by Cathy O'Neil
Sometimes these blind spots don’t matter. When we ask Google Maps for directions, it models the world as a series of roads, tunnels, and bridges. It ignores the buildings, because they aren’t relevant to the task. When avionics software guides an airplane, it models the wind, the speed of the plane, and the landing strip below, but not the streets, tunnels, buildings, and people.
A model’s blind spots reflect the judgments and priorities of its creators. While the choices in Google Maps and avionics software appear cut and dried, others are far more problematic. The value-added model in Washington, D.C., schools, to return to that example, evaluates teachers largely on the basis of students’ test scores, while ignoring how much the teachers engage the students, work on specific skills, deal with classroom management, or help students with personal and family problems. It’s overly simple, sacrificing accuracy and insight for efficiency. Yet from the administrators’ perspective it provides an effective tool to ferret out hundreds of apparently underperforming teachers, even at the risk of misreading some of them.
Here we see that models, despite their reputation for impartiality, reflect goals and ideology. When I removed the possibility of eating Pop-Tarts at every meal, I was imposing my ideology on the meals model. It’s something we do without a second thought. Our own values and desires influence our choices, from the data we choose to collect to the questions we ask. Models are opinions embedded in mathematics.
Whether or not a model works is also a matter of opinion. After all, a key component of every model, whether formal or informal, is its definition of success. This is an important point that we’ll return to as we explore the dark world of WMDs. In each case, we must ask not only who designed the model but also what that person or company is trying to accomplish. If the North Korean government built a model for my family’s meals, for example, it might be optimized to keep us above the threshold of starvation at the lowest cost, based on the food stock available. Preferences would count for little or nothing. By contrast, if my kids were creating the model, success might feature ice cream at every meal. My own model attempts to blend a bit of the North Koreans’ resource management with the happiness of my kids, along with my own priorities of health, convenience, diversity of experience, and sustainability. As a result, it’s much more complex. But it still reflects my own personal reality. And a model built for today will work a bit worse tomorrow. It will grow stale if it’s not constantly updated. Prices change, as do people’s preferences. A model built for a six-year-old won’t work for a teenager.
This is true of internal models as well. You can often see troubles when grandparents visit a grandchild they haven’t seen for a while. On their previous visit, they gathered data on what the child knows, what makes her laugh, and what TV show she likes and (unconsciously) created a model for relating to this particular four-year-old. Upon meeting her a year later, they can suffer a few awkward hours because their models are out of date. Thomas the Tank Engine, it turns out, is no longer cool. It takes some time to gather new data about the child and adjust their models.
This is not to say that good models cannot be primitive. Some very effective ones hinge on a single variable. The most common model for detecting fires in a home or office weighs only one strongly correlated variable, the presence of smoke. That’s usually enough. But modelers run into problems—or subject us to problems—when they focus models as simple as a smoke alarm on their fellow humans.
Racism, at the individual level, can be seen as a predictive model whirring away in billions of human minds around the world. It is built from faulty, incomplete, or generalized data. Whether it comes from experience or hearsay, the data indicates that certain types of people have behaved badly. That generates a binary prediction that all people of that race will behave that same way.
Needless to say, racists don’t spend a lot of time hunting down reliable data to train their twisted models. And once their model morphs into a belief, it becomes hardwired. It generates poisonous assumptions, yet rarely tests them, settling instead for data that seems to confirm and fortify them. Consequently, racism is the most slovenly of predictive models. It is powered by haphazard data gathering and spurious correlations, reinforced by institutional inequities, and polluted by confirmation bias. In this way, oddly enough, racism operates like many of the WMDs I’ll be describing in this book.
In 1997, a convicted murderer, an African American man named Duane Buck, stood before a jury in Harris County, Texas. Buck had killed two people, and the jury had to decide whether he would be sentenced to death or to life in prison with the chance of parole. The prosecutor pushed for the death penalty, arguing that if Buck were let free he might kill again.
Buck’s defense attorney brought forth an expert witness, a psychologist named Walter Quijano, who didn’t help his client’s case one bit. Quijano, who had studied recidivism rates in the Texas prison system, made a reference to Buck’s race, and during cross-examination the prosecutor jumped on it.
“You have determined that the…the race factor, black, increases the future dangerousness for various complicated reasons. Is that correct?” the prosecutor asked.
“Yes,” Quijano answered. The prosecutor stressed that testimony in her summation, and the jury sentenced Buck to death.
Three years later, Texas attorney general John Cornyn found that the psychologist had given similar race-based testimony in six other capital cases, most of them while he worked for the prosecution. Cornyn, who would be elected in 2002 to the US Senate, ordered new race-blind hearings for the seven inmates. In a press release, he declared: “It is inappropriate to allow race to be considered as a factor in our criminal justice system….The people of Texas want and deserve a system that affords the same fairness to everyone.”
Six of the prisoners got new hearings but were again sentenced to death. Quijano’s prejudicial testimony, the court ruled, had not been decisive. Buck never got a new hearing, perhaps because it was his own witness who had brought up race. He is still on death row.
Regardless of whether the issue of race comes up explicitly at trial, it has long been a major factor in sentencing. A University of Maryland study showed that in Harris County, which includes Houston, prosecutors were three times more likely to seek the death penalty for African Americans, and four times more likely for Hispanics, than for whites convicted of the same charges. That pattern isn’t unique to Texas. According to the American Civil Liberties Union, sentences imposed on black men in the federal system are nearly 20 percent longer than those for whites convicted of similar crimes. And though they make up only 13 percent of the population, blacks fill up 40 percent of America’s prison cells.
So you might think that computerized risk models fed by data would reduce the role of prejudice in sentencing and contribute to more even-handed treatment. With that hope, courts in twenty-four states have turned to so-called recidivism models. These help judges assess the danger posed by each convict. And by many measures they’re an improvement. They keep sentences more consistent and less likely to be swayed by the moods and bi ases of judges. They also save money by nudging down the length of the average sentence. (It costs an average of $31,000 a year to house an inmate, and double that in expensive states like Connecticut and New York.)
The question, however, is whether we’ve eliminated human bias or simply camouflaged it with technology. The new recidivism models are complicated and mathematical. But embedded within these models are a host of assumptions, some of them prejudicial. And while Walter Quijano’s words were transcribed for the record, which could later be read and challenged in court, the workings of a recidivism model are tucked away in algorithms, intelligible only to a tiny elite.
One of the more popular models, known as LSI–R, or Level of Service Inventory–Revised, includes a lengthy questionnaire for the prisoner to fill out. One of the questions—“How many prior convictions have you had?”—is highly relevant to the risk of recidivism. Others are also clear
ly related: “What part did others play in the offense? What part did drugs and alcohol play?”
But as the questions continue, delving deeper into the person’s life, it’s easy to imagine how inmates from a privileged background would answer one way and those from tough inner-city streets another. Ask a criminal who grew up in comfortable suburbs about “the first time you were ever involved with the police,” and he might not have a single incident to report other than the one that brought him to prison. Young black males, by contrast, are likely to have been stopped by police dozens of times, even when they’ve done nothing wrong. A 2013 study by the New York Civil Liberties Union found that while black and Latino males between the ages of fourteen and twenty-four made up only 4.7 percent of the city’s population, they accounted for 40.6 percent of the stop-and-frisk checks by police. More than 90 percent of those stopped were innocent. Some of the others might have been drinking underage or carrying a joint. And unlike most rich kids, they got in trouble for it. So if early “involvement” with the police signals recidivism, poor people and racial minorities look far riskier.
The questions hardly stop there. Prisoners are also asked about whether their friends and relatives have criminal records. Again, ask that question to a convicted criminal raised in a middle-class neighborhood, and the chances are much greater that the answer will be no. The questionnaire does avoid asking about race, which is illegal. But with the wealth of detail each prisoner provides, that single illegal question is almost superfluous.
The LSI–R questionnaire has been given to thousands of inmates since its invention in 1995. Statisticians have used those results to devise a system in which answers highly correlated to recidivism weigh more heavily and count for more points. After answering the questionnaire, convicts are categorized as high, medium, and low risk on the basis of the number of points they accumulate. In some states, such as Rhode Island, these tests are used only to target those with high-risk scores for antirecidivism programs while incarcerated. But in others, including Idaho and Colorado, judges use the scores to guide their sentencing.
This is unjust. The questionnaire includes circumstances of a criminal’s birth and upbringing, including his or her family, neighborhood, and friends. These details should not be relevant to a criminal case or to the sentencing. Indeed, if a prosecutor attempted to tar a defendant by mentioning his brother’s criminal record or the high crime rate in his neighborhood, a decent defense attorney would roar, “Objection, Your Honor!” And a serious judge would sustain it. This is the basis of our legal system. We are judged by what we do, not by who we are. And although we don’t know the exact weights that are attached to these parts of the test, any weight above zero is unreasonable.
Many would point out that statistical systems like the LSI–R are effective in gauging recidivism risk—or at least more accurate than a judge’s random guess. But even if we put aside, ever so briefly, the crucial issue of fairness, we find ourselves descending into a pernicious WMD feedback loop. A person who scores as “high risk” is likely to be unemployed and to come from a neighborhood where many of his friends and family have had run-ins with the law. Thanks in part to the resulting high score on the evaluation, he gets a longer sentence, locking him away for more years in a prison where he’s surrounded by fellow criminals—which raises the likelihood that he’ll return to prison. He is finally released into the same poor neighborhood, this time with a criminal record, which makes it that much harder to find a job. If he commits another crime, the recidivism model can claim another success. But in fact the model itself contributes to a toxic cycle and helps to sustain it. That’s a signature quality of a WMD.
In this chapter, we’ve looked at three kinds of models. The baseball models, for the most part, are healthy. They are transparent and continuously updated, with both the assumptions and the conclusions clear for all to see. The models feed on statistics from the game in question, not from proxies. And the people being modeled understand the process and share the model’s objective: winning the World Series. (Which isn’t to say that many players, come contract time, won’t quibble with a model’s valuations: “Sure I struck out two hundred times, but look at my home runs…”)
From my vantage point, there’s certainly nothing wrong with the second model we discussed, the hypothetical family meal model. If my kids were to question the assumptions that underlie it, whether economic or dietary, I’d be all too happy to provide them. And even though they sometimes grouse when facing something green, they’d likely admit, if pressed, that they share the goals of convenience, economy, health, and good taste—though they might give them different weights in their own models. (And they’ll be free to create them when they start buying their own food.)
I should add that my model is highly unlikely to scale. I don’t see Walmart or the US Agriculture Department or any other titan embracing my app and imposing it on hundreds of millions of people, like some of the WMDs we’ll be discussing. No, my model is benign, especially since it’s unlikely ever to leave my head and be formalized into code.
The recidivism example at the end of the chapter, however, is a different story entirely. It gives off a familiar and noxious odor. So let’s do a quick exercise in WMD taxonomy and see where it fits.
The first question: Even if the participant is aware of being modeled, or what the model is used for, is the model opaque, or even invisible? Well, most of the prisoners filling out mandatory questionnaires aren’t stupid. They at least have reason to suspect that information they provide will be used against them to control them while in prison and perhaps lock them up for longer. They know the game. But prison officials know it, too. And they keep quiet about the purpose of the LSI–R questionnaire. Otherwise, they know, many prisoners will attempt to game it, providing answers to make them look like model citizens the day they leave the joint. So the prisoners are kept in the dark as much as possible and do not learn their risk scores.
In this, they’re hardly alone. Opaque and invisible models are the rule, and clear ones very much the exception. We’re modeled as shoppers and couch potatoes, as patients and loan applicants, and very little of this do we see—even in applications we happily sign up for. Even when such models behave themselves, opacity can lead to a feeling of unfairness. If you were told by an usher, upon entering an open-air concert, that you couldn’t sit in the first ten rows of seats, you might find it unreasonable. But if it were explained to you that the first ten rows were being reserved for people in wheelchairs, then it might well make a difference. Transparency matters.
And yet many companies go out of their way to hide the results of their models or even their existence. One common justification is that the algorithm constitutes a “secret sauce” crucial to their business. It’s intellectual property, and it must be defended, if need be, with legions of lawyers and lobbyists. In the case of web giants like Google, Amazon, and Facebook, these precisely tailored algorithms alone are worth hundreds of billions of dollars. WMDs are, by design, inscrutable black boxes. That makes it extra hard to definitively answer the second question: Does the model work against the subject’s interest? In short, is it unfair? Does it damage or destroy lives?
Here, the LSI–R again easily qualifies as a WMD. The people putting it together in the 1990s no doubt saw it as a tool to bring evenhandedness and efficiency to the criminal justice system. It could also help nonthreatening criminals land lighter sentences. This would translate into more years of freedom for them and enormous savings for American taxpayers, who are footing a $70 billion annual prison bill. However, because the questionnaire judges the prisoner by details that would not be admissible in court, it is unfair. While many may benefit from it, it leads to suffering for others.
A key component of this suffering is the pernicious feedback loop. As we’ve seen, sentencing models that profile a person by his or her circumstances help to create the environment that justifies their assumptions. This destructive loop goes round and round,
and in the process the model becomes more and more unfair.
The third question is whether a model has the capacity to grow exponentially. As a statistician would put it, can it scale? This might sound like the nerdy quibble of a mathematician. But scale is what turns WMDs from local nuisances into tsunami forces, ones that define and delimit our lives. As we’ll see, the developing WMDs in human resources, health, and banking, just to name a few, are quickly establishing broad norms that exert upon us something very close to the power of law. If a bank’s model of a high-risk borrower, for example, is applied to you, the world will treat you as just that, a deadbeat—even if you’re horribly misunderstood. And when that model scales, as the credit model has, it affects your whole life—whether you can get an apartment or a job or a car to get from one to the other.
When it comes to scaling, the potential for recidivism modeling continues to grow. It’s already used in the majority of states, and the LSI–R is the most common tool, used in at least twenty-four of them. Beyond LSI–R, prisons host a lively and crowded market for data scientists. The penal system is teeming with data, especially since convicts enjoy even fewer privacy rights than the rest of us. What’s more, the system is so miserable, overcrowded, inefficient, expensive, and inhumane that it’s crying out for improvements. Who wouldn’t want a cheap solution like this?
Penal reform is a rarity in today’s polarized political world, an issue on which liberals and conservatives are finding common ground. In early 2015, the conservative Koch brothers, Charles and David, teamed up with a liberal think tank, the Center for American Progress, to push for prison reform and drive down the incarcerated population. But my suspicion is this: their bipartisan effort to reform prisons, along with legions of others, is almost certain to lead to the efficiency and perceived fairness of a data-fed solution. That’s the age we live in. Even if other tools supplant LSI–R as its leading WMD, the prison system is likely to be a powerful incubator for WMDs on a grand scale.