This post is the result of a thought exercise I embarked on during the lockdown of the 2020 pandemic. The oil industry was thrown into turmoil, grappling with plummeting demand. The job market was bleak, and LinkedIn was awash with intense debates over macroeconomic circumstances and the misapplication of microeconomic theory (#peakoil). Instead of getting caught up in that drama, I decided to tackle a more pressing and, let's be honest, far more entertaining question: What happens to your real property rights when Thanos snaps his fingers?
The Snap and Its Aftermath: A Real Estate Crisis
In Avengers: Endgame (spoiler alert!), Thanos, the big purple space monster, decides that half of all living beings in the universe must go. Five years later, the Avengers attempt a time heist to bring back the vanished. The film depicts various aftermaths, but even with a runtime of three hours and two minutes, it skips over one crucial aspect—what happens to everyone's real property interests?!
When half the population suddenly vanishes, chaos is inevitable. Government authority crumbles, and infrastructure becomes unreliable. Without the United States' backing, property ownership becomes a speculative concept. Imagine local authoritarian leaders claiming cell towers, oil wells, and private residences. It's not Mad Max, but close enough.
The legal landscape, post-snap, would be akin to a Wild West scenario, only with less of John Wayne's swagger and more existential dread. The hierarchy of law—starting from the U.S. Constitution down to local ordinances—would likely disintegrate. The sudden disappearance of half the population would render enforcement of laws, including property laws, nearly impossible.
No Infrastructure, No Property Rights
Let’s start with the basics: the law governing real property. In the U.S., the ownership and management of real property is layered under federal, state, and local laws. Federal laws may dictate environmental regulations, while state laws handle property rights and leases. However, the sudden disappearance of lawmakers, enforcers, and citizens could mean the collapse of these systems. Without these structures, property rights could become meaningless.
In a scenario where the government infrastructure collapses, the principle of “finders keepers” might become the norm. Authoritarian regimes could emerge, seizing control of resources and property. The local warlord of your area might not care much about your carefully filed warranty deed. You could find yourself with nothing more than a paper title, as useful as the Sokovian Accords in a world where might makes right.
Captain America Saves the Day (And Your Property Rights)
Luckily, some of Earth's mightiest heroes survive the snap, seemingly preventing total societal collapse. Some semblance of infrastructure remains in the post-snap future, likely thanks to the efforts of these remaining heroes. Preventing post-apocalyptic chaos means safeguarding our fundamental rights, including private property ownership. But what about the legal processes? Can they keep up with this new reality?
Vanished and dead are not the same thing. Typically, it takes seven years for missing persons to be legally presumed dead, but the element of imminent peril can accelerate this process. In this case, the presence of an otherworldly titan with magic space rocks seems to have justified applying imminent peril on a global scale. In the movie, Scott Lang (Antman) discovers his name memorialized among the vanished within five years, indicating that the world had presumed everyone snapped away was dead, bypassing the usual seven-year period. This legal presumption facilitated estate settlements and the issuance of death certificates, providing governments a way to manage the ensuing chaos.
This brings us to the concept of probate law. When someone dies, their estate undergoes probate—a court-supervised process to distribute assets. In normal circumstances, this process ensures that debts are paid and property is distributed according to the decedent's will or state law. However, in a post-snap world, the sheer volume of cases would overwhelm the court system. Imagine hundreds of millions of estates needing to be processed simultaneously. Even Smart Hulk would struggle to manage that paperwork.
The Complications of Coming Back
But what happens when the vanished return? Scott Lang’s situation isn't unique. History has seen cases where people declared legally dead suddenly reappeared. Take Donald Miller, Jr., who disappeared in 1986 and was declared legally dead in 1994. When he reappeared nearly a decade later, Hancock County Probate Court Judge Allen Davis told him, “I don’t know where that leaves you, but you’re still deceased as far as the law is concerned.” Or consider John Burney, who faked his death in 1976. He returned six years later, shocking his family and triggering lawsuits over life insurance policies that had been paid out. These cases set a precedent: If you're legally dead and return, you can't just pick up where you left off.
However, Thanos' snap victims aren't entirely comparable. Scott Lang didn't choose to disappear like Miller, Jr., or Burney. An alternative precedent could come from cases involving those declared mentally incapacitated. In one such case, a man was declared incompetent, and his son leased out his oil rights. When the father regained competence, the lease remained valid. This case suggests that, even in circumstances without any semblance of intent to hide, disappear, or defraud, the legal actions taken by a valid representative, like an executor or guardian, would likely stand even if the vanished person returned.
Another legal concept at play here is the doctrine of equitable estoppel. This doctrine prevents a person from asserting a legal right if their own actions have led another party to reasonably believe that the right was waived. In the case of the vanished, if heirs or representatives took actions assuming the owner was deceased—such as selling property or signing leases—those actions might still hold, even if the owner returned. This highlights the complexity of the legal landscape post-snap and the potential challenges for those attempting to reclaim their rights.
The Moral of the Story: Be Prepared
For those who entertain the notion of a gigantic extraterrestrial with an oven mitt that transcends space-time, it's crucial to have a well-drafted will. You don't want to be snapped back into existence to find your rooftop burdened by a 30-year prime lease for telecommunications with exclusivity and no revenue share. In a world where half the population can disappear in an instant, planning for the unexpected is just common sense. So, draft that will, secure your assets, and hope for a less dramatic future.
And let's not forget the importance of Force Majeure clauses. These clauses in contracts account for unforeseeable circumstances that prevent someone from fulfilling a contract. While traditionally reserved for natural disasters or wars, who’s to say a cosmic snap wouldn't qualify? Businesses and individuals could potentially invoke these clauses to void contracts affected by the snap. However, this would likely lead to a flood of litigation as parties argue over what qualifies as an "Act of God."
In conclusion, whether it's a global pandemic, a cosmic snap, or just your everyday existential dread, being prepared is key. The legal system, like any other system, is only as strong as the people who uphold it. And when half of them are gone, all bets are off. So, keep your wills updated, your contracts ironclad, and always, always watch out for big purple space monsters. Because in the end, it's not just about the law—it's about survival.
Written by Alex J. Lindeke