Last July, President Donald Trump imposed 50 percent tariffs on various Canadian goods, a list he subsequently expanded to include additional imports, some of which he banned outright. His legal justification was Section 338 of the Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act, which Congress approved in 1930. Section 338 authorized tariffs in response to discriminatory trade practices. But in the 96 years since it was enacted, no president had ever used it to impose tariffs.

Why is that? According to a lawsuit that the Liberty Justice Center (LJC) filed on Tuesday in the U.S. Court of International Trade (CIT), the answer is clear: Section 338 was superseded by subsequent legislation that likewise targeted discriminatory trade barriers, beginning with the Reciprocal Trade Agreements Act of 1934 and culminating in Section 301 of the Trade Act of 1974. Section 301, the current remedy, includes requirements that Trump apparently sought to dodge by invoking Section 338 instead.

That maneuver is illegal, the LJC argues. "Congress already gave the executive branch a tool for responding to unfair foreign trade practices: Section 301, which requires an investigation, public comment and other safeguards," says Jeffrey M. Schwab, the LJC's director of litigation. "The administration cannot skip those protections by reaching for a 1930 statute that no president had ever used to impose a tariff."

Why not? "Where provisions in two acts are in irreconcilable conflict, the later act, to the extent of the conflict, constitutes an implied repeal of the earlier one," the lawsuit says. "Where a later act covers the whole subject of an earlier one and is clearly intended as a substitute, it operates similarly as a repeal. And a specific policy embodied in a later federal statute controls the construction of an earlier one even absent express amendment."

Even if Section 338 somehow survived congressional approval of contrary laws, the LJC adds, Trump's tariffs exceed the authority it grants. And if Trump's interpretation of Section 338 were correct, the lawsuit says, the provision would violate the nondelegation doctrine, which bars Congress from delegating its tariff power to the president without providing "an intelligible principle" to guide and constrain his exercise of it.

Trump's Section 338 tariffs, in short, are "the Administration's latest attempt to exercise, through a statute never designed for the purpose, the tariff power that the Constitution assigns to Congress." That pattern should be familiar by now.

Shortly after taking office in 2025, Trump claimed to have discovered a previously unnoticed delegation of extensive tariff authority in the International Emergency Economic Powers Act (IEEPA), a 1977 law that does not mention import taxes and had never been used to impose them. That claim was rejected by every court that considered it, and last February the Supreme Court ruled that IEEPA does not authorize tariffs at all.

Trump responded to that decision by immediately announcing similarly broad tariffs under Section 122 of the 1974 Trade Act, which addresses "fundamental international payments problems" caused by "serious United States balance-of-payments deficits." In May, the CIT ruled that the new tariffs were illegal because Trump had failed to "identify balance-of-payments deficits within the meaning of Section 122."

Trump then switched to Plan C, invoking Section 301 of the Trade Act, which authorizes tariffs in response to a foreign "act, policy, or practice" that is "unreasonable or discriminatory" and "burdens or restricts" U.S. commerce. He claimed that provision justified tariffs on 86 trading partners, accounting for nearly all U.S. imports, because they had failed to "impose and effectively enforce a prohibition on the importation of goods produced with forced labor." The CIT is currently weighing challenges to those tariffs, including an LJC lawsuit.

Trump's Section 338 tariffs have now added to the CIT's caseload. The LJC represents Gellert Global Group, an importer that was hit hard by those taxes after Trump added cheese to the list of disfavored Canadian goods. The lawsuit asks the CIT to certify a class of importers, numbering in "the hundreds, if not the thousands," that likewise have been clobbered by Trump's 50 percent tariffs.

Since Trump obviously is aware of Section 301, why did he resort to a never-used, seemingly obsolete provision to justify the tariffs on imports from Canada? As the LJC notes, Section 301 requires an investigation by the Office of the U.S. Trade Representative, "consultation with the foreign country concerned, notice, public comment, a hearing, and determinations within statutory deadlines." It also requires "that action be equivalent in value to the burden imposed, that duties be preferred over other import restrictions, and that actions terminate after four years absent a request for continuation and review."

Can Trump avoid those constraints by invoking Section 338 instead? The LJC thinks not: "Congress did not intend to leave in place a parallel authority that would allow the President to impose the same remedies, for the same conduct, free of every one of those safeguards."

Section 338 has been "impliedly repealed," the LJC argues. "At a minimum, Section 301 controls where, as here, the President seeks to respond to foreign practices within Section 301's scope, and the President may not impose duties in response to such practices while disregarding the procedures and limits Section 301 imposes. Because the President did not proceed under Section 301, the Section 338 Tariffs are unlawful whether or not Section 338 survives."

Even if you ignore subsequent legislation, the LJC argues, the Canadian policies that Trump cited when he announced the tariffs do not qualify as "discrimination" under Section 338. "Canada's motor vehicle surtax and its provinces' alcohol purchasing decisions are responses to tariffs that the United States imposed on Canada, not discrimination by Canada against the United States," it says. Trump also complained that Canada treats European cheese imports more favorably than U.S. cheese imports. But "when Congress enacted Section 338, a preference granted under a reciprocal agreement was not 'discrimination.'"

Section 338 "addresses discrimination: measures that single out United States commerce for worse treatment than the commerce of the world at large," the lawsuit says. "It is not a general authorization to impose tariffs whenever the President disagrees with a trading partner's policies, or whenever a trading partner responds to tariffs the United States has imposed on it."

Trump also was unfazed by Section 338's requirement that the president set duties to "offset" the costs imposed by discriminatory practices, which implies proportionality. Rather than attempt that, the LJC notes, Trump imposed "the statutory maximum rate of 50 percent without tying it to any measured burden."

As interpreted by Trump, the lawsuit warns, Section 338 authorizes the president to "impose tariffs of up to 50 percent on any products of any country that extends better treatment to any other country in any respect—including through any of the hundreds of preferential trade agreements to which the United States is not a party—or that responds to tariffs the United States has imposed on it." Yet Section 338 "contains no clear statement authorizing that power," contrary to the "major questions" doctrine, which applies to assertions of executive authority with "vast economic and political significance."

If Section 338 conferred the sort of unfettered authority that Trump is claiming, the LJC says, it "would supply no intelligible principle constraining the exercise of Congress's power to lay duties." His reading "would convert a narrow, fact-dependent provision into an effectively unrestricted delegation of Congress's tariff power," which would be "an unconstitutional delegation of legislative power."

This case "is not about the president," says LJC CEO Sara Albrecht. "It is about the presidency. No president should have the power to pull a dormant statute off the shelf and use it to impose sweeping tariffs or import bans without the limits Congress required."

The post Trump's 50% Tariffs on Canadian Goods Illegally Rely on a Superseded Statute, a Lawsuit Argues appeared first on Reason Magazine.

Last March on Instagram, Students for Life President Kristan Hawkins posted a photo showing her and two other members of the Virginia-based group standing outside Space Center Houston. According to the captions, Hawkins and her fellow activists, one of whom was holding a mobile phone, were "ordering abortion pills undercover."

A lawsuit filed last week in Harris County, which includes Houston, describes that Instagram post as "nothing more than a publicity stunt." The lawsuit, which aims to deploy a Texas abortion law championed by Students for Life against the organization, is also a publicity stunt. But while it may be effective by that measure, it faces legal challenges that will be hard to overcome.

The lawsuit, which a Texas woman who opposes her state's abortion ban filed under the pseudonym Maria Puerto with help from the reproductive rights group Amplify Legal, is supposed to highlight the vagueness and broad scope of House Bill 7, a 2025 law that authorizes private civil action to enforce state restrictions on "abortion-inducing" drugs. But Puerto's attempted act of legal jiu-jitsu seems too clever by half, relying on a dubious reading of the statute to seek "monetary compensation" it does not authorize and thereby punish anti-abortion activists for constitutionally protected advocacy.

H.B. 7, also known as the Woman and Child Protection Act, says "a person may not manufacture or distribute an abortion-inducing drug in this state" or "mail, transport, deliver, prescribe, or provide an abortion-inducing drug in any manner to or from any person or location in this state." Those prohibitions, it says, "may be enforced only through a qui tam action" against a "person" who "violates" or "intends to violate" them.

Any "person" other than a state or local official can qualify as a "relator" authorized to bring such an action. The relator can seek injunctive relief and "an amount of not less than $100,000 for each violation," plus "costs and reasonable attorney's fees." A successful relator generally receives $10,000 of that "amount," with the rest going to a "charitable organization" of his choice.

As a "person" who is not a government official, Puerto meets H.B. 7's minimal test for standing. And although H.B. 7 precludes lawsuits against pregnant women who obtain "an abortion-inducing drug," Puerto says Hawkins and the other activists "are not pregnant and were not pregnant" at the time of the Instagram post. So far, so good. But although the lawsuit asserts that Hawkins et al. "openly and flagrantly violated" the law's prohibitions, it does not explain how.

A photo accompanying a recent Mother Jones profile of Hawkins shows her and her social media coordinator, Lydia Taylor Davis, outside Space Center Houston during their "abortion-pill 'sting' stunt." Another Mother Jones photo shows Hawkins holding a mobile phone displaying what Puerto's lawsuit describes as "an order confirmation."

Judging from the Mother Jones account, it is not clear whether that description is accurate. "The scheme rapidly went off the rails," Amy Littlefield writes. "The plan was to purchase pills from a couple of services, with Hawkins posing as a male abuser while Davis pretended to be a 16-year-old—all to try to portray mail-order suppliers as reckless and dangerous. For reasons even she couldn't explain, Hawkins chose the fake name 'Wanda' as her male-abuser alter ego. But when Davis input her information, she hit a snag."

Davis was trying to order pills from the Massachusetts Medication Abortion Access Project. But according to Littlefield, that organization "had blocked Davis in its system after Students for Life teased the sting operation on social media." Hawkins "attempted to save the stunt by placing her own order, but 'Wanda' accidentally gave her age as 15," which was below the supplier's minimum age, Littlefield says. "Now a security guard was wandering over to tell them they couldn't film. Having set out to show that telemedicine services don't screen their clients, they inadvertently proved the opposite."

Puerto "will need proof that the Students for Life leaders actually obtained or intended to obtain the pills," abortion law scholar Mary Ziegler notes in Slate. "The activists may argue that the post was not in earnest, and that no one involved ever seriously intended to bring pills into Texas."

Even assuming that Hawkins et al. successfully ordered abortion pills, that conduct by itself does not fit the language of H.B. 7, which applies to people who "distribute" such drugs or who "mail, transport, deliver, prescribe, or provide" them "to or from any person or location in this state." That language encompasses out-of-state suppliers, which raises obvious concerns about extraterritorial application of Texas law. But on its face, the prohibition does not cover someone who simply orders abortion pills.

Puerto's lawyer, Amplify Legal attorney Molly Duane, argues that Hawkins et al. could be covered by the statute's reference to transportation. "What the statute says is that transporting abortion drugs from one location to another within the state is a violation of H.B. 7," Duane told The Texas Tribune. "By the plain language of the statute, this would seem to be a violation. This is the problem with writing such a confusing and vague law."

Under that theory, however, Hawkins, Davis, and the two other activists named in the lawsuit violated H.B. 7 only if they 1) successfully ordered abortion pills, 2) took delivery of them, and 3) subsequently moved them to another location within Texas. The lawsuit alleges only that they "ordered abortion pills, apparently multiple times." According to The Texas Tribune, Duane and Puerto "are hoping that the lawsuit will eventually surface more about what the defendants did with the abortion pills once they ordered them."

The lawsuit faces another obstacle. H.B. 7 does not apply to "speech or conduct protected by the First Amendment." Hawkins et al.'s efforts to show how easily state abortion bans can be circumvented certainly seem to fall into that category. "Students for Life may stress that the case targets their political speech about abortion," which is "protected under the First Amendment," Ziegler notes.

Those are not the only puzzling aspects of the lawsuit. Puerto, a 26-year-old single mother of two young children, emphasizes that she "had no choice but to continue" those pregnancies because she did not "have access to transportation or the economic resources to pay for travel out of state." The lawsuit devotes 11 paragraphs to describing the burdens imposed by her state's denial of "true reproductive rights," which she argues justifies some sort of compensation.

All of this seems legally irrelevant under H.B. 7, which does not require a relator to allege damages of any sort, let alone damages stemming from the abortion ban it aims to reinforce. "With nowhere else to turn for assistance," the lawsuit says, "Ms. Puerto is seeking financial compensation" from Hawkins et al. "in the amount of $459,782—the average cost of raising two children from birth to age 18 in the state of Texas."

Although H.B. 7 sets a minimum award of $100,000, the lawsuit notes, "there is no cap on the monetary compensation owed a relator." But the law does not describe H.B. 7 awards as "monetary compensation" for injuries allegedly suffered by the relator.

The statute's only reference to "compensatory damages" deals with lawsuits filed against H.B. 7 relators under "clawback provisions" of other states that have tried to thwart such litigation. In response to a "clawback" action, the law says, an H.B. 7 relator can seek "compensatory damages, including money damages in an amount equal to the judgment damages and costs, expenses, and reasonable attorney's fees spent in defending the action." By contrast, the bounty for proving a violation of the restrictions on abortion pills is simply "an amount."

The lawsuit itself, emphasizing the lax standards for filing a claim under H.B. 7, notes that Puerto "did not suffer an injury traceable to [the defendants'] ordering of abortion pills that can be remedied by a court." But it suggests that an award to Puerto would be appropriate given the defendants' anti-abortion activism.

The lawsuit notes that Students for Life "proudly advertised" its support for H.B. 7. Puerto complains that Hawkins et al. "ignore the immense harms and multiple deaths already attributed to Texas's cruel abortion bans" and "demean the six million Texans of reproductive age who have had their ability to decide whether and when to begin or expand a family stripped away by these bans." Whatever you make of that charge, the defendants' activism is constitutionally protected and therefore cannot support a cause of action in civil court.

"Texas is a strange place filled with vigilante statutes" that "seek to turn Texans against each other," Duane told The Texas Tribune. "But if anyone should be benefiting from these legal regimes, it's people like our client." While "putting those two things together…might be unusual," she said, "this is the situation that Texas has put its citizens in."

Depending on your perspective, you may or may not sympathize with Duane's reasoning. But it seems unlikely to pass muster as a matter of law.

The post A Texas Lawsuit Dubiously Accuses Students for Life of Violating the State's Abortion Pill Restrictions appeared first on Reason Magazine.