Reading from a Palimpsest

The Supreme Court of New Zealand holds that declarations of inconsistency are available when Parliament disregards the New Zealand Bill of Rights Act

I have previously written about the litigation concerning the power of New Zealand courts to make formal declarations to the effect that an Act of Parliament is inconsistent with the New Zealand Bill of Rights Act 1990. This litigation has now reached its conclusion with the New Zealand Supreme Court’s decision in Attorney-General v Taylor, [2018] NZSC 104. The Court holds, by a bare 3-2 majority, that this power does indeed exist. The decision is interesting for what the judges say, what they suggest, and what they do not say; at least from a theoretical perspective, it might be of some interest to Canadians, as well as New Zealanders.

The case concerns a 2010 statute that disenfranchised prisoners serving sentences of less than three years. (Longer-term prisoners were already disenfranchised by then, and the consistency of denying them the ability to vote with the Bill of Rights was not in issue.) The Attorney-General, having told Parliament that this statute was inconsistent with the Bill of Rights Act before its enactment, conceded the inconsistency, but denied the ability of the courts to issue a formal declaration to the effect that such an inconsistency existed. He had lost at both the High Court and the Court of Appeal.

There are three sets of reasons: what might be described as a quasi-majority opinion by Justice Ellen France, joined by Justice Glazebrook; a concurring opinion by Chief Justice Elias, who largely shares Justice Ellen France’s approach (hence my labelling the latter a quasi-majority); and a dissent by Justice O’Regan, joined by Justice William Young. (For the purposes of writing about New Zealand, I shall follow the local convention of mentioning the first name of a judge to distinguish her or him from a colleague—not necessarily from the same court—who shares that judge’s surname.)

Justice Ellen France starts from the well-established proposition that, even though the Bill of Rights Act contains no provision authorizing remedies for its breach (equivalent, say, to section 24 of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms), “in order for the Bill of Rights to be effective, the courts had to provide remedies for breaches”. [29] For Justice Ellen France, declarations of inconsistency are just an additional remedy that can serve this purpose. There would need to be “statutory language” to prevent the courts from granting this particular remedy; [41] in its absence, they can do so. Justice Ellen France points out that, by its own terms, the Bill of Rights Act applies to Parliament, and that while it explicitly prevents the courts from refusing to apply inconsistent legislation, the specificity of the provision doing so suggests that other remedies against inconsistent statutes are not categorically excluded.

Moreover, Justice Ellen France rejects the Crown’s submission that legislation inconsistent with the Bill of Rights Act effectively changes the contents of the rights the latter “affirms”, and thus cannot be regarded as inconsistent with it. Rather, “the Bill of Rights remains as the standard or palimpsest albeit Parliament has exercised its power to legislate inconsistently with that standard”. [46] Justice Ellen France also rejects the argument that a declaration should not be made since it is inconsistent with the judicial function and it will have no further consequences. A declaration “provides formal confirmation” of the “rights and status” of the person to whom it is granted, of his or her legal position, even in the absence of any further relief. (On this point, Justice Ellen France refers to the Supreme Court of Canada’s recent decision in Mikisew Cree First Nation v. Canada (Governor General in Council), 2018 SCC 40.) In any case, a declaration provides vindication for the infringed right, and might be useful should the matter be revisited by an international instance or by Parliament itself.

That said, Justice Ellen France pointedly explains that, while “the Court of Appeal canvassed the relationship between the political and judicial branches of government and the role of the higher courts under the New Zealand constitution”, she does not “undertake a similar exercise”. The purpose of the declaration is to provide such vindication as can be provided consistently with the Bill of Rights Act to the person whose rights have been infringed—not to goad or guide Parliament. While the Court of Appeal had embraced the view that declarations were part of a constitutional dialogue between the legislative and the judicial branches of government, no judge of the Supreme Court so much as mentions the word “dialogue” in his or her reasons.

As noted above, Chief Justice Elias largely agrees with Justice Ellen France. In addition, she emphasises the courts’ inherent jurisdiction (recognized by statute) to “administer the law”, and their statutory power to declare what the law is even if they cannot grant any additional relief. The Chief Justice also stresses “the fundamental nature of the enacted rights (declared as such in the legislation)”, [102] and says that while Parliament is free to legislate in disregard of these rights, their scope can only be modified by an amendment to the Bill of Rights Act, not merely “by inconsistent action”. [103] Indeed, the declaration of inconsistency is address “to those whose rights are affected”, instead of “serving “to assist Parliament in its function, as the Court of Appeal suggested”, [107] a position with which Justice Ellen France expresses her agreement (n87).

The majority judges leave a number of significant issues unresolved—notably that of just when a declaration, which is a discretionary remedy, ought to be granted in response to an infringement of a right protected by the Bill of Rights Act. But they do not endorse the Court of Appeal’s suggestion that formal declarations should be a last resort. While they provide little guidance beyond that, this suggests that declarations may now become a relatively unexotic feature of New Zealand’s constitutional landscape.

Justice O’Regan is none too pleased. He accepts “that effective remedies should be available for breaches of the Bill of Rights Act”. [124] The question, though, is whether a standalone declaration of inconsistency can be such a remedy. It is one thing for a court to point out, in the course of deciding other issues, that a statute is inconsistent with the Bill of Rights Act — this has been done before; it is another to address the question of inconsistency if it is the only issue between the parties, and when nothing else follows an affirmative answer.

In such circumstances, Justice O’Regan says, there simply isn’t anything for the courts to do. Although the Bill of Rights Act provides that it applies to Parliament, it also prevents the courts from refusing to apply inconsistent legislation, and thus is not truly a

limitation on Parliament’s power to legislate. It is at least arguable that to the extent that there is a breach of the Bill of Rights resulting from the passing of inconsistent legislation, it is not of a character for which the courts are required to fashion a civil remedy. After all [the Bill of Rights Act] removes the only truly effective remedy from consideration. [133]

In any case, the bare declaration of inconsistency might not even count as a “remedy” at all, let alone an “effective” one. Justice O’Regan worries that such a declaration “may be simply ignored, with the consequential danger of the erosion of respect for the integrity of the law and the institutional standing of the judiciary”. [134] He is also concerned about “the considerable expenditure in money and resources” [143] that might result from what he sees as pointless litigation about abstract questions of consistency with the Bill of Rights Act. And, after all,

We have had the Bill of Rights Act now for 28 years and a declaration has never been made. … It can hardly be said that this has undermined the objective of the Bill of Rights Act to affirm, protect and promote human rights and fundamental freedoms in New Zealand. [144]

I don’t think that Justice O’Regan is right about this. He sees the matter in absolute terms: in the absence of declarations of inconsistency, the Bill of Rights Act has already provided some level of protection for rights and freedoms; at the same time, even if declarations are available, the level of protection will remain low, since “the only truly effective remedy”, which is to say invalidation of inconsistent legislation, is still off the table. The majority, by contrast, approach the matter in relative terms. For Justice Ellen France and the Chief Justice, what matters is that the availability of declarations will improve the protections provided by the Bill of Rights Act. Considering that essentially symbolic remedies exist elsewhere—for example, very low damages awards that are supposed to “vindicate” rights violated by the executive—the view that another such remedy constitutes a real reinforcement of rights-protection is, I think, more coherent with the big picture of public law.

The majority are also right to reject the Attorney-General’s arguments based on implied repeal of the Bill of Rights Act by inconsistent legislation. Although neither Justice Ellen France nor the Chief Justice raise this point, in my view the interpretive role of the Bill of Rights Act—section 6 of which provides that “[w]herever an enactment can be given a meaning that is consistent with the rights and freedoms contained in this Bill of Rights, that meaning shall be preferred to any other meaning”—strongly suggests that it must have a meaning independent both of prior and of subsequent legislation. (Of course, legislation that explicitly amends the Bill of Rights is possible, and only requires a simple majority in the House of Representatives to pass; but the parliamentary majority must, nevertheless, at least be willing to go to the trouble of enacting it).

Justice Ellen France’s palimpsest metaphor is apt. Legislation inconsistent with the Bill of Rights Act adds another layer to the pages of the statute book, but they do not fully erase the rights and freedoms inscribed underneath them. Depending on the purpose for which one reads the statute book, one must sometimes focus on the inconsistent statute (applying it notwithstanding the inconsistency) and sometimes on the Bill of Rights Act (when ascertaining and declaring the inconsistency), but both layers continue to exist.

Speaking of metaphors, I think that the majority do well not to follow the Court of Appeal’s embrace of the “constitutional dialogue” theory. In an article published in the New Zealand Universities Law Review, I argued that, despite its superficial attractiveness as a means to address a “majoritarian malaise”—the worry about a  sovereign Parliament’s ability to define or deny the rights of minorities—, this theory is not well-suited to the constitutional context of New Zealand (or any polity that adheres to Parliamentary sovereignty. It makes little sense to speak of dialogue when one of the supposed interlocutors is free to simply ignore what the other has to say, as a sovereign Parliament is free to ignore the courts’ pronouncements about rights.

I concluded that article by writing that

New Zealand’s constitution is one that makes Parliament supreme, and the courts cannot mitigate this fact. They can only point out the abuses of this supremacy that sometimes occur, and they will do so more clearly and with more force if they do not pretend that what they are faced with is a provisional, revisable opinion stated as part of a conversation among equals rather than an abuse of power.  (917)

This is what the Supreme Court has done. So much the better.

Judicial Supremacy Defrocked

Justice Abella’s recent speech should remind us that courts are fallible.

In a recent speech reprinted in the Globe and Mail, Justice Abella of the Supreme Court again offered a robust defense of the judicial role and the profoundly benevolent impact of the Supreme Court in Canadian constitutional history:

Integration based on difference, equality based on inclusion despite difference and compassion based on respect and fairness: These are the principles that now form the moral core of Canadian national values…the values that make our national justice context democratically vibrant and principled…[a]ll this came from the Supreme Court.

She goes further:

A Supreme Court must be independent because it is the final adjudicator of which contested values in a society should triumph. In a polarized society, it is especially crucial to have an institution whose only mandate is to protect the rule of law.

On one hand, it is good to see that Justice Abella no longer finds the Rule of Law annoying. But on the other hand, her comments should give us pause. She presents a vision of a Supreme Court that decides what Canadian values are, and then imposes them on the society generally. We should first call this for what it is: judicial supremacy, in which rights are not recognized as much as they are created out of whole cloth at the discretion of the Supreme Court. Abella J seems to accept this in Saskatchewan Federation of Labour, where she “gives benediction” to a right to strike. “Benediction” is defined as “the utterance or bestowing of a blessing, especially at the end of a religious service.” True to form, the Supreme Court is the high priest, bestowing us with rights as only a supreme institution can.

Glibness aside,  I do not mean to use the term “judicial supremacy” in a bombastic way, but rather in a technical legal sense. I mean it in the sense that Justice Abella clearly views the role of the Supreme Court as having the last word on constitutional matters. But her view goes even further: she thinks that the Supreme Court is a freestanding arbiter that is institutionally capable of rending final judgments on contests between values for the society on the whole.

I’m not sure this is normatively justifiable or whether it’s even a structural or textual feature of the Canadian Constitution. The legislature still has an important role to play in vetting laws for their constitutionality and making important value judgments that may impact constitutional rights—in most cases, the legislatures are probably better at this than courts. But this is a bigger fish to fry. Assuming for my purposes that Justice Abella’s description of what courts do and should do is accurate, maybe this state of affairs could be justifiable on the basis that courts are comparatively better at making the sorts of value judgments that arise in constitutional matters. If Justice Abella’s framing is true, so the argument goes, the essence of constitutional adjudication is value judgment; courts adjudicate constitutions, and therefore courts, over time, will be expert in value judgments.

But no one has ever presented evidence that this is empirically true, and I am not sure anyone ever could. Justice Abella herself recognized this in Doré, when she developed a doctrine of deference premised on the concept that courts are worse at constitutional decision-making than administrative decision-makers. In fact, courts are not institutionally suited to balance the sort of polycentric considerations that go into difficult and resource-laden value judgments. And judges are trained in the law, which on many modern accounts, is not even the purpose of law school. There are good reasons to doubt the ability of the courts to even begin to understand the weight of the task at hand.

If we are to have judicial supremacy, and judicial supremacy is fundamentally about final value judgments, I am not sure why we solely appoint legal practitioners to the Supreme Court. I only half-joke when I say that we could populate the court with people trained in the different perspectives through which value judgments could and should be made. Economic reasoning, for example, could be extremely helpful here. As Lon Fuller said, there is a point at which we could trade-off certain values in favour of others. We should attempt to develop theories by which we can anticipate and calculate the costs of adopting one right over another; or the reliance interests associated with this precedent over that one. What’s more, philosophy could be helpful. Moral and normative reasoning about how people should live is clearly within the interest of Justice Abella when she judges cases.

I think that the Justice Abellas of the world who argue that law is simply about “balancing values” are caught between a rock and a hard place. On one hand, if they make that argument, they should accept that law has no claim to empire over adjudication. Adjudication is not what is taught in training for lawyers; and there are people who are better qualified to assess the different tradeoffs of values and the practical impact those changes have. But if they reject this proposition, then they must accept that there is a locus of “law” somewhere to be found in adjudication. It follows that we should train lawyers and judges to first, do no harm; determine the meaning of constitutional terms according to objective standards.  Values may be instantiated in the law, but one must first interpret that law to determine those values. It shouldn’t be the case that judges enter legal inquiries with an idea of the values they seek to advance.

The task of judging was supposed to be defined by “passive virtues,” with courts possessing neither force, nor will—only judgment (The Federalist, No. 81). Justice Abella evidently believes in a vision of courts that are not only supreme but confidently so. Judgment has turned into arrogant finality that decides not only the narrow constitutional issue before the court, but the larger value judgment which is settled for all time.  There is no democratic recourse to the ever-expanding domain of constitutional empire if courts make abstract, political, and resource-intensive value judgments for the society on the whole.  If courts are going to do this—if we have sold the legislature down the river—then they should at least be good at it.

The Supreme Court’s Hubris in Mikisew Cree Nation v Canada

In Mikisew Cree Nation, the Supreme Court dealt with a novel argument: does the duty to consult [DTC] attach to legislative action? The Court, rightly, answered no, holding unanimously that the Federal Court had no jurisdiction under the Federal Courts Act over a judicial review brought against Parliament’s law-making power. But the Court split into four sets of reasons on the substantive matter of whether the DTC applies to legislative action. While rejecting the challenge in this case, Karakatsanis J in the lead opinion left the door open to these sorts of challenges in the future. For the reasons I’ll explain below, I think this is a profoundly unprincipled way of reasoning about the issue—first, because it is an attempt to expand judicial power in violation of the separation of powers, and second, because it undermines the national certainty the Supreme Court is designed to provide.

The facts of the case are simple. In 2012, two omnibus bills affecting environmental protections were introduced and passed in Parliament, receiving Royal Assent. The Mikisew, with proven Aboriginal rights under Treaty 8, alleged that the Crown had the DTC them on these legislative changes to the environmental protection regime—arguing that it affected their constitutionally-protected rights. The Federal Court agreed with the Mikisew, holding that they were entitled to notice of the parts of the bills that would affect their interest, as well as an opportunity to make submissions. The Federal Court of Appeal reversed, concluding that the Federal Court had no jurisdiction over the matter.

The first opinion in the Supreme Court was written by Karakatsanis J. On the issue of jurisdiction, Karakatsanis J held that the Federal Courts Act only contemplates judicial review of Crown actors (defined as Her Majesty in right of Canada in s.2(1) of the Federal Courts Act) or federal boards, commissions, or other tribunals. On the first count, Karakatsanis J concluded that Her Majesty in right of Canada refers only to Crown actors in their executive, rather than legislative, capacity [15-16]. As well, the Crown is not a “board, commission, or other tribunal” as defined in ss. 2(1) and 2(2) of the Federal Courts Act.

This is enough to dispose of the case. But Karakatsanis J went on to address the merits, concluding that the DTC, which applies to “Crown conduct,” can only apply to executive action—not the actions of Ministers introducing legislation (acting in their legislative capacity). While Karakatsanis J acknowledged the “overlap” between executive and legislative functions in Westminster systems, here what was challenged was a direct exercise of legislative power under the Part IV of the Constitution Act, 1867 [33]. This challenge, to her mind, implicated the separation of powers, parliamentary sovereignty, and parliamentary privilege [35-37]. But Karakatsanis J did not close the door to the challengers completely. She first noted that “the Crown’s honour may well require judicial intervention where legislative may adversely affect—but does not necessarily infringe—Aboriginal or treaty rights” [3]. She then concluded her reasons by saying that “other protections may well be recognized in future cases” [52].

Abella J, concurring on the jurisdiction point, nonetheless wrote separately to say that the Court’s aboriginal law jurisprudence, specifically pertaining to the honour of the Crown, compelled a result that the DTC applied to Parliament. To her mind there was no “doctrinal or conceptual justification which would preclude a [DTC] in the legislative context” [81]. The “formal label applied to the type of action that the government takes…”, to Abella J, has no impact on the sanctity of rights protected in s.35 of the Constitution Act, 1982—whether that action is legislative or executive. Abella J would introduce a requirement that legislatures consider whether their chosen legislative process affecting Aboriginal rights “…accords with the special relationship between the Crown and Indigenous peoples of Canada” [93].

Brown J also wrote separately, while concurring on the jurisdictional point, to attack Karakatsanis J’s mixed message on the DTC in a legislative context. To him, Karakatsanis J’s reluctance to close the door completely on the issue would “throw this area of the law into significant uncertainty” [104]. To Brown J, “…the entire law-making process—from initial policy development to and including royal assent—is an exercise of legislative power which is immune from judicial interference” [117]. This is because, while the separation of powers in Canada is not rigid, this does not mean that the roles of the legislative and executive branches are “indistinguishable for the purposes of judicial review” [119]. The history of parliamentary sovereignty—for example, the hard-fought adoption of the Bill of Rights of 1688—compelled the conclusion that “…parliamentary and judicial functions have been clearly separated from Crown control” [128]. And so, Karakatsanis J’s opinion was “searching for a problem to solve (while at the same time declining to solve it)” [135]. This situation would invite courts to, potentially in the future, take a greater supervisory role over the legislative process in a way that is at odds with the separation of powers [135, 142].

Finally, Rowe J also wrote separately, outlining mainly the practical problems with an approach invited by Karakatsanis J. Specifically, what types of legislation would trigger the DTC? Who would need to be consulted? And at what stage in the legislative process would consultation take place? [165].

***

There is much in this decision worth noting, but I want to focus on Karakatsanis J’s problematic reasons and their implications for the separation of powers and the Supreme Court’s general method of deciding cases.

Each of the opinions decided the case on the question of jurisdiction. That is, the Federal Court had no judicial review jurisdiction over the decision of a legislature—not a Crown actor per se nor a federal “board, commission, or other tribunal.” This should have decisive, and Karakatsanis J should have gone only so far as to explain that finding—particularly for the purposes, for example, of preventing forum-shopping whereby a new claimant could bring relief against the Crown in a provincial superior court and make the same arguments (s.17 of the Federal Courts Act contemplates a system of concurrency where claims can be brought against the Crown in provincial or federal court so long as statute does not say otherwise). Obviously, the jurisdictional finding in this case dovetails with a finding that legislation is not “Crown conduct.”

In consideration of this, Karakatsanis J should have ended her comments at the finding that the court had no jurisdiction because the enactment of legislation is not “Crown conduct.” For her to go further and leave the door open to future legislative challenges based on the honour of the Crown–which also undergirds the DTC– is severely flawed for two reasons: (1) it is not prescribed by the structure of the Constitution, nor would it be a good policy idea and (2) it introduces uncertainty.

Brown J is right to point out the contradictory nature of Karakatsanis J’s opinion. On one hand, she writes that parliamentary sovereignty, the separation of powers, and parliamentary privilege preclude the challengers’ preferred outcome. This is all correct for the reasons outlined by Brown J and Rowe J. But then, in service to unknown goals, she decides that these principles can be violated just a bit—that in a future case, they could be compromised to permit the sort of challenges sought by the claimants here where rights are adversely affected by “the Crown” in enacting legislation even when the legislation itself is constitutional (see Karakatsanis J’s reasons at paras 3, 25, 44 and 52). This means, to Karakatsanis J, that the separation of powers/parliamentary sovereignty are negotiable in a manner uncontemplated by the Constitution. Her guiding light seems to be the hobby-horse of changing circumstances; some future time when the separation of powers and parliamentary sovereignty will give way to allow these sorts of challenges.

Query why these principles preclude challenges based on a failure to abide by the DTC now, while in the future, they could allow challenges based on an “adverse effect” on Aboriginal rights. The same principles apply. Under the current doctrine, in order for a DTC violation to occur, asserted Aboriginal rights must be “adversely affected” (Rio Tinto, at para 31).  But Karakatsanis J now purports to say that a DTC violation and adverse effect are two different things–and that the principles of parliamentary sovereignty and the separation of powers could allow an independent claim based on the latter in the future. The honour of the Crown is not a free-standing right to challenge legislation, and most importantly, no matter the legal label, the Crown does not enact legislation. 

Notwithstanding this unprincipled distinction drawn by Karakatsanis J regarding the DTC, it is completely unclear why the constitutional principles relied on by Karakatsanis J would operate to, in the future, allow an “adverse effect” challenge based on the amorphous “honour of the Crown.” While the separation of powers and parliamentary sovereignty are principles that are necessarily variable in our constitutional monarchy, that variation is included in the structure, not as a product of the times. For example, Karakatsanis J herself notes that the Cabinet and the legislature operate in some ways as a piece—this is a basic feature of Westminster government. But as Brown J noted, the separation of powers does not expand and contract to permit something tomorrow that isn’t allowed today; in this case, a constitutional challenge that is fundamentally unknown to the legal system. Karakatsanis J frames the requirements of the separation of powers and legislative sovereignty in language that calls to mind a standard (see Brown J’s reasons at para 103). But these principles are rules that bind the actors in the constitutional system. They are only open to negotiation to the extent the Constitution prescribes that negotiation.

The target for Karakatsanis J—and more honestly, Abella J—seems to be the sphere of authority granted by the Constitution Act, 1867 to the legislature. Karakatsanis J seems to want to, slowly but surely, increase judicial oversight over that sphere and erode what the Constitution expressly contemplates. This is wrong simply because it is not prescribed by any constitutional text or principle. While the honour of the Crown is a constitutional principle, it is unclear why that principle is ill-served as applied to legislation by the existing Sparrow justification framework. In other words, why does the honour of the Crown compel the requirement of some new cause of action in violation of the very same principles relied on by Karakatsanis J?

The beneficiary of such a duty would not be Aboriginal peoples, but the judiciary. Its existence would expand judicial power beyond deciding cases towards ongoing supervision of the legislative process. This seems to be a legal fact wholly lost on the Supreme Court. It seeks to enlarge its power and process beyond its constating statue (the Supreme Court is simply a statutory court, no matter the pains it takes to say otherwise) and beyond the constitutional division and separation of powers. Judicial oversight of legislative acts could create distorted inefficiencies in our system of government that achieve no ends—in this case, I have doubts it would achieve the ends of reconciliation sought by the Court.

For some, this would be enough to counsel against the idea. But Karakatsanis J and Abella J seem to believe that this is required as a matter of policy. It seems, to them, that courts are able to vindicate the rights of Aboriginal peoples by monitoring the legislative process, and in fact, should in order to promote “reconciliation.” Even on this count, they fail. First, reconciliation would be an admirable goal if anyone, especially the Supreme Court, could adequately define what it means. But at any rate, the Supreme Court itself has recognized that its august halls are not suited to the promotion of Aboriginal rights (Clyde River, at para 24—an opinion jointly penned by Karakatsanis J). And this seems just logical. Why are nine patrician judges any better able to define reconciliation? Why should Aboriginal peoples have to spend years and thousands of dollars trying to define to these same nine judges what reconciliation is? This would be enough to question the wisdom of an approach advocated by Karakatsanis J and Abella J, but of course, there are also the practical concerns raised by Rowe J.

A final broader point about the Supreme Court’s method of deciding cases. Part of the reason for the Supreme Court’s existence is its ability to settle law. In fact, the Supreme Court was founded under s.101 of the Constitution Act, 1867 “for the better Administration of the Laws of Canada.” It does nothing of the kind when it leaves open the door just a crack to an argument that it otherwise rebuffed. This seems to be a repeat habit for the Court. In Gosselin, the Court did the same thing regarding positive rights under s.7 of the Charter. In Wilson, Justice Abella wrote separately to argue for a new standard of review framework in absence of arguments on that front, and despite acknowledging that a future case would have to deal with the issue. And for now, the separation of powers and legislative sovereignty preclude DTC-like legislative challenges—but not forever.

This method of deciding cases wholly undermines certainty. As Brown J notes, it invites enterprising litigants and judges to argue that this case—their case—is the one that was contemplated by the Court or a judge of the Court in Gosselin, or Wilson, or Mikisew. Courts should decide cases. If they seek to depart from precedent in the future, they should be able to do, according to generally recognized and principled criteria. But the Court shouldn’t write its own precedents with the express understanding that they will be overturned.

In a way, all of this expresses the Supreme Court’s hubris. It’s hard to believe that the Court would want to download onto the lower courts a general duty to supervise legislative action, especially when it would be structurally incompatible with the Constitution, practically difficult, and likely unsuccessful as a way to vindicate Aboriginal rights. What we should seek to avoid is a jurocracy, as Herbert Weschler once put it. But, with the door open to a some sort of DTC in the legislative context, we are well on our way.

Dealing with Delegation

Thoughts on a proposal for a judicial crackdown on the delegation of law-making powers to the executive

The explosive growth of legislation made by various government departments, boards, and other entities ― rather than enacted by Parliament, as legislation ought to be on the orthodox understanding of separation of powers ― is quite likely the most understudied aspect of contemporary constitutions, in Canada and elsewhere. In “Reassessing the Constitutional Foundation of Delegated Legislation in Canada“, an article that will be published in the Dalhousie Law Journal and is now available on SSRN, Lorne Neudorf sets out to shed light on and proposes means of reining in delegated legislation ― that is, rules made by the executive branch of government pursuant to a legislative authorization, often a very vague one. It is a worthwhile endeavour from which we have much to learn, even though Professor Neudorf’s arguments, and some of his recommendations, strike me as just as problematic, in their own way, as the phenomenon he criticizes.

* * *

This phenomenon’s importance is out of all proportion to the attention it receives. Professor Neudorf notes that “[b]y volume, delegated legislation is made at a rate of nearly 5-to-1 as compared to primary legislation”. (3) Yet the text of the constitution seems to say nothing at all about the executive being able to make law. On the contrary, the Constitution Act, 1867, endows Parliament and provincial legislatures with “exclusive” law-making powers. Still, the courts have recognized that the legislative bodies are able to mandate the executive to make rules having the force of law, and indeed even rules that override the provisions of laws enacted by legislatures. This, Professor Neudorf argues, is a mistake that needs to be reversed.

Professor Neudorf traces the mistake to a misguided introduction into Canadian constitutional law of orthodox, Diceyan, notions of Parliamentary sovereignty. The notion that “Parliament can make or unmake any law whatever” has always been out of place in a federation, where the Dominion Parliament and provincial legislatures were always subject to limits on their powers. In any event, the enactment of “[t]he Charter” in 1982 “cemented the location of Canadian sovereignty in the Constitution as opposed
to a single lawmaking institution”. (9) Judicial decisions emphasizing the plenitude of legislative powers (subject to the constraints imposed by the Constitution Act, 1867)

should be understood as less about transplanting a robust vision of parliamentary sovereignty into Canada and more about the courts prodding along and encouraging the development of new country with a distinct identity. (9)

Yet the leading precedents on the scope of Canadian legislatures’ ability to delegate its legislative powers to the executive, notably In Re Gray, (1918) 57 SCR 150, recognize no obvious limits on delegation. In Gray, Chief Justice Fitzpatrick held that, since no limitation on delegation was expressed in the Constitution Act, 1867, “within reasonable limits at any rate [Parliament] can delegate its powers to the executive government” (157) ― provided that it be able to terminate and resume the powers it temporarily cedes. Professor Neudorf argues that sweeping delegation of the kind at issue in Gray “might not be viewed as reasonable outside the context of an exceptional national security threat”, (16) but the subsequent cases did not elaborate on the constraints that this reasonableness requirement might impose.

Professor Neudorf insists that Gray rests on a “narrow and technical interpretation of the
Constitution”, an “outmoded interpretive approach”, (18) long superseded by “living tree” constitutional interpretation. Applying this approach, the courts ought to

engage with how the Constitution sees Parliament: as a key part of the basic constitutional architecture: possessing democratic, representative and accountable qualities, and the key player in bringing together different constituencies to formulate national policy and resolve pressing questions facing the country as a whole. (23)

Delegation imperils Parliament’s position, envisioned by John A. Macdonald, as the constitutional cornerstone. It hands law-making over to persons and bodies that are not representative and often operate behind the thick veil of cabinet secrecy. Delegation also undermines the Rule of Law (which provides additional reasons to favour transparent lawmaking) and the separation of powers.

Therefore, Professor Neudorf proposes a number of ways of curtailing the use of delegation. To begin with,

courts should adopt a stricter interpretation of statutory provisions that delegate lawmaking power and strengthen the rigour of the vires review of regulations to overcome the current weaknesses that allow for the delegation of broad powers
through generic words and exceptionally wide latitude for the exercise of delegated power. (30)

If Parliament wants to delegate broad legislative powers, courts ought to make it say so very clearly ― especially if these powers are meant to be exercised retroactively, punitively, or in a manner that is at odds with the Charter. Courts should also drop their deference to the executive’s interpretation of its authority to enact delegated legislation. Nothing less than constitutional principle compels this change of approach, which “will better safeguard Parliament’s constitutional role and give effect to the principle of legality and the rule of law”. (32) But sometimes, the courts should go further still:

when generic words are used in enabling legislation, which are incapable of intelligent qualification by the text, context or purpose of the statute, the court should hold the grant of authority invalid on the basis that it is impermissibly vague. (33)

Indeed, the grant of authority ought to be “narrower than the general purposes of the legislation, with some specificity for the kinds of regulations contemplated”. (33)

Professor Neudorf’s other set of proposals concerns the process by which regulations are reviewed in Parliament. He calls on Parliament to take its inspiration from the review systems that exist in the United Kingdom (which Professor Neudorf describes in some detail), and look into both the delegation provisions of bills as they are enacted, and the already existing regulations that may be flawed or ineffective. But here too, Professor Neudorf envisions a role for the judiciary:

If needed, a court may issue a declaration of the constitutional obligation as the impetus for Parliament to take the necessary action. In an extreme case where the scrutiny system is totally ineffective, the court may seek to enforce this constitutional obligation by holding inadequately scrutinized regulations as legally ineffective. (40)

Professor Neudorf concludes that, while the delegation of some legislative powers is desirable and necessary, and particular bodies (such as the legislatures of territories) can be quite different from the ordinary executive delegates, reform ― and judicial intervention to implement it ― is constitutionally justified and necessary.

* * *

I have mixed feelings about Professor Neudorf’s article. It addresses a real problem that deserves much more attention than it usually receives. I agree to a large extent both with the values underlying Professor Neudorf argument (notably, the empowerment of legislative institutions and the limitation of the power of the unaccountable executive) and with his specific proposals, as I shall explain. But, as noted at the outset, I think that the way in which Professor Neudorf makes his case, and indeed some aspects of his proposals, which follow from his approach to constitutional law, are deeply problematic.

Let me begin with the bad, to finish on a more positive note. Professor Neudorf’s general approach is an excellent illustration of what I recently described as “constitutionalism from the cave“:

On this view, the Canadian constitution … is not so much a law that courts must apply as a sort of shadow in Plato’s cave, a vague reflection of true constitutional ideals that the judges must discover and explain to us cavemen. The constitution’s text is not in any meaningful way binding on the courts; it is only an inadequate approximation, one whose imperfections judges can and ought to circumvent in an unceasing quest to get a clearer view of the ideal constitution.

Professor Neudorf refuses to attach any real consequence to the constitutional text’s apparent silence on the question of delegation; on the contrary, he chides the Gray court for having done so, declaring this an “outmoded” way of doing constitutional law. Professor Neudorf argues that, regardless of what the text says or doesn’t say, the courts should implement the ideal conception of Parliament and of its place in a democratically accountable system of government. As I explained, this amounts to a license for the courts to re-write the constitution, in defiance of its own provisions, which quite clearly do not contemplate its amendment by the judiciary.

The fact that I am sympathetic to the policy objectives that this re-writing would be designed to achieve is irrelevant; it’s illegitimate all the same. Professor Neudorf’s appeal to the so-called “Persons Case”, Edwards v. Attorney-General for Canada, [1930] AC 124, [1930] 1 DLR 98 (PC), to prove otherwise ― to show that good courts re-write constitutions to suit their policy preferences ― fails resoundingly. He faults the Supreme Court in that case for having been “disinterested [sic] in the question of the desirability of women Senators” (18) and believing that “giving meaning to the Constitution was a simple and neutral exercise in statutory interpretation”. (19) Yet Lord Sankey, whose opinion for the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council Professor Neudorf extols, similarly insisted the case did not involve “any question as to the rights of women”. (DLR 107) Lord Sankey’s opinion, as, for example, I have argued here, is a master class in statutory interpretation techniques ― not a policy judgment about the desirability of women Senators. And Professor Neudorf’s invocation of the wishes of John A. Macdonald ― odd in an article otherwise extolling living constitutionalism, but of a piece with the strategic (mis)use of original intent originalism by Canadian legal academics that co-blogger Mark Mancini described here ― is no more convincing. Macdonald was interested in the federal division of powers, not the question of delegation.

In short, I don’t think that Professor Neudorf succeeds in justifying the role he sees for the judiciary in implementing his more far-reaching proposals. A more robust judicial review of the vires of delegated legislation, including by the application of the principle of legality (which prevents the executive from trespassing on constitutional and common law rights with clear authorization by the legislature) only requires the courts to abandon their absurdly deferential, pro-regulatory posture. But it is much more difficult to make the case for the courts’ power to nullify vague delegations. (I don’t know whether this is impossible, but that’s a discussion for another time.) Professor Neudorf appeals to the doctrine developed under the Charter for determining whether a limitation of a constitutional right is “prescribed by law”. This is not satisfactory, because the courts have tended to treat even vague laws as sufficiently clear, and even more so because the Charter‘s requirements simply do not apply unless one of the rights it protects is at stake. And as for the idea that courts can order Parliament how to structure its review of regulations ― suffice it to say that it creates much greater separation of powers problems than it is likely to solve, and undermines the very autonomy and authority of Parliament as a democratic decision-making body that Professor Neudorf seeks to restore.

Behind the embrace of constitutionalism from the cave is a belief, which I think is not only misguided but also counterproductive, that supreme constitutional law must have an answer to any and all constitutional concerns. Professor Neudorf is quite right to characterize the rise of delegated legislation as a constitutional issue. But it simply does not follow that it is an issue that the courts must be able to fully address. As the experience of polities such as the United Kingdom (which Professor Neudorf cites as a model!) and New Zealand reminds us, it is possible to think intelligently about the constitution that is not supreme law at all. Indeed, these polities often pay much closer attention to the governance aspects of their constitutions than does Canada. Instead of calling on the courts to twist and stretch our supreme constitutional law, undermining their own commitment to the Rule of Law and indeed their credibility as impartial constitutional arbiters in the process, we should emulate these polities’ commitment to getting the constitution right as a matter of ordinary law and political process.

Professor Neudorf’s recommendations will, mostly, be very helpful in this regard. Greater judicial vigilance in reviewing the legality of the executive’s exercise of its delegated legislative powers is essential ― and it need not rest on dubious appeals to living tree interpretation. The principle of the Rule of Law, as developed by Canadian courts at least as far back as in Roncarelli v Duplessis, [1959] SCR 121, means that the executive’s authority, even if delegated by the legislature in ostensibly, indeed ostentatiously, broad terms, cannot be unlimited, and that the courts are not only authorized, but required to ensure that the executive doesn’t overstep the bounds of this delegation. Professor Neudorf is right to be concerned that Canadian courts are in serious danger of abdicating this responsibility. Recent decisions which he does not mention, notably West Fraser Mills Ltd v British Columbia (Workers’ Compensation Appeal Tribunal), 2018 SCC 22, and Law Society of British Columbia v Trinity Western University, 2018 SCC 32, provide further demonstration of this point, as I argued here and here. The Supreme Court appears to see no issue what it described in West Fraser as “broad and unrestricted delegation of power”. This needs to change.

Professor Neudorf is also right to call for the development of Parliamentary procedures for the review of regulations. I wonder if the smaller number of parliamentarians in Canada in comparison with the UK might be an obstacle to copying the British system of three Select Committees devoted to the study of subordinate legislation (and the problem would, of course, be even more pressing in much smaller and unicameral provincial legislatures), but even if the UK system cannot be perfectly emulated in Canada, it seems to offer a source of inspiration if not a model for imitation.

* * *

To repeat, it is a mistake to think that judicially enforceable supreme  law must have a solution to every constitutional problem. Yet the problem Professor Neudorf identifies is real. Precisely because supreme law may be unable to help us, it is important to get ordinary law and legislative process right. Judicial review and parliamentary procedure might be less glamorous than what Canadians usually think of as constitutional law. Yet Professor Neudorf’s article should be taken as a reminder that these are properly constitutional preoccupations, and that Canadian constitutional lawyers ought to devote more of their energies to them than to the development of exotic theories about what the ideal Canadian constitution would look like.

Constitutionalism from the Cave

The constitution is a binding law, not just an incomplete statement of political ideals

The imbroglio with the Ontario legislature’s enactment of Bill 5 to restructure the Toronto City Council a couple of months before an upcoming election, the Superior Court’s declaration of that legislation unconstitutional, the threatened invocation of the “notwithstanding clause” to override that declaration, and the Court of Appeal’s restoration of what little sanity could still be restored by reversing the Superior Court’s decision has generated a great deal of commentary. Some of this commentary has been very imaginative indeed in coming up with constitutional arguments that would have advanced the commentators’ preferred policy agendas and forestalled the seemingly obvious legal conclusions.

Of course, such a creative argument had prevailed at the Superior Court, which (as for example co-blogger Mark Mancini, as well as yours truly, explained) ignored clear constitutional language on its way to finding that Bill 5 violated the guarantee of freedom of expression in the Canadian Charter of Right and Freedoms. Even more unorthodox reasoning was unleashed in attempts to argue that the Ontario legislature couldn’t actually invoke the “notwithstanding clause”, the constitutional text once again be damned. Mark has written about open letter in which professors who wouldn’t dream of treating originalism as a serious interpretive methodology suddenly turned original-intentist ― but that, at least, was an explicitly political text. Other arguments along similar, or even more outlandish, lines purported to be legal ones.

This outburst of creativity is, of course directly related to a certain way of seeing the constitution that is prevalent in the Canadian legal community (including, but not only, in the academy). On this view, the Canadian constitution ― especially, though not only, the Charter ― is not so much a law that courts must apply as a sort of shadow in Plato’s cave, a vague reflection of true constitutional ideals that the judges must discover and explain to us cavemen. The constitution’s text is not in any meaningful way binding on the courts;  it is only an inadequate approximation, one whose imperfections judges can and ought to circumvent in an unceasing quest to get a clearer view of the ideal constitution. And, of course, this ideal constitution, just so happens to enact the political preferences of the persons urging this view, and presumed (often not incorrectly) to be shared by the judiciary.

Perhaps the latest contribution to the post-Bill 5 constitutional free-for-all is illustrative. It is a post by Colin Feasby, over at ABlawg, arguing that section 3 of the Charter, though it ostensibly only guarantees the right of Canadian citizens “to vote in an election of members of the House of Commons or of a legislative assembly and to be qualified for membership therein”, really also applies to municipal and other elections, and to referenda. Now, I have learned a lot from Dr. Feasby’s law of democracy scholarship (which has also been cited and relied on by the Supreme Court!). But this post is nothing more than a call for the judiciary to wilfully re-write the constitution we have so as to bring it closer to an idealized view of what a good constitution ought to be according to Dr. Feasby (and many others).

Dr. Feasby argues that “the lack of constitutional protection for important democratic processes” ― such as municipal elections ― “is an unnecessary defect in our constitutional arrangement”. “Unnecessary” a word that I wouldn’t use, and as will presently be apparent, Dr. Feasby uses it advisedly. However, I agree with him to this extent ― the lack of constitutional protections for municipal institutions is indeed a shortcoming of our constitution, as I have suggested here.

Dr. Feasby, though, is not suggesting a constitutional amendment to remedy the defect he identifies. Rather, he “proposes a way that the Supreme Court of Canada can remedy this defect”. He argues that “courts have a role in ensuring that the democratic process functions so that the sovereign will of the electorate may be expressed without distortion”, which is true, if somewhat beside the point in matters where the will of the electorate is not, legally speaking, sovereign, including in municipal elections. The question, though, is how far the courts’ role extends. Dr. Feasby thinks it allows the courts to embrace what he describes as a “purposive and … generous approach to interpreting Charter rights”, and “impose a rule” according to which

Where a government, Federal or Provincial, delegates a legislative role to a democratically chosen body or where a government, Federal or Provincial, effectively delegates a decision to the electorate in a referendum, section 3 of the Charter applies.

In other words, “a body elected in processes governed by section 3 cannot delegate its power to an elected body chosen by electors with lesser constitutional protections”.

Dr. Feasby anticipates two objections to his proposal. First, he expects people to argue that it would get in the way of worthy reforms of municipal and other institutions. His response is that “so long as those changes are consistent with the principles that animate section 3 of the Charter“, nothing would get in their way. Fair enough, I suppose. The other objection Dr. Feasby foresees is based on the concern about section 3 claims being brought by people who are not in the intended electorate for a given election (say, the residents of a municipality). Such claims should simply be rejected ― as would that of “Canadian citizens resident in Alberta” demanding “the right to vote in Provincial elections in Quebec”. That too seems fair enough.

There are other, more serious, problems with Dr. Feasby’s argument, however. A practical one is that, even in the form given to it by Dr. Feasby, it reaches very far indeed. Municipalities, band councils, and school boards are not the only entities that might be described as “democratically chosen” entities to which governments delegate legislative powers. Various professional bodies (such as law societies) and agricultural marketing boards come to mind; so do, perhaps, universities, whose powers ― which include the ability to regulate large swathes of student and staff conduct ― are ultimately exercised by (partly) elected boards and senates. (Whether the universities are subject to the Charter in at least some areas is an open question, but there are good arguments for that view.) It’s not at all obvious to me that, “the principles that animate section 3 of the Charter” can be usefully applied to such bodies, even assuming that they can be to municipalities and school boards. And it’s not at all obvious that the argument for rejecting the claims of persons excluded from the relevant electorate ― say, the consumers of professional services or of agricultural products ― can be dismissed as easily as  those of Albertans looking to vote in the Belle Province.

This problem becomes even more pressing if we take up Bruce Ryder’s suggestion “that a province that is bound by s.3 democratic norms shouldn’t be able to do an end run around them after creating subordinate governments” ― seemingly regardless of whether these “subordinate governments” are themselves meant to be democratically elected. If this principle were taken seriously, it would amount to a non-delegation doctrine on steroids, preventing the exercise of legislative power by undemocratic bodies ― which means pretty much all of the administrative state. Anti-administrativist though I am, even I don’t actually favour this approach. In truth, I don’t suppose that Professor Ryder favours it either. He simply makes an argument that furthers his preferences in a particular controversy, and doesn’t worry about its implications in future cases. I’m afraid this is symptomatic of the treatment of the constitution not as a law, but as a series of results-oriented propositions subject to permanent revision from one case to the next.

Equally symptomatic of this way of thinking is the fact that Dr. Feasby apparently does not see coming another objection, a principled rather than a practical one. This objection is, quite simply, that his proposal is a perversion of the constitutional text, a blatant attempt to expand it beyond what it was quite clearly designed to do, and what it not only originally meant but still means. Even if one believes that the constitutional text should be read according to the meaning of its terms today, “an election of members of the House of Commons or of a legislative assembly” does not mean “an election of members of a municipal council”, or “an election of the benchers of a law society”. Dr. Feasby invokes the “living tree” view of the constitution, but he advocates something different than just reading the text in light of evolving social mores or trying to use “progressive interpretation” to “accommodate[] and address[] the realities of modern life”, as the Supreme Court put it in Reference re Same-Sex Marriage, 2004 SCC 79, [2004] 3 SCR 698, at [22]. It’s not as if municipal election were a new phenomenon unknown to the framers of the Charter. It’s just that Dr. Feasby thinks that the Charter is only an imperfect statement of an “aspiration … to be a truly free and democratic society”, which can be given whatever contents a court, under the guidance of progressive advocates, can come up with in a given case.

Needless to say, I do not share this view. It is contrary to the terms of the constitution itself (specifically, section 52 of the Constitution Act, 1982, which provides both that “[t]he Constitution of Canada is the supreme law of Canada” (emphasis mine) and that “[a]mendments to the Constitution of Canada shall be made only in accordance with the authority contained in the Constitution of Canada” ― which says nothing about the Supreme Court amending the constitution in the absence of the political consensus required to do so. It is destructive of the Rule of Law. And it is especially galling because many of the same people who advocate this view of the constitution not as binding law but as merely suggestive of (their) political ideals demand that political actors ― such as the present Ontario legislature ― that do not fully share these ideals comply with judicial decisions based on them. I think it’s right to demand that political actors comply with the law, including the law of the constitution. But why on earth should elected officials comply, not with the law, but with the philosophical preferences people who are not elected to anything? There can be no real constitutionalism in Plato’s cave. It’s time to climb out.

Deuxième Moisson

Tout comme il y a quatre ans, le DGE essaie de censurer une intervention de la société civile dans la campagne électorale québécoise

Les campagnes électorales ont leurs habitudes, leurs rituels. Les autobus, les slogans, les débats des chefs. Certaines de ces traditions sont communes à bien des sociétés démocratiques, d’autres sont plus locales. Une qui est particulièrement québécoise ― mais ne devrait pas pour autant être source de fierté ― c’est la lettre du Directeur général des élections (DGE) sommant un représentant de la société civile qui tente de se prononcer sur les enjeux de l’heure de se la fermer. Le rituel vient d’être renouvelé, comme le rapporte La Presse, avec cette fois Équiterre, dans le collimateur du DGE pour avoir diffusé les résultats d’un questionnaire remis aux principaux partis politiques et portant sur leurs politiques en matière d’environnement.

Je racontais un tel épisode, impliquant les producteurs d’un court documentaire critique du Parti québécois et de sa « Charte des valeurs », alias la Charte de la honte, lors de la campagne électorale de 2014. J’ai dit, à l’époque, que les penseurs et juristes « progressistes » qui ont cherché à limiter le rôle de l’argent en politique en limitant sévèrement les dépenses autorisées en période électorale récoltaient là ce qu’ils avaient semé. Ils s’imaginaient que les limites de dépenses feraient taire les riches, mais en réalité, elles s’appliquent d’abord à avant tout aux étudiantsaux syndicats ou aux individus impopulaires. En 2014, on a visé les défenseurs du pluralisme. En 2018, on vise les environnementalistes. La tendance, encore une fois, se maintient.

Il faut souligner qu’il y a quatre ans, le DGE avait alors fini par faire marche arrière ― au bénéfice de la liberté d’expression, mais au mépris de la Loi électorale. En tordant le sens des définitions pourtant claires de ce qui est et n’est pas une « dépense électorale » (prévues aux articles 402 et 404 de la Loi), le DGE a réussi à éviter l’opprobre médiatique qu’allait provoquer un épisode de censure. Mais la Loi électorale, elle, n’as pas été changée pour permettre à la société civile d’intervenir dans les campagnes électorales. Il n’est pas impossible, je suppose, que le DGE se démène encore pour ne pas censurer Équiterre, même si ce sera, comme je l’expliquerai à l’instant, très, très difficile. Cependant, même si la manoeuvre réussit, la censure ne sera que partie remise jusqu’à la prochaine campagne électorale. C’est à la Loi électorale, et non à son application par le DGE, qu’il faut s’attaquer pour régler le problème une fois pour toutes.

L’article 402 de la Loi électorale définit comme « dépense électorale »

le coût de tout bien ou service utilisé pendant la période électorale pour:

1° favoriser ou défavoriser, directement ou indirectement, l’élection d’un candidat ou celle des candidats d’un parti;
2° diffuser ou combattre le programme ou la politique d’un candidat ou d’un parti;
3° approuver ou désapprouver des mesures préconisées ou combattues par un candidat ou un parti;
4° approuver ou désapprouver des actes accomplis ou proposés par un parti, un candidat ou leurs partisans.

Cette définition s’applique aux dépenses des candidats et des partis aussi bien qu’à celles de la société civile, et il n’est pas surprenant qu’elle ratisse large. La production et diffusion du questionnaire d’Équiterre tombe sous le coup de cette définition, puisque celui-ci vise à diffuser certains aspect des programmes des différents partis et aussi, par l’usage de symboles visuels (coche verte, crois rouge) à approuver ou désapprouver les mesures préconisées par ceux-ci.

Deux problèmes se posent cependant. D’une part, il y a à la fois l’insuffisance et la vétusté des exemptions prévues à l’article 404. Contrairement à la disposition équivalente de Loi électorale du Canada, celui-ci n’exempte pas les communications d’un groupe (par exemple, un syndicat) à ses membres et n’est pas technologiquement neutre, exemptant la diffusion de nouvelles ou éditoriaux « dans un journal ou autre périodique » ou encore « par un poste de radio ou de télévision », mais pas par de nouveaux médias opérant sur internet. En 2014, le DGE a fini par décrire le documentaire en cause comme étant un « média citoyen » pour l’exempter de l’application de l’article 402. C’était, selon moi, à tort, puisque la Loi électorale n’exempte que certains médias, et n’autorise pas le DGE à en inventer de nouvelles catégories exemptées. Quoi qu’il en soit, je ne vois pas comment on pourrait user du même procédé pour aider Équiterre.

D’autre part, la Loi électorale limite excessivement les dépenses électorales des membres de la société civile. En fait, elle les interdit presqu’entièrement, ne faisant qu’une exception minimaliste à l’alinéa 13 de l’article 404, qui permet à un individu (ou un groupe de personnes ne possédant pas la personnalité morale) de s’enregistrer pour, ensuite, engager des dépenses d’au plus 300$ ― mais sans pourtant « favoriser ni défavoriser directement un candidat ou un parti ». Équiterre, si je comprends bien, est une personne morale, et ne pourrait se prévaloir de l’exemption, même si sa part du coût de la production du questionnaire dont on lui reproche la diffusion s’élevait à moins de 300$. De plus, il me semble clair que le questionnaire, même s’il se veut non-partisan, vise à favoriser l’élection de partis ayant des politiques environnementales qui reçoivent l’approbation d’Équiterre et à défavoriser l’élection des autres.

Ces restrictions sont draconiennes. Il est ridicule d’interdire aux acteurs de la société civile de prendre part au débat pré-électoral pour peu qu’ils choisissent d’obtenir la personnalité morale. Il est ridicule d’avoir un plafond de dépenses ― non-indexé, contrairement à celui des partis et candidats! ― de 300$. Il est ridicule d’exiger qu’une personne voulant engager des dépenses tout à fait minimes doive préalablement s’enregistrer auprès du DGE. Il est ridicule d’interdire les interventions qui favorisent ou défavorise l’élection de partis nommés. Même si l’on accepte le principe général de la limitation de dépenses et celui de la primauté des candidats et des partis en période électorale, les restrictions imposées par le législateur québécois sont ahurissantes. Elles ne sont pas justifiées. Elles sont, selon moi, inconstitutionnelles, même si la Cour d’appel du Québec en a déjà décidé autrement.

Ainsi, je pense que le DGE fait son travail en s’en prenant à Équiterre. Il applique la Loi électorale. Cependant, les dispositions en cause n’ont pas lieu d’être. Le législateur québécois devrait s’empresser de les revoir de fond en comble, sinon de les abroger. À défaut, ou d’ici là, c’est malheureusement à Équiterre d’en contester la constitutionnalité. Cette contestation ne sera pas facile, mais, selon moi, elle aura des chances réelles de succès. La Cour suprême a certes avalisé les dispositions de la Loi électorale du Canada limitant la participation de « tiers » aux campagnes électorales, mais, comme je l’ai déjà souligné, celles-ci sont bien plus permissives que celles de la loi québécoise. En attendant, le décret ordonnant la tenue d’élections générales demeure un bâillon.

 

Trinity Western, Dissected

The video of a discussion of the Supreme Court’s decision, held at the Centre for Constitutional Studies

Last week, I had the privilege of taking part in a discussion of the Supreme Court’s recent Trinity Western decisions organized by the Centre for Constitutional Studies. My presentation dealt with the Court’s majority’s embrace of the use of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, anti-discrimination legislation, and purported “Charter values” to impose on a private institution obligations to which no law subjects it. I argued that, although the majority judgment in Law Society of British Columbia v. Trinity Western University, 2018 SCC 32, refers to “shared values”, in a pluralistic society it is only laws that we share ― until we amend them through the appropriate process ― even as we strongly disagree about values.

For their part, my co-panellists, Howard Kislowicz and Jennifer Rason, spoke respectively about the conformity, or lack thereof, of Trinity Western to Supreme Court precedent in the realm of freedom of religion, and about the decision-making processes followed by the law societies, and their implication for judicial review of their decisions. While they were not as harshly critical of the Supreme Court as I was, I think it is fair to say that, in their own ways, they too were underwhelmed by the decisions.

Here is a recording of the event. My remarks start at about 9:40, but I strongly recommend those of Professors Kislowicz and Raso, as well as the Q&A.

Thanks to the Centre’s Patricia Paradis and her staff for putting this event together! I very much enjoyed it, and hope to be back sometime.