California tried strict legislative limits in 1990, promising a new generation of citizen lawmakers who would serve briefly and return home. Many instead began planning their next campaigns soon after arriving and left just as they were learning the job. California voters eventually loosened the limits, allowing legislators to spend up to 12 years in either chamber rather than forcing them to move rapidly from office to office.¹
The broader experience of term-limited state legislatures has been mixed. Turnover increased and some entrenched leaders lost power, just as supporters intended. But studies and legislative reviews also found losses of institutional knowledge and greater reliance on staff members, governors, agencies and outside advocates.²
That shouldn’t have been surprising. Governing is difficult work, and difficult work takes experience. A new member of Congress doesn’t automatically know how a weapons contract is padded, how a bank conceals risk or how a federal agency buries an embarrassing report.
Congress already struggles to oversee an executive branch with millions of employees and specialists in nearly every subject government touches. Constantly replacing experienced legislators with beginners would make the weaker branch weaker still.
There is also something strange about protecting voters from their own decisions. Representatives face election every two years and senators every six. If New Hampshire voters believe someone is doing a good job, why should a national rule prohibit them from voting for that person again?
Term limits don’t distinguish between the corrupt and the competent. They remove both on schedule.
Supporters correctly point out that incumbents have money, name recognition and districts often designed to protect one party. Yet term limits leave most of that machinery untouched. The donors, parties and safe districts remain. The organization controlling the seat simply changes the name on the door.
The Supreme Court is a closer call. Justices can serve for four decades, and vacancies arrive through death, illness or carefully timed retirement. One president may appoint three justices while another appoints none.
The leading reform would give justices 18 years of active service, with one seat opening every two years. Each four-year presidential term would normally produce two appointments. Afterward, justices could assume senior status and continue performing other judicial duties.³
There is a lot to like about that plan. It would reduce the role of chance, discourage strategic retirement and prevent another justice from influencing constitutional law for nearly half a century.
I can see the appeal.
But it wouldn’t take politics out of the Court. Every presidential election would come with two guaranteed Supreme Court appointments. Candidates, donors and advocacy groups would begin fighting over them before the first primary vote.
Judicial warfare would become a scheduled event.
Perhaps regular appointments would lower the temperature by preventing any single vacancy from becoming a political lottery. That is one of the strongest arguments for the proposal, and it may prove correct. But the system would still depend on the Senate considering each nominee when the seat opened. Recent confirmation battles have shown that neither party can be counted on to honor informal rules when control of the Court is at stake.
A fixed calendar won’t make politicians more consistent.
Then come the awkward questions. What happens when a justice dies halfway through an 18-year term? How would the change apply to the nine sitting justices? Could Congress move a justice into senior status through ordinary legislation, or would that require a constitutional amendment?
Article III says federal judges hold their offices during “good Behaviour.” Supporters argue that senior status would preserve that lifetime office while changing a justice’s duties.