve, it seems far more sensible to stand
back and let businesses and online communities determine the most
appropriate locus for adaptation as new services and platforms arise.