"Fairness is a process before it is a result. Proto–due process gave us the habit of asking who decided, by what rule, on what evidence, and with what chance to reply."
— Aditya Mohan, Founder, CEO & Philosopher-Scientist, Robometrics® Machines
River mist lifted off the Thames as tents rippled along the meadow. Barons in chain and cloak stood shoulder to shoulder; royal clerks steadied a broad sheet of parchment on a wooden board. King John’s seal—warm wax pressed by a metal matrix—sank into place with a dull bite. A clause was read aloud above the murmur of water and horses: No free man shall be seized or imprisoned… except by the lawful judgment of his equals or by the law of the land. The words carried past reeds and pennons, not as ornament but as a promise: power would meet a rule before it met a person.
Proto–due process names the early protections that preceded the Constitution’s formal due process clauses. Its roots reach to 1215’s Magna Carta, which limited arbitrary power through the “law of the land” requirement—no taking of life, liberty, or property without established procedures. By 1354, under Edward III, English law codified the phrase “due process of law.” Over the following centuries, courts elaborated writs and remedies that gave the promise teeth: rulers must act according to known procedures, and subjects could demand redress when they did not. This was the seedbed from which modern due process grew.
Colonial charters and early state constitutions absorbed these rules of fairness—notice before action, a hearing before a neutral decision‑maker, and reasons that could be understood and reviewed. The Constitution embedded them against the federal government in 1791 through the Fifth Amendment and extended them to the states in 1868 through the Fourteenth. By 1976, Mathews v. Eldridge supplied a balancing framework for how much process is due in different settings. The core remained constant: do not take without a rule; do not judge without a hearing.
Today the same interests—life, liberty, and property—are touched by systems that score risk, deny benefits, place names on watchlists, and flag alleged fraud. Where public action runs through an AI model, due process still speaks. At minimum, individuals are owed timely notice that an AI model is involved (and what kind), an intelligible explanation of the model’s reasons, access to the relevant records, and a real chance to contest the model’s inputs and outputs before an impartial decision‑maker. Emergency action may precede review, but a prompt and effective post‑deprivation hearing must follow.
The old promise yields concrete duties for AI in law: transparency about how the AI model is used and its limits; documentation of training‑data lineage, validation methods, and error rates; audit logs and model cards that permit reproducible evaluation; and supervised third‑party access when trade secrets are claimed. Black‑box AI outputs that cannot be independently tested are no different from secret chambers—they are unfit to decide liberty or liability. Human adjudicators should treat AI model outputs as evidence to be weighed, never as automatic verdicts, and agencies must keep a record that traces a clear path from facts to decision.
From reed and wax to server racks and model weights, the message is steady: fairness is a process before it is a result. Proto–due process gave us the habit of asking who decided, by what rule, on what evidence, and with what chance to reply. In 2025, carrying that habit into algorithmic forums is how we honor the law of the land—and ensure the law of the AI model remains its servant, not its master.