✏️ Legal Pad
Addiction by Design? A Jury Weighs In
A recent jury verdict out of California has put social media companies squarely in the legal crosshairs-not for what’s posted on their platforms, but for how those platforms are built.
In a closely watched case, a jury found that Meta and YouTube were negligent in designing products that harmed a young user and failed to adequately warn of those risks. The plaintiff testified that years of social media use contributed to anxiety, depression, and body dysmorphia, and the jury ultimately awarded both compensatory and punitive damages. What makes this case significant isn’t just the outcome, it’s the theory.
For years, tech companies have largely been shielded by Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act, which protects platforms from liability for user-generated content. This case attempted to sidestep that protection by focusing not on content, but on design: the algorithms, features, and engagement tools that keep users scrolling.
From the plaintiff’s perspective, the argument is straightforward. If a product is intentionally engineered to maximize engagement, especially among minors, and that design foreseeably causes harm, then traditional principles of negligence should apply. The courtroom framing was less about speech and more about product liability.
The defense, however, raises equally serious concerns. Social media exists within a complex web of influences- family life, peer pressure, mental health history- and isolating a single app as the cause of harm is difficult, if not impossible. As Meta argued, teen mental health is “profoundly complex” and cannot be traced to one platform alone.
There’s also the broader implication: if courts begin treating platform design as actionable conduct, where is the line drawn? Nearly every modern digital product is designed to hold attention. At what point does engagement become liability?
The verdict doesn’t answer those questions definitively. It’s one case, and it will almost certainly be appealed. But it does signal something important: juries may be increasingly willing to scrutinize not just what companies say their products do, but what they are designed to do.
And that distinction, between content and design, may be where the next generation of litigation is fought.
💡 Sidebar
Trial Tip #23: The “Independent Medical Expert”
Most injury trials have one. The medical expert who never treated your client, never examined your client, and wasn’t even in the same zip code as your client until they got paid to be there.
They show up with a polished Curriculum Vitae, a rehearsed tone, and a clear assignment: tell the jury the treating physicians are all quacks, and your client is a faker.
The mistake a lot of lawyers make is trying to wrestle with that pig, but instead of letting it have fun, take it to the slaughter house.
This is a three-question cross. Nothing more. No wandering. No opportunity for them to explain, clarify, or educate the jury on anything they’ve been paid to say.
You ask three questions, and the first and the last are always the same.
1. “You never actually examined my client, did you?”
Then move on to the middle question, which requires a little bit of homework- pick one thing from their CV. A degree. A certification. A place they trained. And with a hint of disdain, slowly ask:
2. “You… graduated from… Rutgers…?”
Then close the door.
3. “And they still paid to bring you all the way here?”
Then sit down.
There are absolutely times when you’ll need to face expert testimony head-on. But when the only thing they came to say is “here’s my paid for opinion which is different from your guy’s” it can often work better to show the jury how unimportant that opinion is by not giving it the time of time. If you spend half a day crossing their expert, you lend credence to the opinion (and the jury falls asleep). You’re saying, “this might hurt me so let me go into damage control.”
If you ask three questions and sit down, 80% of the jury is going to think you know something they don’t. Rutgers is a fine school. Most of the experts will have solid credentials. That’s what they’re paid to bring to the table. But by inserting that doubt into the jurors’ minds, you undermine everything the expert testified to on direct, without letting them repeat it.
The point is to plant a seed. And if you do it right, the jury will do the rest.
⚖️ Closing Arguments
We just moved into a “new to us” house built in 1947.
The previous owners were fantastic stewards of the property but, like any older home, there will be a list of things to fix and freshen up. Which is how I found myself walking through the house, screwdriver in hand, internally repeating: “righty tighty, lefty loosey.” Which is a humbling place to be when your grandfather was a railroad mechanic.
Old houses have a way of doing that.
Nothing is square. Nothing is easy. Everything takes longer than it should. But that’s also the appeal. There’s a character to it you simply can’t replicate. You can see the craftsmanship. The thought. The time it took to build something meant to last more than a week past the closing date.
New builds have their place. They’re clean, efficient, predictable. But they don’t carry the same weight. They don’t tell the same story.
Real trial work functions on a parallel track. There’s a temptation in this profession to streamline everything- to cut corners, rely on templates, and treat cases like interchangeable parts. But the best cases, like the best houses, are built from the ground up. Thoughtfully. Deliberately. Without rushing the process and without worrying too much about what the materials cost.
Because in both, you’re building something that has to hold up when it matters.
And that often starts with something little- like reminding yourself which direction tightens screws and always checking your fly before standing up for opening statement.
Court is in recess- see you next Friday.
