Profession of Power

A critique of Bob Tarantino’s celebration of the legal profession

In a new post over at his blog, bad platitude, Bob Tarantino continues his defence of the Law Society of Upper Canada’s right to exact ideological conformity from its members. His focus is on Jonathan Kay’s National Post op-ed that tied the Law Society’s demands to a belief  in the “myth that lawyers comprise a moral vanguard within society, with sacred duties that extend beyond the daily humdrum of litigating divorces and drafting contracts”. Mr. Tarantino concedes that Mr. Kay “correctly diagnoses … the profession’s seemingly inherent vainglory” ― and proceeds to defend thinking of law as a profession, not “‘just’ an occupation” in a way that demonstrates just how vainglorious this profession can be.

Before getting to the point, I pause to note Mr. Tarantino’s rather remarkable appeal to the forces of the market in an implicit attempt to justify the Law Society’s right to force lawyers to come up with, or at least copy-and-paste, “Statements of Principle” acknowledging a purported obligation to promote equality and diversity. Contra Mr. Kay, Mr. Tarantino observes that some clients ― he mentions Facebook ― want lawyers to take these things seriously. Mr. Tarantino also insists that he has “the right to decide not to spend [his] money at businesses that espouse views [he] find[s] unpalatable, and even to enthusiastically encourage others to avoid spending their money there”. Very well ― though at least some human rights statutes (including those of Quebec and New Zealand) include political opinion among the list of prohibited grounds of discrimination, which suggests that even enlightened individuals like Mr. Tarantino might disagree with some instances or applications of such legislation. But how exactly does Mr. Tarantino justify the coercion of lawyers whose clients are not as enlightened as he or Facebook, or indeed those lawyers who do not have any clients? At best, this is not a free-market argument, but a paternalistic one. The Law Society knows better.

On now to Mr. Tarantino’s main argument, which is that “it is precisely in law’s status as a profession and as a locus of power in society that the importance of collective value-setting arises”.  A profession, says Mr. Tarantino, is distinguished by involving the application of “a body of specialized knowledge and subordination of the practitioner’s interests in favour of three ‘others’: the client, the profession, and the public”. Lawyers, even more than the members of other professions, wield power over “our society and over the affairs of their clients, and if they adopted a self-interested ethic, a sort of syndicalism, they could quickly become a manifest danger to the rest of society”. For this reason, it is essential to make lawyers “virtuous” ― “so that their power is channeled in favour of others”. This is what both the Law Society’s latest demands and the oath lawyers are required to swear upon entering the profession (to which these demands bear a close resemblance, as I have noted here) are supposed to accomplish. Mr. Tarantino adds that it is very important that these exercises in “collective identity-formation” are “voluntary”; that they “do not find their origins in the government [but] arise from lawyers themselves.” He sees the legal profession as “in some ways just a big club … that gets to set its own rules about membership”, and there is nothing “illegitimate” about that, is there?

It is as if the last 250 years of history and political thought had not happened. As if it were possible to believe, after Smith and Madison ― not to mention Robespierre ― that public good is achieved by virtuous agents rather than by competition and ambition counteracting ambition. As if it were possible to claim, regardless of Constant and Berlin, that rules that a majority imposes on a minority not really an imposition and an interference with liberty. As if it were possible to maintain, despite Friedman and public choice theory, that a state-backed monopoly is not self-interested and syndicalist, working to exclude competition and raise prices for its services. Or, if Mr. Tarantino does not actually believe that such things are generally true, he must then suppose that lawyers, of all, people, are uniquely immune to the fallibility of other human beings. This is the sort of presumption, as self-serving as it is vainglorious, that Mr. Kay rightly decried.

Moreover, Mr. Tarantino’s argument involves a rhetorical sleight of hand. The lawyers’ power, of which he makes so much, is mostly not collective, as he suggests, but individual. It is not the legal profession acting as a united whole that drafts statutes, prosecutes alleged criminals, adjudicates disputes in administrative tribunals, or handles the personal and financial affairs of vulnerable clients. It is individual lawyers or, at most, firms. In any litigation, there are two sides ― normally, though admittedly not always, each with its own lawyer. When lawyers draft or apply rules that bind citizens, other lawyers are ready to challenge these rules or their application. If a lawyer mishandles a client’s case, another can be retained ― including to sue the first. (This is not to make light of the possibility and cost of mistakes or incompetence, of course. Still, the point is that a mistaken or even incompetent lawyer does not represent the profession as a whole.) The one circumstance when lawyers do act collectively is when they act through the Law Society. When the Law Society exacts compliance with its demands, that is the profession exercising power ― backed up by the armed force of the state. That is where we really ought to worry about power being exercised unethically. And in my view ― though perhaps not in Mr. Tarantino’s ― the exercise of power to impose ideological conformity on those subject to it is unethical and indeed oppressive.

Unlike many other defenders of the Law Society, Mr. Tarantino has the merit of not trying to minimize the seriousness of what is going on. His first post contained a forthright admission that the Law Society’s demands amount to a values test for membership in the legal profession. His latest doubles down on this admission, and makes clear that it the Law Society’s actions rest on a conception of public power that is paternalistic, confident both of its own moral superiority and of its ability to make others virtuous, and takes no notice of disagreement or dissent. Those who do not like how this power is exercised can simply get out and leave the legal profession ― and find some other way of making a living. Many of those who support the Law Society seem to be surprised by the force of the opposition which its latest demands have provoked. Perhaps, thanks to Mr. Tarantino’s posts, they can understand better.

Which Principles? What Politicization?

A response to Maxime St-Hilaire’s appeal to principle over politics at the Supreme Court of Canada

In a blog post over at Advocates for the Rule of Law (and in a previous version at À qui de droit), my friend and sometime guest Maxime St-Hilaire argues that

The greatest challenge facing the Supreme Court of Canada is the risk of its politicization, understood … as a form of adjudicative practice that is not governed by legal rules, legal principles, or other legal norms and that does not restrict itself to deciding justiciable questions.

Whether or not “politicization” is the best possible label for this sort of adjudication, and whether or not it is the greatest challenge facing the Supreme Court ― both plausible but debatable propositions ― I agree that the danger Prof. St-Hilaire identifies is a serious one. It is a challenge, moreover, not only for the Court, or even the judiciary as a whole, but for the legal profession, which is too readily supportive of adjudication that does not abide by the requirements of the Rule of Law.

However, precisely because this is a very serious issue, it is important to be careful in circumscribing it ― not to accuse the Supreme Court of being “political” or disregarding the Rule of Law when it is not. And here, I part company with Prof. St-Hilaire to some extent. Some of the specific instances of politicization that he identifies are indeed examples of the Court failing to act judicially or to uphold the law. Others, in my view, are not.

I agree with Prof. St-Hilaire’s criticism of the Supreme Court’s theoretical embrace of living constitutionalism in theory ― and its practical embrace of interpretive eclecticism with few if any principles to constrain cherry-picking interpretive approaches. If, in other jurisdictions, there is such a thing as a “law of interpretation” (to borrow the title of a recent article by William Baude and Stephen E Sachs), constitutional interpretation in Canada seems to be largely lawless, as most recently highlighted by Benjamin Oliphant. Indeed, I would go further than Prof. St-Hilaire (if I understand him correctly), and argue that judges ought to be originalists in order to uphold the principles of the Rule of Law and constitutionalism, because, as Jeffrey Pojanowski argues,

if one does not seek to identify and treat the original law of the constitution as binding, one imperils the moral benefits constitutionalism exists to offer the polity. We are back to square one, adrift in a sea of competing, unentrenched norms.

I share Prof. St-Hilaire’s unease at the Supreme Court’s often unprincipled practice of suspending declarations of invalidity of legislation. While I once argued that this device had some redeeming virtues, the Court’s failure to articulate and apply coherent principles for deploying it nullifies these virtues. As things currently stand, the Court’s approach to suspended declarations of unconstitutionality is yet another manifestation of the sort of uncabined discretion that is antithetical to the Rule of Law.

I also agree with Prof. St-Hilaire that the Supreme Court’s approach to review of allegedly unconstitutional administrative decisions under the framework set out in Doré v Barreau du Québec, 2012 SCC 12, [2012] 1 SCR 395 is a “denial of constitutional justice”. (That said, it is worth noting that the Court’s application of this framework is a mess, and it might matter less than the Court itself suggests ― though is a Rule of Law problem in its own right.) And I agree with Prof. St-Hilaire’s criticisms of the Court’s approach to s 15 of the Canadian Charter (including because it is flatly inconsistent with its original meaning, as Justice Binnie, among others, openly recognized).

Now on to some of my disagreements with Prof. St-Hilaire. Some of them we have already canvassed at some length. I remain of the view (previously expressed here) that judges can, in appropriate cases, criticize the legitimacy of their colleagues’ adjudicative techniques. Indeed, I am puzzled by prof. St-Hilaire’s insistence on the contrary. Can a judge who agrees with his critique of the Supreme Court not say so? I also remain of the view, that courts can, subject to usual rules on justiciability, pronounce on constitutional conventions, which are not essentially different from legal rules. I most recently expressed and explained this view in a post here criticizing the UK Supreme Court’s decision in R (Miller) v Secretary of State for Exiting the European Union, [2017] UKSC 5, and in this short article for a special issue of the Supreme Court Law Review.

New, to this space at least, is my disagreement with Prof. St-Hilaire on the scope of the doctrine of res judicata and the force of stare decisis. Prof. St-Hilaire accuses the Supreme Court of “conflating the two principles”, and of playing fast and loose with both. In his view, stare decisis is about “the general/indirect jurisprudential authority of judicial reasons”, while res judicata concerns “the particular/direct authority of judicial decisions per se, and taken separately”. When the Supreme Court upheld the constitutionality of the criminalisation of assisted suicide in Rodriguez v. British Columbia (Attorney General), [1993] 3 SCR 519, that rendered the matter res judicata, and should have prevented the courts, including the Supreme Court itself, from revisiting the matter, as they eventually did in Carter v Canada (Attorney General), 2015 SCC 5, [2015] 1 SCR 331. More broadly, the Supreme Court has been too cavalier with precedent, in particular in the area of labour law.

I agree with Prof. St-Hilaire that the Supreme Court has in some cases ― especially those concerning the purported constitutional rights of labour unions ― disregarded precedent without any compelling reason to do so. For reasons best explained, I think, by Jeremy Waldron, a fairly robust version of stare decisis is an important component of the Rule of Law. However, in my view, prof. St-Hilaire takes this point much too far. For my part, I am content to accept the Supreme Court’s explanation in Canada (Attorney General) v Confédération des syndicats nationaux, 2014 SCC 49, [2014] 2 SCR 477 that “res judicata … require[s] that the dispute be between the same parties”, as well as on the same issue, while stare decisis is the broader ― and more flexible ― principle that applies “when the issue is the same and that the questions it raises have already been answered by a higher court whose judgment has the authority of res judicata“. [25] This is not merely a terminological dispute. The point is that courts should be able to reverse their own decisions, albeit with the greatest circumspection.

Without fully defending my views, I would argue that the criteria set out in Canada (Attorney General) v Bedford, 2013 SCC 72, [2013] 3 SCR 1101 are a sound guideline, provided that they are rigorously applied (which they were not in the labour union cases). Precedent, the Court held,

may be revisited if new legal issues are raised as a consequence of significant developments in the law, or if there is a change in the circumstances or evidence that fundamentally shifts the parameters of the debate. [42]

I think this is right, because while the stability of the law, its diachronic coherence, is very important, the law’s consistency at any given time point, its ability to remain a “seamless web”, or synchronic coherence, is important too, and also a requirement of the Rule of Law. These two dimensions of legal coherence are in tension, and sometimes in conflict, and I think it is a mistake to say, as I take it Prof. St-Hilaire does, that diachronic coherence must always prevail. Perhaps more controversially, I am inclined to think that there is also a case to be made for the proposition that the Rule of Law can accommodate, if it does not positively require, departures from precedent that serve to make the law make sense in light of changed circumstances and evidence. The ideas of non-arbitrariness and congruence between the law on the books and its real-world application at least point in that direction, though the argument would be worth developing in more detail.

I will end where Prof. St-Hilaire begins: with judicial appointments. (Of course, the process of appointment is not part of adjudication. But it makes sense to consider it in a discussion of the danger of the politicization of the Supreme Court, even though it doesn’t fit within Prof. St-Hilaire’s definition of that term.) Prof. St-Hilaire criticizes the inclusion of “parliamentary consultation” in the appointment process, and I agree with him to that extent. However, I do not share the main thrust of his comments, which is that we need to move “from more political criteria to increasingly professional criteria in the selection of” Supreme Court judges. Political control over judicial appointments is an important check on the power of the courts, as well as an indispensable means to inject some much needed ideological diversity into the judiciary. The current judiciary and legal profession are too homogeneous ― in their thinking, not (only) their skin colour ― for a “professional” appointments process to produce a judiciary that does not all believe the same pieties (including pieties about living constitutionalism and other things that Prof. St-Hilaire criticizes!). That said, since politicians should have the responsibility for judicial appointments, it is also politicians who should be held accountable for them. As Adam Dodek has suggested, the Justice Minister who should appear before Parliament to explain the government’s choice of Supreme Court judges ― but not (and here, I take it, I part company with prof. Dodek) the new judges themselves.

I share Prof. St-Hilaire’s view that “the Supreme Court must choose principle over politicization”. I am looking forward to the Runnymede Society’s forthcoming conference at which this call will no doubt be much reiterated ― including by yours truly. That said, though it reflects a nice sentiment, an appeal to principle over politics does not tell us very much. It leaves open both the question of what principles one should adopt, and of counts as objectionable politicization rather than mere good faith error. Prof. St-Hilaire and I disagree about that to some extent, as I have endeavoured to show. The debate must, and will, continue, and we should have no illusions about settling it with high-minded slogans.

Chicane de cours, bis

La querelle constitutionnelle entre la Cour supérieure et le gouvernement du Québec mérite le sérieux, pas la dérision

Plus d’un mois après qu’on en eut appris l’existence, la requête des  juges de la Cour supérieure visant à faire déclarer inconstitutionnelles les compétences exclusives sur les poursuites civiles de 10 000$ à 85 000$ et sur le contrôle judiciaire de certains tribunaux administratifs assignées par le législateur québécois à la Cour du Québec commence à faire parler d’elle. La fin de semaine dernière, Yves Boisvert y est allé d’une chronique vitupératrice dans La Presse et Robert Dutrisac, d’un éditorial un peu plus sobre, mais tout aussi indigné et un peu parano de surcroît, dans Le Devoir. Au-delà des erreurs juridiques qu’elles contiennent, ces élucubrations sont surtout remarquables par le peu de cas qu’elles font de la constitution et leur empressement à blâmer une seule partie dans une dispute où l’autre mérite tout autant, sinon davantage, comme je l’expliquais déjà lorsque les procédures ont été amorcées, d’être condamnée.

M. Boisvert compare la requête des juges de la Cour supérieure à celle du « gars qui a réclamé 67 millions à son nettoyeur pour avoir perdu son pantalon ». Il reconnaît pourtant ― au 17e paragraphe sur les 24 que compte son chef-d’oeuvre ― que « [t]echniquement, l’argument est sérieux ». Cependant, il n’en a cure, de ces détails techniques. Que la Cour supérieure, censément tribunal de droit commun, se trouve presque sans dossiers civils dans plusieurs régions du Québec n’est qu’un « “problème” » ― avec des guillemets. Que l’enjeu soit « discuté depuis des années par des experts et par des juges » (c’est au moins une décennie, comme je l’indiquais dans mon premier billet sur le sujet), c’est apparemment sans importance. Tout ça ne serait qu’ « [u]ne façon comme une autre de célébrer le 150e anniversaire de la Constitution », voire même de « ramener à 1867 » notre système judiciaire. Et que le gouvernement du Québec ait été au courant de tout ça, pressé par les juges d’éviter une confrontation inconvenante dans leur propre cour, et n’ait pas pris éviter l’apparence de conflit en renvoyant la cause devant la Cour d’appel est bien normal, puisqu’il ne saurait être question de « faciliter ce débat oiseux ».

M. Dutrisac, lui, écrit que le « Québec […] détient la compétence exclusive de l’administration de la justice », et que puisque « la Cour du Québec […] en mène plus large que les autres cours provinciales[,] en matière de justice, le Québec est en quelque sorte une société distincte ». Il soutient que la requête des juges serait un « coup de force » visant à « remettre le Québec à sa place en matière de justice, dans un esprit de soumission constitutionnelle ».

Autant M. Boisvert que M. Dutrisac s’insurgent face à la décision des juges de lancer ces procédures alors que le système de justice s’ajuste encore aux exigences en matière de délais édictées par la Cour suprême dans l’arrêt R c Jordan, 2016 CSC 27, [2016] 1 RCS 631. Cependant, leurs arguments à l’effet que tout le débat sur la limites de la compétence de la Cour du Québec serait « oiseux » sinon une sinistre tentative d’éradiquer la différence québécoise en matière de justice s’appliquerait tout autant en l’absence de ces ajustements. Il est vrai que, si les juges de la Cour supérieure ont gain de cause, d’importants changements devront être faits au système de justice. Or, ces changements auraient dérangé peu importe quand il aurait fallu les faire, et plus on attend, plus ils seront dérangeants le moment venu.

Car, comme M. Boisvert finit bien par l’admettre, l’argument des juges est sérieux. La constitution, n’en déplaise aux journalistes, n’est pas qu’un détail technique ou une curiosité intellectuelle. C’est encore moins un instrument de « soumission » pour le Québec. Le respect de la constitution c’est la condition même de légitimité de l’État québécois, comme de l’État canadien, bien sûr, ou de n’importe quel autre. Quand l’État déclare, par sa conduite (y compris sa législation) ou les paroles ou le silence de ses représentants, que le respect de la constitution l’indiffère, il y renonce, du moins en partie. Et il lance un avertissement à ses citoyens : hier, ce n’était que le partage des compétences en matière du système judiciaire que l’État québécois négligeait ; aujourd’hui, c’est aussi l’indépendance de la magistrature, à laquelle il a le devoir de contribuer, et qu’il aurait dû préserver en renvoyant cette question du partage des compétences à la Cour d’appel ; qu’est-ce que ce sera demain? En reconnaissant ses obligations constitutionnelles, l’État ne fait pas preuve de soumission (envers qui, au juste, M. Dutrisac?), mais bien de respect envers ceux et celles qu’il est censé servir ; ou, si tant est qu’il s’agit de soumission, c’est de cette soumission que les juristes médiévaux imposaient déjà aux rois d’Angleterre, en disant que Rex non debet esse sub homine, sed sub Deo et lege ― le Roi ne doit point être le sujet d’un autre homme, mais de Dieu et de la loi.

Je mentionnais plus haut les erreurs juridiques de MM. Boisvert et Dutrisac. Elles sont plutôt flagrantes ― et diamétralement opposées. Le premier dit que « [l]a Constitution de 1867 réserve au fédéral le pouvoir de créer les cours de droit commun »; le second, que le « Québec […] détient la compétence exclusive de l’administration de la justice ». Les deux ont tort. Le fédéral ne crée pas les tribunaux de droit commun, même s’il nomme leurs juges. Toutefois, la compétences des provinces en matière d’administration de la justice, même si elle est décrite comme exclusive à l’article 92(14) de la Loi constitutionnelle de 1867, est limitée par ce pouvoir de nomination du fédéral, et par les restrictions supplémentaires que la jurisprudence a dérivées de ce pouvoir. Ce schéma constitutionnel est (délibérément) complexe, mais il est troublant que l’on veuille dénigrer les efforts visant à le préserver sans même en comprendre le fonctionnement.

Pour sa part, M. Dutrisac exagère aussi le caractère unique du Québec en matière de la compétence de la cour provinciale. Comme je le mentionnais dans mon premier billet, cette compétence va jusqu’au seuil de 50 000$ en Alberta. C’est certes moins qu’au Québec, mais l’ordre de grandeur est le même, et démontre bien que le Québec est, ici encore, moins « distinct » du reste du pays que les nationalistes ne le prétendent, et que la requête des juges de la Cour supérieure n’est pas une attaque contre la spécificité québécoise, mais soulève au contraire des questions d’un vif intérêt pour le pays tout entier.

Et c’est pourquoi je reviens à ma suggestion, formulée le mois dernier, que le gouvernement fédéral devrait intervenir dans le débat en formulant un renvoi à la Cour suprême pour le trancher. L’enjeu est d’importance nationale, sa résolution ne nécessite pas l’établissement d’une trame factuelle, et le fédéral aussi a une responsabilité de préserver les apparences d’impartialité de la magistrature. Puisque le gouvernement du Québec ne veut pas faire sa part, et que même les journalistes québécois semblent disposés à louer son attitude et à ne condamner que les juges, le fédéral, qui peut agir, doit le faire.

Polyphony

How different constitutional orders respond to attempts at denying citizens access to adjudication

The UK Supreme Court recently delivered a judgment that will, I think, be of interest to those Canadian readers who have not yet heard of it. That is because the case, R (Unison) v Lord Chancellor [2017] UKSC 51, arises out of circumstances that are fundamentally similar to those of the Supreme Court of Canada’s decision in Trial Lawyers Association of British Columbia v. British Columbia (Attorney General), 2014 SCC 59, [2014] 3 SCR 31. Trial Lawyers, which I summarized here, concerned a challenged to the fees that litigants had to pay for each day they argued their cases in the (trial) Supreme Court of British Columbia. Unison involved fees imposed on litigants who took their cases to tribunals charged with the resolution of employment law disputes. But the ways in which the courts addressed the legal issues highlights the differences both between the respective constitutional frameworks of Canada and the UK, and between the courts’ understandings of their roles within these frameworks.

In Trial Lawyers the majority addressed the constitutionality of hearing fees, concluding that, if they are set so high as to prevent people accessing superior courts, they would contravene section 96 of the Constitution Act, 1867, which had previously been held to protect the “core” jurisdiction of the courts to which it refers. While the Chief Justice’s opinion, for the majority, also addressed the principle of the Rule of Law, it invoked this principle only as additional support for its conclusions ― Justice Rothstein’s accusations to the contrary notwithstanding. Only Justice Cromwell, in his concurrence, proposed deciding the case on administrative law grounds, and would have held that since the hearing fees were imposed by delegated legislate made pursuant to a statute that preserved the common law right of access to courts, they could not validly interfere with this right. Yet interfere with it they did, and they were therefore invalid for that reason.

By contrast, Unison was decided on administrative law grounds ― and the principle of the Rule of Law was central to the UK Supreme Court’s reasoning. Having concluded that, as a matter of empirical fact (on which more below), the fees at issue deter substantial numbers of people from pursuing their claims, the Court asked itself whether “the text of” the statute pursuant to which the fees were imposed by the executive, “but also the constitutional principles which underlie the text, and the principles of statutory interpretation which give effect to those principles”  [65] provided authority for setting the fees at their  current level. The relevant principles included, in particular, “the constitutional right of access to justice: that is to say, access to the courts (and tribunals …)”, [65] which in turn is an aspect of the Rule of Law. They also included the idea that rights granted by a statute cannot be nullified by delegated  legislation purportedly authorized by a different statute.

The Court began with what Mark Elliott, on his excellent Public Law for Everyone blog, described as

a primer — albeit a very powerful one — on what the rule of law means … . Indeed, it is difficult to escape the conclusion that the Court felt it necessary to drive home some very fundamental propositions — ones that should not really need to be driven home — because the Government’s position indicated ignorance of or contempt for them.

As part of this “primer”, the Court emphasized that

Courts exist in order to ensure that the laws made by Parliament, and the common law created by the courts themselves, are applied and enforced. … In order for the courts to perform that role, people must in principle have unimpeded access to them. Without such access, laws are liable to become a dead letter, the work done by Parliament may be rendered nugatory, and the democratic election of Members of Parliament may become a meaningless charade. That is why the courts do not merely provide a public service like any other. [65]

In the course of adjudicating disputes, courts both ascertain important legal principles and provides the assurance that “[p]eople and businesses … will be able to enforce their rights if they have to do so, and … that if they fail to meet their obligations, there is likely to be a remedy against them.” [71] For this assurance to be effective, “people and businesses” must be able to take their disputes to courts or tribunals, if need be.

Given the importance of access to courts and tribunals, “any hindrance or impediment by the executive requires clear authorisation by Parliament”, [78] and the authorization will only be taken to extend so far as the achievement of its purposes requires. As Parliament did not clear empower the executive to levy fees that would prevent litigants from accessing tribunals, and as the fees at issue had precisely that effect, they must be held not to have been authorized by the statute under whose purported authority they were imposed. In addition, they “must be regarded as rendering … nugatory” [104] the rights which the tribunals are supposed to enforce, thought in the Court’s view this point this point overlapped with the Rule of Law one.

It is tempting for people used to constitutional frameworks where legislation can be invalidated for inconsistency with the supreme law to look down on a decision based on administrative law grounds, which can be overridden by legislation. Indeed, even prof. Elliott writes that “for all that the case represents a striking and robust reaffirmation of fundamental constitutional principles, it also hints at — or least raises questions about — the limits of those principles” ― within the UK constitutional context, that is. After all, if the UK executive insists on collecting prohibitive tribunal fees, it can (try to) get Parliament to enact them into statute, or explicitly allow fees to be set at levels that will result in impeded access. If the UK Parliament does either of these things, there can probably be no challenge to its decision within the UK’s internal legal order, subject to courts taking up the occasional musings of some judges about limits to Parliamentary sovereignty ― an unlikely, and at least arguably an undesirable prospect. (Prof. Elliott, mixing metaphors somewhat, describes as a “nuclear option”, and says that “we will cross this bridge if we ever come to it, while fervently hoping that we never do”.) It is better, we might be tempted to say, for courts to have at their disposal the more powerful weapons that an entrenched constitution, like that of Canada, can provide.

But, while there is a good deal of truth to this view, it is not the whole truth. Prof. Elliott suggests that

in some constitutional orders … administrative orders incompatible with the right of access to justice would be unlawful — because the constitution would withhold the authority to legislate in breach of such a fundamental right.

But things might not be so simple. Prof. Elliott does not say what “constitutional orders” he has in mind, but at least in the Canadian constitutional order, it is by no means clear that the constitution withholds the right to legislate in breach of the right of access to justice. In commenting on Trial Lawyers here, I said that not only does the reasoning of the majority opinion in Trial Lawyers “rest on shaky foundations” whose weaknesses are brutally exposed by Justice Rothstein’s dissent, but they “leave some important questions” ― questions about the limits of the constitutional principles that it applies ― “unanswered”. In particular, it is very doubtful that the right of access to superior courts constiutionalized in Trial Lawyers extends to provincial court and to administrative tribunals  (which is to say, to the sort of decision-maker at issue in Unison!), to which section 96 of the Constitution Act, 1867, on which that decision ostensibly rests, does not apply.

The legitimacy of judicial interventions to uphold fundamental constitutional principles can be questioned not only in constitutional systems that acknowledge Parliamentary sovereignty, but also in those that allow for judicial review of legislation ― if not in principle, then in (almost) any given case. The best answer to such questions is, of course, the existence of a clear constitutional provision in which the intervention at issue  can fairly be rested. In the absence of such constitutional authority, judges are apt to grasp at textual straws, and, at the risk of also mixing metaphors, we know that a house built of straw can easily be blown away. In short, the existence of an entrenched constitution does not always make for very solid decision-making.

Indeed, Unison has at least one substantial advantage over Trial Lawyers. Its discussion of the Rule of Law principle is relatively extensive and forthright. The UK Supreme Court makes no apologies about the Rule of Law being central to its decision. The majority opinion in Trial Lawyers, however, approached the Rule of Law somewhat gingerly, and insisted that it is not the main basis for its decision ― though this was not enough to mollify Justice Rothstein, who claimed that

[i]n using an unwritten principle to support expanding the ambit of s. 96 to such an extent the majority subverts the structure of the Constitution and jeopardizes the primacy of the written text. [93]

For my own part, I have argued here that Trial Lawyers should, and could, have been decided on the basis of the Rule of Law principle ― though my argument was a version of the “no making rights nugatory” one that the Unison Court only briefly addressed. Perhaps the Supreme Court of Canada did not address it only because it was not put it by the parties. (The cases on which it rests in the Canadian context are not well known, I suspect.) Perhaps it would have found this argument unconvincing in any event. But I suspect that the Trial Lawyers majority would have hesitated to enlist this argument even if it were convinced by it, due to the sort of concern to which Justice Rothstein appealed (unpersuasively in my view). As Jeremy Waldron observed in “The Core of the Case against Judicial Review”, constitutional adjudication under an entrenched text is liable to pay more attention to the text than to fundamental principle. In my view, this is not always a bad thing ― but it is, admittedly, not always a good one either.

Before concluding, let me note another point of contrast between Trial Lawyers and Unison: their respective treatment of empirical data. The majority opinion in Trial Lawyers is a fairly abstract one, in the sense that its focus is very much on the legal issues. It only briefly alludes to the personal circumstances of the original plaintiff in the case, pointing out that she was “not an ‘impoverished’ person in the ordinary sense of the word” (which made her ineligible for an exemption from the fees at issue). In Unison, meanwhile, statistics and data-based hypothetical scenarios intended to expose the effect of the fees at issue take up an important place in the judgment. The Court reviewed in considerable detail the nature of the disputes to which the fees at issue applied, with the aim of showing that most of them involved parties of limited means seeking to recover small amounts (or, in some cases, to obtain non-pecuniary remedies), as well as the financial effects of these fees on economically vulnerable litigants. The Court linked the precipitous drop in the number of disputes heard to the deterrent effect of excessive, and rarely recoverable, fees, providing the factual underpinning for its legal reasoning. Later on, it also discussed the fees’ failure to raise much revenue, concluding that “it is clear that the fees were not set at the optimal price: the price elasticity of demand was greatly underestimated”. [100] In that way, Unison is similar to cases that are part of what I have been discussing here, using Kerri Froc’s label, as the  “empirical turn” in Canadian constitutional law ― while Trial Lawyers was not.

Despite originating in fairly similar circumstances, then, Trial Lawyers and Unison are quite different decisions. Each has its own logic and responds to its own concerns. But it is also true that they are both parts in delivering a unified message: that of the common law courts’ endorsement, sometimes ringing and sometimes more muted, of the value of access by the citizens to the adjudication of rights claims. Beyond the differences of strictly legal issues and methods, there is a single theme: that, as a matter of political morality, a state that purports to respect and even to create rights must not prevent citizens from asserting them.

Judicial Independence in America

A look at the conventions of judicial independence in the United States

Although American constitutional thought has long ignored the fact that conventions are scarcely less important to the operation of the Constitution of the United States than they are to Westminster-type constitutions, this blind spot is being removed. Tara Leigh Grove’s forthcoming article on “The Origins (and Fragility) of Judicial Independence” under the US Constitution is largely, and deliberately, a story of conventions, and a well-told one. Although Article III of the Constitution entrenches some protections for judges ― the tenure and salary guarantees that were already protected in Great Britain by the Act of Settlement 1701 ― prof. Groves shows that much of the architecture of judicial independence that observers of the American judiciary take for granted has no obvious foundation in the constitutional text. It is, instead, built of convention.

Prof. Grove examines three ways in which judicial independence is respected in the United States that “are so deeply ingrained in our public consciousness that it rarely
occurs to anyone to question them”, and that they have assumed the status of “self-evident” “truths”:

judges are entitled to life tenure and salary protections, and cannot be removed outside the impeachment process. Political actors must comply with federal court orders. And “packing” the Supreme Court is wrong. (1)

There is, prof. Grove argues, nothing self-evident about any of this. The constitutional text was once thought to permit these violations of judicial independence. But then ― quite recently ― “political actors built the conventions” that make them well-nigh unthinkable. (2)

More specifically, prof. Grove shows that American political actors long thought that it was permissible to remove judges from office by abolishing their courts (except the Supreme Court itself, on the basis that it alone was explicitly mentioned in the constitution). There were a number of attempts to do so, some of them successful:

Through at least the early twentieth century, although the abolition of federal court judgeships was controversial, it was by no means considered “ridiculous” or “off-the-wall”. (13)

And yet over the course of the last century that is exactly how this idea came to be treated. Indeed the very fact that judges had in the past been removed because their courts were abolished was forgotten. Proposals of such measures are now met with consternation and fierce resistance ― as befits violations of conventions.

Similarly, although there now exists “widespread and bipartisan consensus that political actors must abide by federal court orders”, (17) this too is a relatively recent constitutional innovation. While some scholars still suggest that there is, occasionally, room for executive resistance to judicial decisions, political actors have abandoned this view, which they had long held. Prof. Grove traces this change of political heart to the aftermath of  desegregation decisions, showing that even those politicians who, like President Eisenhower, had originally seemed to accept resistance to court orders as legitimate then came to condemn it. From then on, “subsequent political actors did not want to be equated with the segregationists who led the ‘massive resistance’ to” the cause of civil rights. (25)

Last but not least, “[t]here is a strong norm today against … modifying the [Supreme] Court’s size in order to alter the future course of its decisions”. (29) Yet the text of the US Constitution says nothing about the number of judges there must be on the Court (except that there must be a Chief Justice), and historically, Congress has decreased and increased it on a number of occasions, “often … in part for partisan reasons”. (30) Indeed, the convention against doing so has not been around for as long as one might think. Prof. Grove points out that although Franklin Roosevelt’s notorious “court-packing” scheme  aroused “strong opposition”, it “also had considerable support in Congress and came close to passage”. (29) It is only “starting in the late 1950s”, (34) some time after a proposal for a constitutional amendment fixing the Supreme Court’s size failed to pass, that the convention against court-packing solidified ― to the point where the term “court-packing” became an all-purpose epithet.

Prof. Grove argues that the conventions of judicial independence are “historically contingent”; they could have been different now, and they might be different in the future. She notes that there is no convention preventing the enactment of legislation denying the federal courts, or specifically the Supreme Court, the jurisdiction over certain types of cases, although in her view “the protection for judicial independence would be far stronger if there were a convention leading officials not even to propose, much less seriously consider, jurisdiction-stripping bills”. (42) Why, though, is there no such convention, while there conventions against firing judges by abolishing courts, disobeying court orders, or court-packing? Prof. Grove attributes the difference to “narratives” ― to the way lawyers and officials (many of them, of course, lawyers by training) ― were told the stories of the various forms of interference with the courts and re-told these stories in their turn. Conventions developed against those practices that the “narratives” condemned, and against that which it did not.

Prof. Grove concludes with a question that has caused considerable difficulty to courts and scholars in the Commonwealth: that of the relationship between conventions and law. Could it be the case that “the norms protecting judicial tenure and requiring obedience with federal court orders have become so well-accepted that they have transformed into binding rules of law”? (54) Prof. Grove says that she “do[es] not foreclose the possibility that conventions may over time crystallize into legal rules”, thought “the precise mechanisms by which such crystallization may occur” remain uncertain. (54) She notes that ultimately both conventions and legal rules can change in response to a changed political environment ― and cautions that this change need not always be for the better.

Prof. Grove’s historical account is worth the attention of anyone interested in American Constitutional law. Her demonstration of the importance of conventions in the operation of the constitution ― small c ― of the United States should provide an effective counter-argument to claims of exceptionalism, and resulting superiority or inferiority (depending on the speaker’s substantive views), made both in America and in the Commonwealth. “Written” constitutions do not settle all constitutional questions, nor do they prevent the development of conventions that restrict the discretion that constitutional actors might seem to enjoy under the terms of black-letter constitutional law, whether authoritatively enacted or common law.

Prof. Grove’s account leaves a number of important questions unanswered ― not only that of the interplay between convention and law and the possibility of “crystallization”, but also that of the role of “narratives” in relation to conventions. Saying that narratives determine whether conventions do or not arise seems to beg the question of why narratives develop in one way rather than another, and perhaps to obscure the role of constitutional principles that underpin conventions in shaping those narratives. Perhaps prof. Grove might have paid more attention to what the principle of judicial independence means ― and, for instance, to whether it actually requires restrictions on legislatures’ ability to limit courts’ jurisdiction. (It seems to me that some legislative control over jurisdiction is necessary for the good administration of justice, and that removal of discrete elements of a court’s jurisdiction will not always, perhaps rarely, interfere with its independence.)

But these are friendly criticisms ― one cannot expect a single article to fully tell a story as complex as that which prof. Grove begins. I hope that she and/or her colleagues will take it up. Constitutional theory can only be enriched if American scholars pay constitutional conventions the attention they deserve. Prof. Grove makes a very valuable contribution to this endeavour.

Clash of Courts

Senior Superior Court judges are suing Québec over its provincial court’s jurisdiction; other provinces will be affected if they succeed

I don’t think the story has received much attention outside of Québec yet, but it’s not because it doesn’t deserve to be noticed: as La Presse reports, the Chief Justice, Senior Associate Chief Justice, and Associate Chief Justice of Québec’s Superior Court are suing the provincial government, arguing that much of the civil jurisdiction of the Court of Québec is unconstitutional. More specifically, they are seeking declarations that Québec could not, consistently with section 96 of the Constitution Act, 1867, grant its provincial court exclusive jurisdiction to hear cases where the amount at issue is more than $10 000 or any powers of judicial review over provincial administrative tribunals, because these powers are reserved for federally-appointed judges.

Currently, the upper limit of the Court of Québec’s jurisdiction in civil matters is set at $85 000. Should the Superior Court judges prevail, their court’s workload is bound to increase very substantially, though I haven’t yet seen any clear data on this point. But repercussions  will be felt well beyond Québec’s borders. British Columbia has set the upper limit on its provincial court’s jurisdiction in civil disputes at $35 000; Alberta, at $50 000. The principles on which the applicants rely apply across Canada, of course, and the boundaries between the jurisdictions of superior and provincial courts would need to be re-drawn in several provinces, if not quite to the same extent as in Québec.

Though I am sure that much more will be said about this dispute as it develops, my initial impression is that the Superior Court judges have a strong case. Although it says nothing of the sort, section 96 has long been understood to stand for the proposition that the courts to which it refers, including Québec’s Superior Court, have a protected “core” of jurisdiction. This core jurisdiction ― that which they exclusively had at the time of Confederation ― cannot be taken away from them or transferred to other courts (which is to say the Federal Court or provincial courts created pursuant to section 92(14) of the Constitution Act, 1867, such as the Court of Québec). As the Superior Court judges’ application shows, in Québec, the exclusive jurisdiction of (what at Confederation became) section 96 courts started at $100, which, adjusted for inflation, is said to be less than $10 000. (The application does not go into any detail as to exactly how this inflation adjustment proceeds ― the exercise is bound to be an inexact one over 150 years ― but let’s assume that the figures given are at least roughly correct.) As Québec expanded the jurisdiction of its provincial court over the last 50 years (for the most part, when it was governed by the Parti québécois), it took more and more out of the former exclusive jurisdiction of the Superior Court, impinging ever more on what the Supreme Court, in Trial Lawyers Association of British Columbia v British Columbia (Attorney General), 2014 SCC 59, [2014] 3 SCR 31, described as its “historic task … to resolve disputes between individuals and decide questions of private and public law”. [32]

Indeed, the Superior Court judges’ argument is not new. Frédéric Bachand, then a professor at McGill and now himself a Superior Court judge, mentioned it in my civil procedure classes ― 10 years ago. And, while I’m not sure about this, I doubt that the point was a novel one even then. Prof. Bachand, as he then was, also pointed out that no litigant had a good reason to raise the issue, and he was right about that too ― but the wonders of public interest standing, which the Superior Court judges very plausibly claim, mean that the matter will have to be addressed regardless.

Just how it will be addressed is still a troubling question. The prospect of Québec’s Superior Court adjudicating, even in the first instance, a claim about its own jurisdiction brought by its three most senior judges is unsettling. The judges’ Application details their fruitless attempts to get the provincial government interested in the matter. For a while now, they have pushed for the issue to be referred to the Court of Appeal. A reference would indeed have been the preferable procedural vehicle, both to avoid casting the Superior Court in the unseemly position of being judge in its own cause, and also because the questions to be addressed are not of such a nature as to require a trial to be held, while appeals all the way to the Supreme Court are certain in any event. I’m not sure exactly why the Québec government has so far refused to take this course. Perhaps it was daring the judges to sue in their own court, and hoping that they would not compromise themselves in this way. But now that, rightly or wrongly, its dare has been taken, there is nothing to be gained from continued obstinacy.

Indeed, I wonder if the federal government would not do well to intervene and refer the issues directly to the Supreme Court, should Québec’s obstinacy continue. While federal references on the constitutionality of provincial legislation are uncommon, Québec itself has no compunctions about referring questions regarding the constitutionality of federal policies to the courts. And of course the issue of the respective jurisdictions of superior and provincial courts directly concerns the federal government, which would have to pick up a substantial tab for the salaries of additional section 96 appointees if Québec’s Superior Court judges are successful. Even more importantly though, because these judges are appointed and paid by the federal government, I think it has a direct interest in helping them maintain their continued impartiality and good standing, and arguably a duty to do so (a political duty, of course, not a legal one).

Whatever exactly happens, one has to hope that it happens quickly. An important question has been raised, with strong arguments to support the proposition that the way the court  systems of several provinces are organized is unconstitutional. This question deserves to be answered, but having it litigated by senior judges in their own court is surely not the right way to go about it. Yet if the judges are looking bad, the provincial government that seemingly dared  them to do it is even worse. It is not taking its constitutional responsibility for the administration of justice ― on which it purports to rely to justify its allegedly unconstitutional legislation ― seriously at all. It is high time for it to come to its senses ― and perhaps for the federal government to intervene if it refuses to do so.

Still Not a Conservative

A couple of comments on Chief Justice Joyal’s Runnymede Radio podcast

Back in January, Chief Justice Glenn Joyal of the Court of Queen’s Bench of Manitoba gave a very interesting keynote address at the Canadian Constitution Foundation’s Law and Freedom conference. (A transcript is available at the website of Advocates for the Rule of Law.) Subsequently, I critiqued Chief Justice  Joyal’s argument to the effect that, in the wake of the enactment of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, the Canadian constitutional culture changed, for the worse, because the judiciary acquired a disproportionate influence on the nation’s public life, at the expense of democratically elected institutions. I argued that although there is cause for concern about judicial self-aggrandizement, this concern should not be overstated, and need not translate into a celebration of the democratic process. In my view, Chief Justice Joyal articulated “a powerful and eloquent statement of what might be described as the foundation for a (small-c) conservative constitutional vision for Canada”, with the subscribers to which I might make common cause from time to time, but which I do not share.

Chief Justice Joyal elaborated on his address and very generously responded to my critique in a podcast interview with Joanna Baron, the director of the Runnymede Society (and my friend). It was an illuminating conversation, and is well worth listening to, as I have finally had a chance to do. Without re-arguing all of my differences with Chief Justice Joyal, I would like to make just a couple of points ― one about something in his position that I do not understand, and the other about what might be at the heart of much of our disagreement.

In both his Law and Freedom address and the podcast, Chief Justice Joyal repeatedly lamented the decline of “bold”, “purposive” government in Canada in the wake of the Charter’s coming into force. He is careful to note that “bold” government need not be big government. It is government acting for the community, implementing a certain political vision. But I’m afraid I have a hard time seeing what exactly this means, and in particular seeing what sorts of bold government initiatives the Charter, or even its attendant political culture in which the judiciary is both more powerful and treated with more deference than it used to be, might have thwarted. I understand that Chief Justice Joyal might be reluctant to be specific, because he might be called upon to adjudicate the constitutionality of government initiatives, bold or otherwise. But perhaps someone who agrees with him could help me out?

The one specific point that Chief Justice Joyal  does mention in the podcast is the inculcation of certain values, especially I take it in the education system. Now, the idea of inculcation of values by the government makes me quite uneasy, and it would make me uneasy even if I trusted the government to inculcate the right values and not collectivism and deference to authority. Blame it on my having been born in what was then still a totalitarian dictatorship ― or on my excessively American values, if you prefer. Whatever the cause, Chief Justice Joyal’s support for this sort of policy is one reason why, although he disclaims the “conservative” label, I do not resile from applying it to him. But regardless of whether his position on this is better than mine, I’m not sure how the Charter stands in the way of what Chief Justice Joyal has in mind. The closest encounter between it and what was arguably a governmental effort to inculcate values happened in the litigation that arose out of Québec’s “ethics and religious culture” curriculum. The Supreme Court upheld most of that curriculum, first in SL v Commission scolaire des Chênes, 2012 SCC 7, [2012] 1 SCR 235, and then in Loyola High School v Quebec (Attorney General), 2015 SCC 12, [2015] 1 SCR 613, only invalidating the requirement that a Catholic school teach Catholicism from a neutral (instead of a Catholic) standpoint. Surely, that particular requirement was not the sort of bold policy the decline of which Chief Justice Joyal laments.

As for the crux of my disagreement with Chief Justice Joyal, I think it concerns our different takes on the incentives that apply to political actors on the one hand, and the courts on the other. Chief Justice Joyal charges me with inconsistency, because, while I distrust elected officials and the political process, I have more confidence in the courts. Incentives, I think, are the reason why there is, in fact, no inconsistency. Political actors have an incentive to exploit the ignorance of the voters, and their irrationality (including the voters’ fear of the unknown and distaste for non-conformity). All too often, that is how they come to and remain in power. If there are political points to be scored by attacking an unpopular minority, politicians will want to score these points ― even the comparatively decent ones. Judges are not entirely immune to the incentive towards self-aggrandizement, of course, and I have often noted as much. But they have less to gain from exploiting others’ ignorance and irrationality, and are embedded in an institutional structure that at least tries to steer their own decision-making towards rationality and, in particular, towards an equal consideration of the claims of the unpopular. As a result, I think it is possible to distrust courts less than legislatures without being inconsistent about first principles.

In any case, I am grateful to Chief Justice Joyal for his contribution to the discussion about the role of the Charter and the courts in Canada’s constitutional order ― and of course for the kindness with which he treats my own position. He has not persuaded me to adopt his position, or indeed to stop describing it as conservative (without, in case that needs to be clarified, meaning to disparage it by this description!). But I think it is entirely a good thing that this approach is being articulated in such a thoughtful, and thought-provoking, way. Whatever our individual views, we are all enriched when the discussion includes voices such as Chief Justice Joyal’s.