Why I am Not a Conservative Either

Thoughts on Chief Justice Joyal’s very interesting speech on the Charter and Canada’s political culture

Glenn D. Joyal, Chief Justice of the Court of Queen’s Bench of Manitoba, gave the keynote address at last January Canadian Constitution Foundation’s recent Law and Freedom Conference. His talk, “The Charter and Canada’s New Political Culture: Are We All Ambassadors Now?”, was interesting and thought-provoking. Although the prepared text has been available on the website of Advocates for the Rule of Law for some time, the CCF only posted the recording of his remarks yesterday, so now is the time for me to comment. Chief Justice Joyal sought to attract his audience’s attention to fact that Canadians have come to believe that courts, rather than legislators, are the forum in which important social issues must be settled. This is both a consequence of our lack of respect for legislatures, and a reason for why elected institutions find themselves in a weak position vis-à-vis the courts. Chief Justice Joyal would like to change our political culture. I am not persuaded that change in the direction he envisions would be for the better.

Before I go any further, however, I would like to thank Chief Justice Joyal for referring to my exchange with my friend Asher Honickman on the scope and judicial approach to section 7 of the Charter in the Q&A. (My posts are here, here, and here.) After Justice Stratas on the same occasion last year, Chief Justice Joyal is the second sitting judge to mention my blogging, and this is, needless to say, most gratifying for me personally, but also as a believer in the value of this still-underappreciated medium.

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Political culture, according to Chief Justice Joyal’s definition is the set of

attitudes and beliefs that citizens and its specific institutional actors hold about the political system. Political culture can also be seen as the conglomeration of ideas and attitudes which set the parameters in which debate over policy justifications take place.

(The quotes, here and below, are from the text published by ARL)

Historically, Canada’s political culture was a mix of “liberal” and “non-liberal” (partly “Tory” and partly “social-demoratic”) ideas, which were bound together by a belief in Parliament and the legislatures as the arbiters of social conflict and makers of common rules for the common weal. Since the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms came into force, however, the belief in legislative authority has been eroded. Instead, “a broad cross-section of the Canadian citizenry and its institutional actors” have developed

an almost unconditional willingness to accept or endorse the idea of judicial adjudications in respect of what are often complex and even insoluble social and political problems. What were once political issues are now frequently transformed into legal issues.

This, in turn, has created a “new and imbalanced relationship between the judiciary and the legislative branch”.

According to Chief Justice Joyal, these developments were not contemplated by those who made the Charter. It was, after all, a compromise between Pierre Trudeau’s federal government, which insisted on an entrenched set of protected rights, and provinces that were wary of restrictions on Parliamentary sovereignty and the “innovations” introduced by an “extremely potent judiciary” in the United States. Measures were taken to prevent a repetition of the American experience in Canada. The Charter contains section 1, which allows rights to be limited, and section 33, which

was meant to signal to the courts, a caution, a caution in respect of any misconception that the judiciary might have were they, the judiciary, inclined to give the absolutely most expansive scope to the enumerated Charter rights.

For its part, section 7 was drafted

to avoid any language that would mandate substantive review and that would have the effect of permitting s. 7 to be interpreted to mean just about anything that could attract five votes on the Supreme Court of Canada.

Yet these “common expectations” about how the Charter would be applied and what role it would play have not been fulfilled. The Supreme Court read section 7 to require substantive review of legislative choices. It engaged in interpretation and re-interpretation of the Charter that expanded the set of rights that its framers had chosen to protect. It loosened the rules of standing and justiciability, causing more claims to be brought. It weakened precedent, allowing issues to be re-litigated just a decade or two after they were (we thought) settled. It applied section 1  by engaging in the “traditionally legislative function” of “ad hoc interest balancing and cost benefit analysis”. The notwithstanding clause, meanwhile, turned into a “nuclear option” ― and a dead letter.

Chief Justice Joyal worries that this all has caused legislatures to be marginalized. Indeed, there has been a “flight from politics toward the zero-sum game of Charter litigation”, which

often leaves the broader citizenry on the sidelines in a potentially disempowered state[,] not always able to understand, discuss or debate, the highly technical and legalistic formulations and tests which now often form the basis of a final determination concerning a significant societal issue.

This trend ought to be reversed, in part through “continuing efforts at renewal of parliamentary and political institutions”, so as to “restor[e] a peculiarly Canadian institutional balance in the judicial/legislative relationship”, featuring “a resuscitated and bold legislative branch [able] to once again assertively shape attitudes and policies”, and even to “articulat[e] and promot[e] its own interpretation” of the Charter. The traditional Canadian political culture, with its mix of liberal and non-liberal sensitivities and belief in the public good as expressed in legislation ought to prevail over the

more American liberal / rationalist approach to rights protection, [which] gives expression to what used to be a very un-Canadian distrust of government [and] arguably removes more and more areas from legitimate spheres of government action and influence.

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I am, I’m afraid, part the problem that Chief Justice Joyal identifies. I distrust government ― partly because I believe that power corrupts, partly because I democratic government is subject to ineradicable problems of political ignorance (and courts might not be much of a solution), partly because of what public choice theory has taught us. I am a (classical) liberal, an unapologetic one. Whether this is un-Canadian, or indeed peculiarly American, I hesitate to say. I do, however, reiterate my belief that one should not fall for the old trope of reading differences of national psyche into the alleged contrast between “life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness” and “peace, order, and good government”. My friend Alastair C.F. Gillespie and Brian Lee Crowley pointed out, in introducing what is looking to be a fascinating series of papers on Confederation by Mr. Gillespie, that “[c]omparisons of American revolutionary ideals and Canada’s supposedly ‘Tory’ Constitution have sometimes been too crudely made” and argue that “Canadians should … take pride that our founders’ speeches breathe an atmosphere of liberty, even if that liberty was not yet wholly realized.” (4-5) But be that as it may, I am rather skeptical that a return to politics would do us much good.

Now, unlike the dominant tide in Canadian political culture against which Chief Justice Joyal wants to push back, I am not uncritical of the courts ― of their power and of the manner in which they exercise it. But when I argue that courts overstep the bounds of their constitutional role, it is not out of any special solicitude for legislatures. It is because I believe that all power must be limited, and that those who wield it must not fancy themselves the saviours of society, when they are only its servants. This applies to the judicial power ― and also to the legislative and the executive. So I share Chief Justice Joyal’s discomfort at some of the post-Charter jurisprudential developments ― at the excessive ease with which courts have sometimes granted public interest standing, the creation of constitutional “rights” out of whole cloth, the often unprincipled application of section 1 balancing.

But, to repeat, these matters worry me because they, and other things, like extra-judicial statements that call into question judges’ commitment to the Rule of Law, raise the spectre of a judiciary that denies any constraint on its power ― and not because they portend an erosion of legislative power or mark a departure from the “common understandings” of 1982. Constitutional texts have a way of not working out the way their framers expect them to (my go-to example on this is the upending of the mechanism for electing the president set up by the Constitution of the United States), especially of course when the framers rely on “understandings” instead of actually writing down what they mean. So I am not bothered by the development of the norm, perhaps even the convention, against the use of section 33 of the Charter (which, as I have argued even in the face of some decisions that I would desperately like to see undone, has served us well ). Nor am I bothered by the Supreme Court’s reading of section 7 as encompassing substantive as well as procedural principles of justice, which ― as Benjamin Oliphant and I show in our recent Queen’s Law Journal article ― was at least a defensible interpretation of that provision’s original public meaning, even though it clearly contradicted its framers’ intent. It is only the meaning, in my view, that is binds the courts. (Chief Justice Joyal suggested, in the Q&A, that we might distinguish between “garden-variety” cases in which meaning might be controlling, and other, especially important ones, in which we must refer to intent. I do not see how such a distinction could operate.)

Ultimately, I do not share Chief Justice Joyal’s concern that

judicial incursion into subject areas and issues of profound political, moral and social complexity[] has the potential effect of removing these issues from the civic and political realms where ongoing and evolving debate and discussion may have taken place.

A very similar concern motivates Jeremy Waldron’s critique of (strong-form) judicial review of legislation. The critique is a powerful one, but here is, I think, the “principled” objection to it. (Ilya Somin’s objection based on political ignorance is also an important one, but it is more contingent, in theory anyway.) The concern with what Chief Justice Joyal describes as the “de facto constitutionalization of political and social issues” assumes that some issues are inherently “political” and/or “social”, and must therefore be resolved through society’s political institutions. Prof. Waldron’s position is, in effect, that every conceivable issue is of this sort, though Chief Justice Joyal’s views do not extend so far. (Chief Justice Joyal said, in his talk, that we must “respect” the Charter.) But I am not persuaded by the claim, whether in its more radical Waldronian form, or in Chief Justice Joyal’s more moderate one.

The frontiers between law’s empire and that of politics are not immutable. There is no reason to believe that the position that every social issue is by default subject to politics is entitled to be treated as a baseline against which a polity’s constitutional arrangements ought to be measured, and any departure from it justified and limited. It is the position of some political cultures ― say that of post-New Deal political culture in the United States, which reached its peak in the 1940s before declining in the subsequent decades, as the U.S. Supreme Court started vigorously enforcing guarantees of (non-economic) individual rights, or of New Zealand even to this day. But these political cultures have no automatic claim to superiority or to permanence. They are liable to be supplanted, just as they supplanted their predecessors.

The defenders of these political cultures,think that pervasive economic regulation is the legislatures’ prerogative, should they choose to exercise it. (Prof. Waldron is explicit about this, in some of his work on the Rule of Law.) To be clear, I am not suggesting that they would support any given form of regulation as a matter of policy ― only that they think that legislatures are entitled to regulate, wisely or not. But previously, many economic issues would not have been considered to belong to the domain of politics at all; the framers of the Constitution Act, 1867 would likely have been shocked to learn about the extent of the economic regulation in which the institutions they created now engage. They would have thought an employee’s wages a matter to be settled between him and his employer, not a concern for society at large and thus not a fit subject for legislation. Of course, they did not provide mechanisms for courts to enforce these limits on legislative power, in part, one may suspect, because they did not expect them to be necessary. But that does not mean that they thought the legislatures were entitled to interfere in people’s lives in the ways that came to be increasingly accepted half a century later. The political culture changed ― not for the better in this instance, in my opinion. But why should we accept this change, and foreclose or resist subsequent change that reduces instead of expanding the domain of the political?

* * *

Chief Justice Joyal’s address is a powerful and eloquent statement of what might be described as the foundation for a (small-c) conservative constitutional vision for Canada. (This is not to say that he would accept this label, or perhaps even that it is an especially accurate one. But insofar as any label can be useful, this one is as good as any I can think of.) Having, along with Andrew Coyne and Bob Tarantino, complained about the (big-c) Conservative government’s failure to articulate such a vision in its near-decade in power, I welcome this statement. Moreover, I happen to share some of Chief Justice Joyal’s concerns about the acquiescence of the mainstream Canadian legal and political culture in the increasingly unbridled exercise of the judicial power by the Supreme Court.

However, although I may learn from conservatives, and sometimes make common cause with them, ― and am particularly happy to do so when they are as intelligent and articulate as Chief Justice Joyal ― I am not a conservative myself. I do not share the conservative vision of the constitution. Like Hayek, “I am not I personally cannot be content with simply helping to apply the brake” (2) on whatever (constitutional) innovation might be put forward in the name of “progress”. As a liberal, I want “to go elsewhere” (2) ― not back to the 1970s, or indeed even to the 1870s ― but to a never-yet seen political culture in which, in Lord Acton’s words, “[l]iberty is not a means to a higher political end. It is itself the highest political end.” If, as Chief Justice Joyal suggested in the conclusion of his speech, this ideal is at odds with the Canadian identity, so much the worse, I say, for that identity.

Don’t Know What You’re up to

Thoughts on Ilya Somin’s take on the consequences of political ignorance for judicial review

I have recently finished reading Ilya Somin’s Democracy and Political Ignorance: Why Smaller Government Is Smarter (2nd ed). Although I was familiar with the gist of Prof. Somin’s argument from his numerous blog posts on the subject of political ignorance as well talks, such as this one, one of which I had the good fortune of attending at NYU, I found it a rewarding read. Even if you know where the argument is going, it is still well worth your while. That said, since prof. Somin has so frequently summarized his case himself, there is no need for me to do so here. Rather, I will volunteer some observations on an issue which he addresses in the book, but not, for the most part, in his blog posts: the impact of his findings on political ignorance on the issue of judicial review of legislation.

In a nutshell, prof. Somin’s general argument is that, as extensive survey evidence shows, most people are profoundly ignorant about both the organization and the activities of government. They are also unaware of crucial facts relevant to assessing these activities. Meanwhile, most of those who are not as ignorant as the rest are still incapable of correctly assessing the government’s performance because they are “fans” who are more interested in the success of their political “team” than in the search for truth. The reason this problem persists is that the costs of acquiring information and processing it in good faith are too high  compared to the benefits one might get from doing so, given that it does not matter whether one’s vote is well-informed or not: it still counts for virtually nothing. In a word, ignorance is rational. By contrast, people are remarkably able and willing to acquire information when they are considering a decision that would assuredly have an impact on them, such as where to live or what to buy. The most effective solution to the misgovernment caused by the pervasive and persistent ignorance of voters is, therefore, to devolve decision-making powers from large, centralized governments to more local ones among which people are more easily able to choose by “voting with their feet” and from all governments to the market.

This argument, which, to be clear, I find very compelling (though I should perhaps note that ― like prof. Somin, I take it ― I would support the prescriptions of smaller and more decentralized government even quite apart from the existence of political ignorance) has a couple of important consequences for debates about judicial review of legislation. For one thing, it strengthens the case for judicial review.  Enforcing limits on the power of government, as judicial review does, and perhaps especially enforcing limits set up by federal constitutions, insofar as they circumscribe the powers of centralized governments, helps preserve foot-voting and market-choice opportunities. It can also help limit the number of issues to which the government attends and thus the amount of information that voters need to acquire and process in order to keep tabs on it. For another, persistent and pervasive political ignorance undermines the case against judicial review. This case rests on the courts’ lack of democratic legitimacy vis-à-vis the legislatures whose work they check. But if voters are largely ignorant about what it is that the legislatures are up to anyway ― and prof. Somin observers that “[f]or most legislation, the vast majority of voters will not have heard of its existence, much less have an informed opinion on its merits” (184) ― then legislation’s claim to democratic legitimacy is weak if not non-existent, except in unusual circumstances.

This too is largely compelling. Even the Waldronian argument about the legitimacy of legislatures arising out of the (roughly) equal say that elections (if run fairly) give to voters in public affairs loses much of its bite if we think, as prof. Somin shows we ought to, that the voters largely do not know enough to choose their representatives reasonably well. The equality argument remains, of course, but it is a hollow one. Still, I think that prof. Somin’s arguments raise a number of questions that his book does not answer ― which is not to say that they are unanswerable.

One such question is what can be done to ensure that judicial review actually works to counteract, rather than worsen, the problem of political ignorance. Judicial review can, after all, serve to expand rather than limit the powers that the government is called upon to exercise, or to obscure the exercise of existing powers instead of making it more transparent. It will do so if courts are merrily enforcing “social and economic rights”, requiring governments to create or expand social programmes instead of leaving issues to be dealt with in the markets. It will also do so if courts blur the lines between federal and state or provincial authority, making it more difficult for citizens to know what government is responsible for what law or social programme, or give private unaccountable actors, such as civil servants’ unions, power to influence public affairs.

The Supreme Court of Canada has already done some of these things, and its parasiti ― who are, in reality, just one species of the rent-seeking genus that afflicts all specialized expert agencies, as prof. Somin notes in his discussion of delegation of power to experts ― are urging it do more. Should these suggestions be taken up, the problems of ignorance resulting from the vast scope of and difficulty of monitoring government will likely become that much worse. (This does not conclusively prove, of course, that none of these things ought to be done; perhaps there are reasons why increased ignorance is a price worth paying. The point is simply that the ignorance-related costs must be taken into account.) The answer, presumably, is some combination of “write a constitutional text that does not lend itself to ignorance-promoting interpretations” and “appoint judges who will not engage in such interpretations when not required to do so by the text”, but I wonder whether prof. Somin might suggest something more specific.

More specific solutions would be particularly important because relying on judicial appointments is really not much of a solution at all. Prof. Somin notes, elsewhere in the book, that the American public pays little attention to presidents’ performance in choosing judges, even though this is one area where (unlike in many others, such as economic policy, on which presidents are often judged) a president wields decisive influence. The problem is, if anything, much worse in Canada. Appointments to the Supreme Court attract attention only insofar as they conform to or depart from conventions about representation, whether established (i.e. regional/provincial representation) or emerging (demographic representation) and expectations about bilingualism. Other judicial appointments pass entirely unnoticed. The voters are not going to put any sort of pressure on Canadian governments to appoint judges who could enforce constitutional limits on the power of government, or otherwise contribute to counteracting the ill effects of political ignorance.

This makes me wonder whether much of anything can be done about this problem. Prof. Somin addresses some of the proposals that have been made to increase the voters’ levels of political knowledge generally, and concludes that none are likely to succeed to any substantial degree. He does not, however, consider the feasability of improving voter knowledge about specific issues, rather than as a general matter. Can something be done to make the electorate more aware of the importance of the judiciary and of the elected officials’ role in shaping it? The Federalist Society might have been somewhat successful at this in the United States, though I am not sure if even its determined efforts over the last several decades have changed popular opinion, as opposed to that of a certain section of relatively well-informed (and intensely partisan!) elites.

Last but not least, as prof. Somin also notes in his discussion of experts, ignorance is not only a problem for hoi polloi. “Expert regulators face serious knowledge problems themselves”, (215) he points out. Prof. Somin has in mind the experts’ lack of knowledge of people’s preferences and local circumstances, but another type of knowledge problem from which many experts, and perhaps especially the courts, suffer is the narrow scope of their expertise. Judges are (one hopes) experts in legal analysis, but they are as ignorant as the next person when it comes to all manner of facts and scientific theories that are relevant to policy-making ― including that which occurs in the course of policy-making. When adjudicating a trade union’s claim that its alleged right to extract above-market wages for its members is an instance of the freedom of association, it would help judges to have a basic understanding of labour economics. But they do not. When adjudicating claims about the police’s power of search incident to arrest, it might help judges not to think that crime rates are going up when they are in fact going to do. But they do. In many ways, judges are every bit as ignorant as the rest of us. So are lawyers, who thus cannot enlighten the judges before whom they litigate. Here again, I wonder if prof. Somin has any suggestions about relieving ignorance.

Prof. Somin’s discussion of expert decision-makers concludes that, while delegating decision-making powers to them may help counter some of the effects of the voters’ ignorance, it is no panacea. Although this discussion only mentions courts in passing, the conclusion, I am afraid, is applicable to them. Prof. Somin has put his finger on a very significant problem and it might be, if anything, even more intractable than his (already rather gloomy) account suggests. Still, if we are to do anything about, we must start by understanding what the problem is, and for helping us do so, we owe prof. Somin greatly.

Permanent Problems

The law’s ideals and problems have not changed too much in 400 years

I have only now read Francis Bacon’s essay “Of Judicature.” Bacon seems not to enjoy anything like the reputation of his rival Coke, in the law schools anyway ― I suspect that they haven’t heard much of Coke in the science faculties, where Bacon is regarded as “the father of the scientific method.” Still, his essay is fascinating, because it shows just how little the law’s aspirations and failings have changed in the 400-odd years since it was published.

Bacon’s essay is essentially a collection of advice to judges about how to discharge their office. A good deal of it could still be repeated today. My point, in drawing attention to it, is not to say that all of this advice is good, at least in an unqualified form. It is, first and foremost, to remind the reader of the remarkable historical continuity which, for better and for worse, characterizes the law as a field of human activity.  Here are a few of Bacon’s recommendations, with some accompanying thoughts or comments of my own.

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Judges ought to remember, that their office is jus dicere, and not jus dare; to interpret law, and not to make law, or give law.

Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? If and when there is at last a confirmation hearing for the next judge of the Supreme Court of the United States, you will hear this exhortation repeated ad nauseam; you might even hear it if there is any sort of public hearing involving the next judge of the Supreme Court of Canada. John Finnis quoted Bacon’s appeal in his very interesting recent lecture on “Judicial Power: Past, Present and Future” (whence I learned about Bacon’s essay). But the very fact that this limitation on the judicial role has for so long, and so often, been reiterated should alert us to the habitual futility of the appeal. The Supreme Court’s equivocation over  whether it discovers or makes up the legal rules which it articulates for the first time seems to the suggest that the ideal of the law-saying judge has some appeal to those already holding judicial office ― but not as much as Bacon would have liked.

[W]hen there appeareth on either side an high hand, violent prosecution, cunning advantages taken, combination, power, great counsel, then is the virtue of a judge seen, to make inequality equal; that he may plant his judgment as upon an even ground.

This is also a familiar idea in 2016. Richard Posner, to give but one ― perhaps unexpected ― example has been very vocal about the need for active judicial intervention “to make inequality equal” by correcting the disparities of resources between parties to litigation, whether in his judgments or in a recent extra-judicial indictment of “What Is Obviously Wrong with the [American] Federal Judiciary, Yet Eminently Curable” (see 190-91). There are situations, it is worth noting, where judges might be making things worse, not better. I have been arguing for a while now that this may be happening in constitutional law, as judges increasingly expect expert evidence to support Charter challenges, and thus increase the inherent disparity of resources between citizens and government. (In a recent post over at The Court, Lillianne Cadieux-Shaw seems to share this concern.)

Patience and gravity of hearing, is an essential part of justice; and an overspeaking judge is no well-tuned cymbal. It is no grace to a judge … to prevent information by questions, — though pertinent. 

There has been much discussion of this point following the recent death of Justice Scalia. He was a famously active interrogator of the lawyers who appeared before the US Supreme Court. Surviving him is his colleague Justice Stephen Breyer, whose solliloquies questions occupying entire pages in the oral argument transcript Josh Blackman lovingly (?) documents. By contrast, Justice Clarence Thomas, of the same court, had spent a decade without asking a single question until finally doing so recently. Justice Thomas, one supposes, would agree with Bacon. Those who derided him for his self-imposed silence presumably would not.

[T]hose, that engage courts in quarrels of jurisdiction, … are not truly amici curiae, but parasiti curiae, in puffing a court up beyond her bounds, for their own scraps and advantage.

Here at least, I agree with Bacon wholeheartedly. Those who, in the pursuit of their own ― these days usually political ― agenda, seek to draw the courts beyond their proper remit are not the courts’ friends, though they may present themselves as such. I have said as much in response to a call for the Supreme Court to decree, by judicial fiat, the “depoliticization” of judicial appointments. I wish I’d known the phrase parasiti curiae then, but I will make sure to use it on the next appropriate occasion.

Judges ought above all to remember the conclusion of the Roman Twelve Tables; Salus populi suprema lex.

Perhaps the most obvious example of Canadian judges applying Bacon’s prescription is the Supreme Court’s opinion in Re Manitoba Language Rights, [1985] 1 S.C.R. 721, where the Court sought to avoid “chaos” that its finding of unconstitutionality of Manitoba’s entire statute book by the expedient of suspending this finding’s effect. But beyond such exceptional situations, Bacon’s advice gets tricky fast. For one thing, the Latin salus is ambiguous. It can mean “health,” “safety,” or “welfare” ― making salus populi not one single objective, but a complicated programme. Still it is often said that judges ought to have regard for the public safety (“the Constitution is not a suicide pact”) or even welfare ― Judge Posner being a foremost advocate for the latter position. But isn’t there a tension between making public welfare into supreme law, and renouncing judicial legal innovation? Bacon says, “let no man weakly conceive, that just laws and true policy have any antipathy,” but even if true, this point doesn’t really address the issue of the judicial role. And Bacon’s concrete recommendations for achieving the salus populi ― frequent consultations between the three branches of government, and a demand that judges “be lions, but yet lions under the throne” would run afoul of our views on judicial independence, which are quite different from his.

* * *

In the essay I mention above, prof. Finnis writes that “[t]he problems about the nature and reach of judicial power, about which Bacon and Coke disagreed, are with us today in forms much shifted in occasion and location but still recognizably the same.” That is because they are “permanent problems, capable it seems of only provisional rather than permanent solutions.” (3) The relevance of Bacon’s prescriptions, and the fact that they would be contested now as they were contested when given (and again, except as specified above, I do not fully agree with them), suggests that prof. Finnis is right about that.

The Judges’ Law

Did you always want to know what my dissertation is about? Let me tell you!

I have occasionally mentioned the doctoral thesis I have been working on for the past four and a half years, and even posted a few tidbits (here, here, and here). But I don’t think I’ve ever even explained what the damned thing is about. Yet it is ― until I defend it, hopefully this spring ― after all, my “day job.” Anyway, I was recently asked to produce an abstract of the thing, and I figure that, having done so, I might as well share it. Here it is.

The Judges’ Law

As citizens of democratic polities we mostly share an ideal of self-government, according to which the laws under which we live ought to be made by legislatures which we elect and which act on our behalf. Yet rules articulated by courts in the course of adjudication―which I refer to as “adjudicative law”―form a non-negligible, and in common law jurisdictions a very significant, part of the law of the law of such polities. This is a study of these rules: of the context in which they are articulated, of their origins, and of their legitimacy in a democracy.

I begin by describing the environment in which adjudicative law emerges. First, I survey some constraints that judicial adjudicators face: a duty to attend to the arguments put forth by the parties, to decide the dispute, to do so in accordance with a general rule, to give reasons for their decision, and to uphold and preserve the law’s coherence. Second, I consider a number of characteristics of courts as institutions, including judicial independence, judicial training, and collective decision-making on appellate courts. Third, I review the rules of justiciability and evidence, insofar as they influence the articulation of adjudicative law.

I then examine the sources from which the rules of adjudicative law are drawn. After reviewing of the some academic writings on this point, I consider the reasons given by courts in a number of important, precedent-setting cases drawn from a variety of areas of the law. The main sources of adjudicative law I describe are underlying legal principles, social practice, and judicial fiat implementing a court’s policy judgment.
Having thus described some salient characteristics of adjudicative law, I turn to the question of its legitimacy in a democratic polity, focusing on four themes. The first is democracy, in connection with which I address the issue of the democratic deficit of adjudicative law and the argument that it can claim a democratic legitimacy that does not rest on the ballot box. Second, I consider the quality of adjudicative law, its fitness for purpose. Under this heading, I assess some issues with the courts’ institutional competence, on the one hand, and the claims that adjudicative law stands in a privileged relationship with reason, on the other. Third, I address the question of whether adjudicative can satisfy the requirements of the Rule of Law. Finally, I consider the relationship between adjudicative law and the past, focusing on the principle of stare decisis.

The outcome of this re-assessment is a nuanced one. Adjudicative law suffers from undeniable weaknesses, when compared with legislation―or at least with legislation as it might be, and not necessarily as it actually is. But the gravity of these weaknesses varies across areas of the law and depends on the specific institutional arrangements used in each legal system. It is best, I conclude, to refrain from across-the-board condemnations or endorsements of adjudicative law, and consider each case in its own context and on its own merits.

We are, I explain in conclusion, bound to live with adjudicative law, flawed though it may be. Yet its flaws can be addressed to some extent, even within the framework of our current institutional arrangements. These remedies, which I briefly outline, will not make the problems of adjudicative law disappear, but they may somewhat improve the situation. Since adjudicative law is with us to stay, even slight improvements would be worthwhile.

 

In Defence of Judicial Majorities

First of all, apologies for my silence of late. Partly, I just couldn’t find anything interesting to write about. Partly, I have been much more diligent about my dissertation-writing, and that hasn’t helped with the blogging. Actually, as I’m trying to finish a draft over the next couple of months, I’ll compensate by occasionally posting on some of the topics I write about, hoping they may be of at least some interest to my readers. Here goes.

* * *

In a paper published last year, Jeremy Waldron asks: “why do bare majorities rule on courts?” Why is it that five judges prevail over four, for instance? The question, he points out, hasn’t been asked much, and indeed people tend simply to assume that majority voting among judges is somehow natural. It’s not, says prof. Waldron. In political theory, people are often asking why a majority of votes (whether among the electorate or among legislators) prevails over the minority. And we know of other decision-making procedures used by courts, too. A couple of States in the U.S. require supermajorities of their Supreme Courts to declare a statute unconstitutional, while civil law courts (such as the French Cour de cassation) ostensibly require their judges to be unanimous, although it seems clear enough that, behind the scenes, their judges do not necessarily reach unanimous agreement on every case, and vote when they do not. So what accounts for the common law courts’ normally using simple majority decision? Prof. Waldron examines four possible explanations, and finds all wanting.

The first is simply that allowing a simple majority to prevail is a relatively efficient way of settling disputes. That is true, says prof. Waldron, but it is not enough for a decision procedure to be efficient. After all, nobody would accept deciding cases by tossing a coin, which is even more efficient than a majority vote. This would not, prof. Waldron insists, be a legitimate decision procedure, no matter how efficient it is. Legitimacy requires “fairness” and “responsiveness” to the merits of the case the court is considering.

The second argument prof. Waldron examines addresses this concern about responsiveness to the merits. It is the claim, based on Condorcet’s jury theorem, that the majority of a panel is more likely to be right than the minority (and indeed that, as we progress in the court hierarchy and move towards larger panels, the likelihood of the majority’s being right increases). Prof. Waldron, however, is unpersuaded that the claim holds up not only for overwhelming majorities (an 8-to-1 vote, say), but also for “bare” ones ― notably, for 5-4 votes. Must we really believe that five judges are more likely to be right than four? Condorcet’s theorem says so, but “[t]here is something gimmicky about [this result],” says prof. Waldron; the theorem “is just arithmetic” and “has nothing to do with objective truth or right answers” (1716; emphasis in the original). Prof. Waldron’s concern seems to be that we cannot really know whether judges, although they are supposed to be experts, are more likely than not to get at a right answer, which is the necessary condition for the Condorcet theorem to work. Prof. Waldron points out that in politically charged matters, people tend to ascribe rather abysmal levels of expertise to the judges with whom they disagree, so that the theorem cannot make these judges’ decisions legitimate to them.

The third argument prof. Waldron considers addresses the demand that the decision procedure courts use be fair. In his view, it is not clear that elements of fairness that are often thought to justify majority decision-making in democratic contexts ― its neutrality as between the options presented, and its giving an equal weight to all the voters ― apply to judicial decision-making. Perhaps we shouldn’t want judicial decision-making to be neutral ― witness the supermajority requirements to invalidate legislation referred to earlier. And it’s not so clear that the votes of different judges are entitled to an equal weight, as the votes of different citizens are. Why aren’t more experienced judges entitled to more voting power, for instance? We seem to have just stipulated that the judges’ votes should be treated equally, and that stipulation, prof. Waldron suggests, is a weak argument for demanding that those on the losing side of close judicial votes put up with them.

Finally, prof. Waldron briefly examines a hybrid argument, according to which the judges’ equality suggests that the majority is more likely than the minority to be right. The judges of a court are equal, on this account, because they are all experts and all represent the law in the same way. But here again, prof. Waldron is skeptical “about the significance of a very narrow majority among Justices, to each of whom we have reason to defer.” (1725)

Prof. Waldron stresses that the point of his questioning is not “to embarrass defenders of judicial review” (1727) by calling into question the legitimacy of courts. On the contrary, he says,

[t]he fact that courts address matters of principle by voting tells us that there is nothing inherently inappropriate about these issues being decided in institutional contexts that are more notorious for their majoritarianism. (1727)

Voting is not something to be embarrassed about. It should be acknowledged, and integrated into our thinking about trying to resolve disagreements.

* * *

I am not persuaded that the weaknesses that prof. Waldron sees in the arguments in favour of majoritarian decision-making by courts as serious as he suggests they are. His reasoning, it seems to me, is somewhat distorted by a focus on constitutional adjudication. The legal dispute that prof. Waldron seems to have in mind throughout his essay is a challenge, probably a rights-based challenge, to the constitutionality of a statute. But cases of this sort are, of course, a small minority, and they have some unusual features that distinguish them from much of the universe of justiciable disputes. Even if he is right that majority decision is a problematic mechanism for resolving constitutional controversies ― and, while his challenge is at its strongest there, I am not persuaded that he is ― it would not necessarily follow that it is similarly problematic for adjudication in general.

Now, I agree with prof. Waldron that efficiency alone does not justify the use of majority decision (or of any other decision-making formula) by courts. However, it is important be aware of the stakes here. Achieving super-majority consensus (or, a fortiori, unanimity) can be difficult. As I explained here, the price to pay may consist of opinions that are either extremely narrow or very vague and, either way, fail to adequately guide litigants and judges in future cases. And it may of course be impossible for judges to achieve the requisite degree of consensus even on those terms. This might not be a fatal problem for an intermediate appellate court, where the case could be remitted to a different panel, much like a case left unresolved by a hung jury is then adjudicated by a different one. But there is no s such solution (simple, but still quite costly for the parties!) available to a court of last resort where all the members hear every case. The only way for such a court is simply to silence the dissenters and hypocritically pretend that they do not exist, like the civilian courts may be doing.

This efficiency issue is directly connected to one of fairness. In the constitutional cases which Waldron seems mostly to have in mind, neutrality as between the possible outcomes might not be obviously necessary. There is at least an argument to be made that there is nothing wrong with the proposition that the impugned statute, being democratically enacted by a legislature, ought to stand unless its unconstitutionality can be demonstrated to the satisfaction of a super-majority of judges. (Actually, this argument might only make sense in the case of rights-based constitutional challenges. It is much less obvious why there ought to be a preference in favour of legislation enacted by one or the other democratically elected legislature in federalism-based disputes, or in favour of one or another democratically elected branch of government in separation of powers controversies.) But it is not at all clear why there ought to be an in-built preference for a given outcome in, say, ordinary civil litigation.

Prof. Waldron’s approach to fairness seems to more or less ignore the parties to the dispute which the court is asked to resolve. Perhaps we can question the equal authority or the “political equality” of that court’s judges. Prof. Waldron is surely right that this equality is a matter of stipulation. But what about the citizens who come before the court? Again, prof. Waldron may argue that a citizen is not the equal of a government that acts in the public interest ― though that proposition would be very controversial. But surely there is no reason to question the equality of the parties in ordinary private law disputes by telling one of them that he or she can only win by persuading a super-majority of the judges, while conversely the opponent need only persuade a blocking minority.

Focusing too much on constitutional cases may also be affecting prof. Waldron’s take on the issue of expertise. It way well be that the expertise of judges, and thus their ability to get the right answer in more than half the cases, required by the Condorcet theorem, is questionable when it comes to fundamental issues of rights. (I should note, though, that other strands in prof. Waldron’s work might seem to commit him to resist this claim. What I have in mind is his defence of a global judicial consensus on such issues as ius gentium. As my friend Maxime St-Hilaire suggests in a very interesting recent paper, it seems logical to suppose that judges should be experts in that.) However, must we push the cynicism about judges to other realms, including those in which they have long been developing the law, such as contract and tort? And if judges are really that incompetent, then their use of majority voting is really the least of our problems. We should probably put the courts out of business altogether, and certainly to put them out of the business of developing the law, at least until we are able to re-educate the judges to a minimal standard of competence. Indeed, this is exactly what prof. Waldron advocates doing with issues of rights. But I’m not sure that he is prepared to expand this approach much beyond the realm of constitutional law.

None of that might provide a very convincing answer to the person who disagrees with a five-to-four judicial decision. As an empirical matter, prof. Waldron is obviously right that such people will often not trust the competence of judges who rejected their claims. For that matter, they might not trust the competence of judges in near unanimous decisions either. I, for one, do not trust the competence of the judges of the Supreme Court of Canada when it comes to basic economics, even though they are in overwhelming agreement on the matter.

But surely the fact that the losers might not accept the legitimacy of a decision procedure isn’t enough to conclude that it really is illegitimate. Prof. Waldron himself has little sympathy for those who reject the legitimacy of the decisions of bare majorities of legislatures and argue that such decisions cannot override their natural, or constitutional, rights. He is content to tell them that majority decision is the best we can do in politics, and to admonish them that “the imposition of the disadvantage on the minority by a majority decision is not necessarily tyrannical.” (1728) I’m not sure why something like that could not be said about a judicial decision. (Indeed, prof. Waldron does apply this reasoning to judicial decisions ― but he only addresses it to the dissenting judges.)

It thus seems to me that, at least when it comes to ordinary litigation, there very good reasons ― mostly fairness considerations, but perhaps also those of expertise ― to have courts decide cases by simple majority vote. These reasons may or may not be applicable in constitutional litigation, or at least in rights-based constitutional litigation. Prof. Waldron does, I think, show that we need to make the argument for the proposition that they are. Contrary, perhaps, to his intention, his essay thus adds an important element to his challenge to the legitimacy of judicial review of legislation; it does not, however, in my view, succeed at calling into question the legitimacy of the courts’ more conventional adjudication practices.

Baroud d’honneur, your honour : une concession, mais trois critiques de l’affaire du juge Mainville

« Nous sommes tous d’avis que le pourvoi doit être rejeté, essentiellement pour les motifs exposés par la Cour d’appel du Québec. […] Les arguments fondés sur le Renvoi relatif à la Loi sur la Cour suprême […] ne résistent pas à l’analyse. Comme la Cour d’appel l’a indiqué […], le présent pourvoi concerne des dispositions constitutionnelles et législatives différentes et le raisonnement et les conclusions de ce renvoi ne s’appliquent pas en l’espèce. » Voilà comment, par la bouche du juge Wagner mais à l’unanimité, la Cour suprême a rapidement disposé de l’appel de l’avis de la Cour d’appel du Québec relatif à l’article 98 LC 1867.

Dans son avis du 21 mars 2014 sur sa loi constitutive, la Cour suprême du Canada avait estimé que l’expression « choisis […] parmi les avocats » de la province de Québec, à l’article 6, désignait les avocats actuels, à l’exclusion des anciens avocats. Le 23 décembre de la même année, la Cour d’appel du Québec a avalisé la thèse selon laquelle l’article 98 LC 1867, où il est question de juges « selected from the Bar » (la traduction française non officielle parle de juges « choisis parmi les membres du barreau »), et l’article 6 de la Loi sur la Cour suprême ne devaient pas recevoir la même interprétation.

La réponse à la question de la constitutionnalité, en vertu de l’article 98 LC 1867, de la nomination d’un juge de la Cour d’appel fédérale à la Cour d’appel du Québec pouvait dépendre de celle donnée à plusieurs sous-questions. La Cour d’appel du Québec n’a su me convaincre que sur l’une d’entre celles-ci, mais d’une manière insuffisante à me faire changer d’avis sur celle-là : une telle nomination devait être tenue pour inconstitutionnelle. Suivent donc une concession, puis trois critiques de l’avis de la Cour d’appel que vient de cautionner la Cour suprême et dans lequel je vois justement trois grands ordres de motifs : textuel, historique et pratique.

Concession. Il est vrai que les « Courts of Quebec » au sens de l’article 98 LC 1867 ne sont que la Cour supérieure et la Cour d’appel

Dans mon billet du 24 juin 2014 ainsi que dans la lettre ouverte qu’avec mon collègue le professeur Hugo Cyr je faisais paraître le lendemain dans Le Devoir, j’affirmais que « ni le texte ni le contexte » de l’article 98 LC 1867 « ne restreint son champ d’application aux seuls juges des cours supérieures au sens large – c’est-à-dire des cours supérieures (au sens strict) et d’appel ». Je soutenais ainsi qu’à l’article 98 LC 1867 « juges du Québec » voulait bel et bien dire « juges du Québec », en ayant à l’esprit les membres de tous les tribunaux judiciaires de la province.

Cette interprétation n’est plus celle que je favoriserais. Elle voulait se justifier surtout par le compromis pratique auquel elle devait permettre d’en arriver en préservant la constitutionnalité de la nomination de membres de tribunaux judiciaires de compétence inférieure, dont la Cour du Québec, aux cours de justice de compétence supérieure. Or, puisque l’article « équivalent » – car il s’en distingue aussi par sa vocation transitoire d’origine – relatif aux autres provinces, l’article 97, prévoit expressément ne s’appliquer qu’aux juges nommés par le gouverneur général, je cède désormais devant l’objection de Léonid Sirota selon laquelle il serait problématique que « provincial court judges [be] ineligible for elevation to Superior Courts in common law provinces even if they are not in Québec ». Et sur le plan historique il est vrai que, à l’époque, de trop nombreux juges des juridictions québécoises de compétence inférieure, dont les juges de paix et les « commissaires », étaient des non-juristes pour qu’il fût l’intention du constituant de disposer autrement. Je me range donc maintenant derrière l’opinion – qui était aussi celle, non seulement du Procureur général du Canada, mais aussi de la Procureure générale du Québec, selon laquelle, tout comme l’article 97 pour les autres provinces, l’article 98 ne concerne, pour le Québec, que les nominations judiciaires prévues à l’article 96, soit celles des membres des cours « provinciales » de compétence supérieure, soit, à l’heure actuelle, la Cour supérieure et la Cour d’appel (par. 25 de l’avis de la CAQ).

Cette concession faite, il me restait à déterminer si l’on avait su me convaincre du fait que la meilleure interprétation à donner à l’expression « selected from the Bar » est celle qui lui fait dire « choisi par ceux qui ont déjà été admis au barreau aux fins de l’exercice de la profession d’avocat » plutôt que « choisi parmi les membres du barreau qui sont autorisés à exercer la profession d’avocat ».

Critique no 1. « From the Bar » comme voulant dire « ayant déjà été admis au barreau » : réfutation de l’argument de texte

L’argument de texte se résume comme suit. Parce que, dans la Loi sur la Cour suprême, l’expression « parmi les avocats » de l’article 6 relatif à la nomination des juges provenant du Québec se distingue, surtout dans la version anglaise, de l’expression « is or has been […] a barrister or advocate » de l’article 5 relatif à la nomination des juges provenant des autres provinces, il faudrait conclure que, à défaut de pouvoir se distinguer d’une expression équivalente à « is or has been » à l’article 97 LC 1867 relatif à la nomination des juges des cours supérieures des autres provinces, l’expression « selected from the Bar » de l’article 98 relatif à la nomination des juges des cours supérieures du Québec veut forcément dire « choisis parmi les membres actuels ou anciens ». Bref, la Cour d’appel est d’avis que, en principe, une expression telle que « parmi les avocats de… » ou « parmi les membres du barreau de… » veut aussi renvoyer aux anciens avocats ou membres du barreau. Ce ne serait donc qu’exceptionnellement qu’une telle expression pourrait ne vouloir dire que ce qu’elle dit. En plus d’être hautement contre-intuitif, cet « argument » n’en est pas un. Il est arbitraire. Il érige le particulier et contigent en général et nécessaire. Qui plus est, il est anachronique, car cette logique textuelle de la Loi sur la Cour suprême ne remonte qu’à 1886.

Critique no 2. « From the Bar » comme voulant dire « ayant déjà été admis au barreau » : réfutation de l’argument historique

Quant à l’argument d’ordre historique, il veut que des objectifs de nature différente président à l’article 6 de la Loi sur la Cour suprême et à l’article 98 LC 1867. De l’avis de la Cour d’appel du Québec, lors des débats sur le projet de fédération, les « représentants du Bas-Canada auraient pu craindre qu’en accordant un pouvoir de nomination aussi important au gouverneur général, la pratique de nommer des juges d’origine étrangère, ou dénués de connaissance en droit privé local, reprendrait de plus belle. Mais, à une exception près, ce ne fut pas le cas » (par. 50 de l’avis de la CAQ). S’il fallait en croire la Cour d’appel, « l’article 98 [de la LC 1867] s’inscri[rait] dans un contexte précis et bien différent de celui qui entoura la création de la Cour suprême » (par. 52). Rien n’est plus faux.

En effet, dès lors qu’il fut proposé que le gouverneur général soit chargé de la nomination des juges des « cours supérieures » des provinces, les élites du Bas-Canada se sont inquiétées. C’est en réponse aux questions des députés que, le 21 février 1865, le solliciteur général du Canada-Uni, Sir Hector-Louis Langevin, intervient en assemblée pour dire que, « dans la constitution proposée, il y a un article qui porte que les juges des cours du Bas-Canada seront choisis parmi les membres du barreau de cette section […] ». Il se trompe toutefois en avançant que « [c]ette exception n’a été faite que pour le Bas-Canada ». Avant la résolution no 35 des 72 Résolutions de Québec d’octobre 1864, qui prévoyait que « [l]es juges des cours du Bas-Canada seront choisis parmi les membres du barreau du Bas-Canada », se trouvait la résolution no 34, qui prévoyait que, « [j]usqu’à ce qu’on ait consolidé les lois du Haut-Canada, du Nouveau-Brunswick, de la Nouvelle-Écosse, de Terre-Neuve et de l’Île-du-Prince-Édouard, les juges de ces provinces qui seront nommés par le gouverneur général seront pris dans les barreaux respectifs ». On y reconnaît aisément les futurs articles 97 et 98 LC 1867. Or la disposition concernant les provinces autres que le Québec fait dans les deux cas allusion à l’uniformisation prévue du droit des autres provinces (résolution n29.33, futur article 94 LC 1867) et se présente donc comme disposition de droit transitoire. C’est à bon droit que la Procureure générale du Québec a voulu rappeler à la Cour suprême que, « [d]e fait, dès la Conférence de Québec, certains Pères de la Confédération ont manifesté le souhait d’avoir un système de droit uniforme et un seul barreau pour tout le Canada. La réalisation d’un tel objectif était, toutefois, impossible étant donné la position du Bas-Canada » (par. 50 du mémoire de la PGQ devant la CSC). Si l’adoption de l’article 96 LC 1867 a généré peu de débats, c’est que l’article 98 venait en limiter les risques, non pas que la question avait perdu de son importance. Compris notamment à la lumière des conditions de nomination à la Cour supérieure et à la Cour du Banc de la Reine (ancêtre de la Cour d’appel du Québec comme cour permanente) qui étaient prévues dans les lois du Canada-Uni qui devaient être transitoirement reconduites, cet article 98 était tenu pour clair. De distinguer les enjeux de l’article 98 de la LC 1867 de ceux des dispositions qui, dans l’histoire de la Cour suprême, ont assuré à celle-ci un contingent de juges québécois relève de la fabrication.

La lutte pour la « représentation du droit québécois » au sein de la composition de la Cour suprême du Canada s’est inscrite dans le prolongement direct de celle qui, de longue haleine, avait mené aux acquis que visait à préserver l’article 98 LC 1867. Dès 1865, la possibilité projetée (par la résolution no 29.34) que, au sein de la fédération des colonies, le nouveau parlement fédéral puisse créer une « cour générale d’appel » inquiète par exemple le député Henri-Elzéar Taschereau : « Nous avons la garantie que nous aurons nos tribunaux locaux, que nos juges seront pris parmi les membres du barreau du Bas-Canada, et que nos lois civiles seront maintenues; mais pourquoi établir une cour d’appel fédérale dans laquelle il y aura appel des décisions rendues par tous nos juges […]? » (par. 104 du mémoire de la PGQ devant la CSC). Après l’entrée en vigueur de la LC 1867, la création d’une telle cour sera d’abord proposée en 1869, puis en 1870, avant de devenir réalité en 1875, par une loi constitutive prévoyant que deux de ses six juges « seront pris parmi les juges de la Cour supérieure ou de la Cour du Banc de la Reine, ou parmi les avocats de la province de Québec » (Acte de la Cour suprême et de l’Échiquier, SC 1875, c. 11, art. 4). Il est évident que, en l’étendant à ce nouvel échelon de la hiérarchie judiciaire, c’est la logique de l’article 98 LC 1867 qui est reprise ici. Il ne fait selon moi aucun doute que la Procureure générale du Québec était dans le vrai en affirmant qu’il « ressort des débats entourant la création de la Cour suprême que c’est la crainte que la garantie dont bénéficiait [sic] les cours supérieures du Québec en vertu de l’article 98 LC 1867 soit contrecarrée par l’établissement d’un nouveau tribunal d’appel qui a incité les représentants du Québec à exiger une représentation de juges du Québec au sein de la Cour suprême. […] Avec égards, la Cour d’appel insiste à tort sur le fait que l’article 6 de la Loi sur la Cour suprême consacre un compromis historique qui serait limité à la création de la Cour suprême » (par. 111-112 de l’avis de la CAQ).

Or la prise en compte de l’histoire fondait un argument bien plus fort, que la Cour d’appel n’a fait qu’évoquer (par. 61 de l’avis de la CAQ), mais que le Procureur général du Canada avait brillamment exposé (par. 65 à 84 du mémoire du PGC devant la CAQ). Cet argument est que la catégorie de « membre du barreau » d’une province est définie, non pas par la loi constitutionnelle, mais par la loi ordinaire provinciale et les règlements des différents barreaux provinciaux, de sorte que, dans l’histoire – et encore aujourd’hui d’une province à l’autre – les juges, ou certains d’entre eux, ont pu conserver, tel quel ou modifié, leur statut de membre du barreau après leur nomination. Partant, en 1867, l’expression « selected from the Bar » aurait été appelée à couvrir les juges des cours de compétence inférieure qui continuaient d’appartenir au barreau de la province. Relevons en passant que ce n’est que depuis 1967, et ce, par inadvertance apparemment, que, avec l’abolition du statut de membre honoraire, la loi québécoise relative au barreau prive les juges de toute appartenance à cet ordre professionnel (par. 82-84 du mémoire du PGC devant la CAQ). Dans leur mémoire devant la Cour d’appel, les procureurs des Cris soutenaient ainsi « qu’au moment de la rédaction de l’article 98 de la Loi constitutionnelle de 1867, les juges étaient considérés comme étant toujours des membres du Barreau du Bas-Canada » (par. 63 du mémoire du Grand conseil des Cris et du Gouvernement de la Nation crie devant la CAQ). Faisant encore un pas de plus, ils, ainsi que le Procureur général du Canada, ont réussi à convaincre la Cour d’appel du Québec de ce que, à l’article 98 LC 1867, « from the Bar » voulait dire « ayant déjà été admis à l’exercice de la profession d’avocat par le barreau ». L’argument a presque réussi à me convaincre.

Or, en 1867, « selected from the Bar », à l’article 98 LC 1867, devait manifestement être compris à la lumière des conditions de nomination à la Cour supérieure et à la Cour du Banc de la Reine du Bas-Canada, conditions qui étaient prévues dans les lois du Canada-Uni, dont l’article 129 LC 1867 prévoyait, de façon transitoire, le maintien en vigueur. Et il se trouve que ces conditions opposaient, comme catégories de candidats, celle des membres du barreau à celle de juges de tribunaux précisément indiqués. Cela exclut donc une catégorie de juges d’autres juridictions ayant conservé une forme ou une autre d’appartenance au barreau qui, au Bas-Canada, n’a été constitué par la loi qu’en 1849 (Acte pour l’incorporation du Barreau du Bas-Canada, S.C. (1849) 12 Vict., c. 46). En effet, l’article 4 de l’Acte pour amender les lois relatives aux cours de juridiction civile en première instance dans le Bas-Canada (SC (1849) 12 Vict., c. 38), qui porte création de la Cour supérieure – nom qui provient sans doute, comme le suggère Donald Fyson, des anciens « superior terms » de la Cour du banc du roi (ou de la reine) – prévoyait « qu’aucune personne ne sera nommée juge de la dite cour supérieure, à moins qu’immédiatement avant nomination elle ne soit juge de l’une des dites cours du banc de la reine, ou juge de circuit ou de district, ou avocat de dix ans de pratique au moins au barreau du Bas-Canada ». La mention de juge de district m’intrigue, car à ma connaissance les Cours de District (et les Cours de Division) avaient été abolies en 1843 (SC 7 Vict., c. 16, 18 et 19). Quant à l’Acte pour établir une cour ayant juridiction en appel et en matières criminelles pour le Bas-Canada (S.C. (1849) 12 Vict., c. 37), qui portait création de la Cour du Banc de la Reine du Bas-Canada en tant que cour d’appel permanente, son article 2 prévoyait que « personne ne sera nommé juge-en-chef ou juge puisné comme susdit, à moins d’avoir été, lors de sa nomination, juge de l’une des diverses cours du banc de la Reine dans le Bas-Canada, ou juge de la cour supérieure, ou juge de circuit, ou à moins d’avoir été avocat pratiquant pendant au moins dix ans au barreau du Bas-Canada […] ». Ici, malgré une rédaction moins habile, « avoir été avocat » devait aussi se vérifier au moment de la nomination, et « pendant » voulait dire « depuis ». La version anglaise parle d’ailleurs d’un « Advocate of at least ten years’ standing at the Bar of Lower-Canada ».

Au-dessous de la Cour supérieure venait en effet la Cour de Circuit, alors héritière de la compétence de l’ancienne Cour du Banc de la Reine « en termes inférieurs ». En 1857, l’article 13 de l’Acte pour amender les actes de judicature du Bas Canada (SC (1857) 20 Vict., c. 44) abolit la charge de juge de circuit et prévoit que la Cour de Circuit sera tenue par les juges de la Cour supérieure qui « auront tous les pouvoirs et les devoirs accordés et attribués à tout juge de circuit à l’époque à laquelle la présente section sera mise à effet ». Cela ne veut aucunement dire que la Cour de circuit, dont la compétence est large mais d’attribution, devient pour autant une cour de compétence supérieure, quoiqu’elle dispose d’un pouvoir de surveillance et de contrôle. Mais la doctrine et la jurisprudence canadiennes semblent unanimes à voir une cour de compétence supérieure dans la nouvelle forme que prend cette juridiction, qui sera abolie en 1952, alors que sa compétence sera attribuée à la Cour (provinciale inférieure) de magistrat, et ce, en vertu d’une loi de 1945 (S.Q. 9 Geo VI, c. 19). Au tournant du XXe siècle, des lois québécoises visant à remplacer la Cour de circuit par la Cour de magistrat dans la région de Montréal auront été désavouées par le gouverneur général. Quoi qu’il en soit du statut de cette nouvelle Cour de Circuit dans la hiérarchie judiciaire, nonobstant le fait qu’elle abolit la charge de juge de circuit, la loi de 1857 prévoit de manière transitoire, à son article 10, que « les nouveaux juges de la cour [supérieure] et tous les juges qui y seront nommés à l’avenir seront choisis parmi les juges de circuit d’alors et les avocats de dix années de pratique au moins dans le barreau du Bas-Canada […] ». La catégorie des juges de district disparaît, et celle des juges de circuit est appelée à le faire.

À l’occasion de la refonte de 1861, l’Acte concernant la Cour supérieure (S.R.B.-C. 1861, c. 78) est mis à jour, et son nouvel article 7, relatif aux conditions de nomination, se lit comme suit : « Le juge en chef et les juges de la cour supérieure, en office lors de la mise à effet de la section neuf de l’acte 20 V. c. 44, continuent à l’être en vertu de la commission qu’ils avaient alors; les nouveaux juges de la cour ont été choisis parmi les juges de circuit d’alors, et les avocats de dix années de pratique au moins au barreau du Bas Canada;– et tous les juges qui seront nommés à l’avenir seront choisis parmi les dits avocats ayant pratiqué pendant le même nombre d’années. » Désormais, seuls les avocats en exercice depuis dix ans au Barreau du Bas-Canada seront éligibles à la charge de juge de la Cour supérieure du Bas-Canada. Quant à l’Acte concernant la Cour du Banc de la Reine (S.R.B.-C. 1861, c. 77), son nouvel article 2 se lit comme suit : « Nul ne sera nommé juge-en-chef ou juge puisné, à moins d’avoir été, lors de sa nomination, juge de la Cour supérieure du Bas Canada, ou à moins d’avoir été avocat pratiquant pendant au moins dix ans au barreau du Bas Canada. » La formulation est la même qu’en 1849, à cette exception près que les catégories de candidats formées des juges des anciennes et diverses cours du banc de la Reine du Bas-Canada et des juges de circuit sont abolies. En 1864, une cour d’appel intermédiaire devant prendre place entre la Cour supérieure et la Cour du Banc de la Reine est créée : la Cour de révision, qui sera abolie en 1920 (S.Q. (1920) 10 Geo. V, c. 79). L’article 20 de sa loi constitutive (S.C. (1864) 27-28 Vict., c. 39) prévoit cependant qu’elle se composera de « trois juges de la cour supérieur à Montréal ou à Québec », de sorte que cette réorganisation judiciaire est sans conséquence sur les conditions de nomination aux tribunaux auxquels s’appliquera bientôt l’article 98 LC 1867. Nous y voilà : la thèse selon laquelle l’expression « from the Bar », à cet article, serait alors comprise comme voulant dire « détenant une forme ou une autre de statut de membre du barreau (dont celui que pourrait avoir le membre d’un tribunal non désigné par les lois du Canada-Uni relatives aux conditions de nomination à la Cour supérieure et à la Cour du Banc de la Reine du Bas-Canada) » se révèle des plus improbables. Cette thèse ne peut aucunement militer en faveur de celle selon laquelle, de nos jours, l’expression qui nous occupe devrait vouloir dire « ayant déjà été admis à l’exercice de la profession d’avocat par le barreau ».

La Procureure générale du Québec était du reste fondée de souligner que, dans les premières décennies qui ont suivi l’entrée en vigueur de la LC 1867, le Parlement fédéral n’a pas jugé utile de modifier les conditions de nomination des juges de la Cour supérieure et de la Cour du Banc de la Reine du Québec qui étaient posées par les lois du Canada-Uni (par. 77 du mémoire de la PGQ devant la CSC). Avec les autres dispositions des lois du Canada-Uni dont le contenu relevait maintenant de la compétence du Parlement fédéral, celles qui nous intéressent ici n’ont été abrogées qu’à la faveur de la refonte de 1886 (Acte concernant les statuts révisés du Canada, SC (1886) 49 Vic. c. 4). Qui plus est, elles n’ont été remplacées par le législateur fédéral qu’en 1912 (Loi modifiant la Loi des juges, S.C. (1912) 2 Geo. V, c. 29, art. 9). Qu’on me comprenne bien : je ne suis pas en train de dire que ces conditions « préconfédératives » de nomination aux cours de compétence supérieure du Québec ont été constitutionnalisées dans le détail par l’article 98 LC 1867. Je suis plutôt en train de dire que c’est à leur lumière que s’éclaire d’abord le sens de l’expression « from the Bar » qu’on trouve à ce dernier article. Et les paragraphes qui précèdent ne laissent guère douter du fait que c’est la Procureure générale du Québec qui avait raison en soutenant que, « au moment de la Confédération, les conditions de nomination aux tribunaux supérieurs du Québec étaient bien établies. Seuls les membres du Barreau du Bas-Canada et des tribunaux supérieurs de la province pouvaient y accéder » (par. 71 du mémoire de la PGQ devant la CSC). La Cour d’appel du Québec reconnaît elle-même dans son avis que, « pendant la période préconfédérative, seuls les juristes qui depuis dix ans étaient avocats en exercice, ou qui étaient juges de la Cour supérieure, de district ou de comté, pouvaient devenir juges à la Cour du Banc de la Reine » (par. 72 de l’avis de la CAQ).

Relevons au passage que, si, de la part de la Cour d’appel, d’interpréter l’article 98 LC 1867 à la lumière des lois du Canada-Uni qui en constituaient le contexte historique s’imposait et n’aurait pas été une erreur, en revanche, d’interpréter ce même article constitutionnel à la lumière des dispositions de la loi ordinaire postérieure à l’entrée en vigueur de la LC 1867, dispositions dont cet article qui nous occupe fonde les conditions de validité, en était une (par. 58-67 de l’avis de la CAQ). Je partage donc aisément l’opinion de la Procureure générale du Québec selon laquelle, « contrairement à ce qu’avance l’avis de la Cour d’appel, une loi fédérale ne peut servir à interpréter une disposition constitutionnelle dont le rôle est d’encadrer le pouvoir du gouvernement fédéral sur une institution provinciale » (par. 97 du mémoire de la PGQ devant la CSC). Il n’agit ici d’une notion élémentaire et universelle de droit constitutionnel. Encore là, contrairement à la reconstruction à laquelle la Cour d’appel se livre à l’invitation du Procureur général du Canada (par. 88-99 du mémoire du PGC devant la CAQ), l’histoire de la loi fédérale relative aux conditions de nomination aux cours de compétence supérieure n’est pas de continuité mais de rupture. Ce n’est que depuis 1976 que, outre les avocats de la province, d’anciens avocats de la province devenus juges de la cour provinciale ou de la Cour suprême du Yukon ou des Territoires du Nord-Ouest peuvent être nommés aux cours de compétence supérieure de cette même province (Loi modifiant la Loi sur les juges et d’autres dispositions concernant la magistrature, SC 1976-1977, c. 25, art. 1). Quant aux avocats de la province qui sont devenus juges des cours fédérales, ils ne le peuvent que depuis une modification apportée à la loi en 1996, de manière à inclure les anciens avocats de la province « ayant exercé à temps plein des fonctions de nature judiciaire à l’égard d’un poste occupé en vertu d’une loi fédérale ou provinciale » (Loi modifiant la Loi sur la Cour fédérale, la Loi sur les juges et la Loi sur la Cour canadienne de l’impôt, LC 1996, c. 22, art. 2).

Critique no 3. « From the Bar » comme voulant dire « ayant déjà été admis au barreau » : réfutation (partielle) de l’argument pratique

La Cour d’appel du Québec et, à sa suite, la Cour suprême du Canada faisaient face à une réalité pratique qu’elles ont pu tenir pour contraignante : « Ce ne sont pas tous les juges de toutes les cours supérieures canadiennes, en première instance ou en appel, qui ont accédé à la magistrature en provenance directe du barreau d’une province, loin de là. […] Beaucoup ont été nommés à une cour supérieure après avoir exercé une fonction judiciaire dans un tribunal visé par le paragraphe 14 de l’article 92 de la Loi constitutionnelle de 1867 » (par. 59 de l’avis de la CAQ). Dans son billet du 26 juin 2014, Léonid Sirota donnait l’exemple de la juge Abella, qui, en 1992, avait été nommée à la Cour d’appel de l’Ontario alors qu’elle était juge de la Cour provinciale de cette même province. Concernant le Québec, la Procureure générale de cette province a dû concéder que, « depuis 1867, les juges des cours supérieures sont régulièrement choisis [non seulement] parmi les membres du Barreau, mais également parmi les membres des tribunaux judiciaires du Québec » (par. 81 du mémoire de la PGQ devant la CSC). Bref, il était devenu pratiquement impossible de reconnaître l’inconstitutionnalité d’un aussi grand nombre de nominations judiciaires, sur une période du reste aussi longue.

Toutefois, il en va autrement de la nomination, à une cour visée par l’article 97 ou par l’article 98 LC 1867, d’un juge fédéral ou territorial. Dans son billet du 14 juillet 2014, Paul Daly donnait l’exemple du juge Robertson qui, en 2000, avait été nommé juge de la Cour d’appel du Nouveau-Brunswick alors qu’il était juge de la Cour d’appel de la cour martiale du Canada. Or le fait que la nomination d’un juge fédéral à une cour visée par les articles 97 ou 98 LC 1867 fût inusité devait normalement tomber à pic, compte tenu de l’avis de la Cour suprême du 21 mars 2014 relatif aux articles 5 et 6 de sa loi constitutive. Regrettablement, la Cour suprême ne l’a pas entendu de cette oreille.

Le droit n’est pas censé permettre que soit fait indirectement ce qu’il interdit de faire directement. La Cour suprême du Canada vient pourtant de permettre, en le faisant transiter par la Cour supérieure ou par la Cour d’appel du Québec, au gouverneur en conseil de nommer à cette même Cour suprême du Canada, à titre de juge du Québec, un (ancien) juge fédéral, ce dont elle nous avait dit que, en vertu de l’article 6 de la Loi sur la Cour suprême (constitutionnalisé par l’al. 41d) LC 1982), c’était impossible de faire directement. Contrairement à la formule sommaire des motifs oraux juge Wagner, il ne devait pas faire de toute, non seulement que « [l]es articles 98 LC 1867 et 6 de la Loi sur la Cour suprême sont deux dispositions constitutionnelles participant à la protection du système civiliste dans le cadre des nominations judiciaires par le gouverneur général » (seul ou en conseil), de sorte qu’il importait « de concilier leur interprétation de manière à assurer la cohérence de la structure constitutionnelle canadienne » (par. 113 du mémoire de la PGQ devant la CSC), mais aussi, et plus particulièrement, qu’il était capital de s’assurer que l’interprétation jurisprudentielle de l’article 98 LC 1867 ne permette pas de faire indirectement ce que celle de l’article 6 de la Loi sur la Cour suprême ne permet pas de faire directement. Or l’interprétation de l’article 98 LC 1867 que vient d’avaliser la Cour suprême du Canada « pourrait miner significativement la confiance du public envers le système judiciaire canadien » (par. 125 du mémoire de la PGQ devant la CSC). On est certes autorisé à penser que la Cour suprême vient de désavouer son avis dans « l’affaire du juge Nadon ». On l’est encore davantage de craindre que c’est ce que pensera le grand public.

La solution proposée par la Procureure générale du Québec devant la Cour suprême était d’interpréter « from the Bar of that province », à l’article 98 LC 1867, comme voulant dire « parmi les membres actuels du Barreau du Québec ou ceux des tribunaux judiciaires québécois ». Une telle solution aurait d’ailleurs pu et dû être appliquée (mutatis mutandis, évidemment) à l’interprétation de l’article 97 LC 1867. Une telle solution aurait représenté un bien meilleur compromis entre le droit et les faits.

Reste à voir, comme l’a relevé Léonid Sirota, si, par le truchement de son nouveau Code de déontologie des avocats, le Barreau du Québec n’a pas lui-même renoncé à la protection de l’avis rendu par la Cour suprême dans l’affaire Nadon. En effet, parmi les charges de juge, le nouvel article 139.1 du Code tient pour incompatible avec l’exercice de la profession d’avocat la seule « fonction de juge suivant la Loi sur les tribunaux judiciaires (chapitre T-16) et de juge municipal à titre permanent et à temps complet », ce qui exclut notamment celle de juge d’une cour fédérale.

No Room for Housing Rights

Last week, in Tanudjaja v. Canada (Attorney General), 2014 ONCA 852, the Ontario Court of Appeal upheld the striking out of an application seeking to have the federal government’s and Ontario’s affordable housing policies, or lack thereof, declared unconstitutional. According to Justice Pardu, who wrote for herself and Justice Strathy, the case, brought by a group of individuals who are either homeless or have precarious and insufficient housing and an NGO, had no reasonable chance of success, notably because it was not justiciable. Justice Feldman, dissenting, would have allowed it to proceed to a hearing on the merits.

The applicants did not attack any specific law or administrative decision of either government, but rather argued that their overall approach to the problem of affordable housing and homelessness was constitutionally defective because contrary to their rights to life, liberty, and security of the person (protected by s. 7 of the Charter) and equality rights (protected by s. 15). They did list a number of policies which in their view particularly contributed to the problems they sought to address, notably the insufficiency of the funding devoted to a number of social assistance programmes. As for the remedies they sought, these ranged from a (seemingly purely symbolic) declaration that “Canada and Ontario have failed to effectively address the problems of homelessness and inadequate housing,” to declarations to the effect that Canada and Ontario have failed to their constitutional duties “to implement effective national and provincial strategies to reduce and eventually eliminate homelessness and inadequate housing,” to an order that they, “in consultation with affected groups,” implement such strategies, under the supervision of the Superior Court.

The issues raised by the applicants, said Justice Pardu, are simply not the sort that courts can entertain: neither the applicants’ claims of rights-infringement nor the remedies they ask for can be effectively dealt with in a judicial setting. Courts can rule on the constitutionality of specific laws, “but a comparison between the legislative means and purpose, is impossible in this case,” [28] whether for the purposes of s. 7 of the Charter or of s. 1. Besides,

there is no judicially discoverable and manageable standard for assessing in general whether housing policy is adequate or whether insufficient priority has been given in general to the needs of the homeless. This is not a question that can be resolved by application of law, but rather it engages the accountability of the legislatures. Issues of broad economic policy and priorities are unsuited to judicial review. Here the court is not asked to engage in a “court-like” function but rather to embark on a course more resembling a public inquiry into the adequacy of housing policy. [33]

On the remedies side,

a bare declaration that a government was required to develop a housing policy … would be so devoid of content as to be effectively meaningless [while].[t]o embark, as asked, on judicial supervision of the adequacy of housing policy developed by Canada and Ontario takes the court well beyond the limits of its institutional capacity. [34]

As a result, Justice Pardu said, regardless of the extent of the specific Charter rights invoked by the applicants, “[t]he application here is demonstrably unsuitable for adjudication,” [36] and was rightly struck.

Justice Feldman, dissenting, was not so convinced. She stressed that

The novelty of the claim alone is not a reason to strike the claim. … The purpose of a motion to strike is to weed out, at an early stage, claims that have no reasonable chance of success, either because the legal issue raised has been conclusively decided against the claim or because the facts, taken at their highest, cannot support the claim. The motion to strike should not be used, however, as a tool to frustrate potential developments in the law. [49]

After discussing in some detail the possibility that ss. 7 and 15 of the Charter might be interpreted as the applicants say they ought to be, Justice Feldman says that the justiciability of positive rights claims has not yet been clearly rejected by the courts. ” As a result,” she says, “courts should be extremely cautious before foreclosing any enforcement of these rights.” [81] The fact that the application here does not aim at any specific law could give rise to “a number of procedural as well as conceptual difficulties,” but that does not necessarily prevent it from being justiciable. The “application asks the court to view Charter claims through a different procedural lens. That novelty is not a reason to strike it out.” [84] As for the remedies, they could, if necessary, be confined to declaratory relief.

For my part, I think that the majority is probably right here. As Justice Pardu says, there is no standard against which to measure the governments’ alleged failings. It is easy to say that not enough money is being allocated to solve the problems of housing affordability and homelessness ― but can the full solution of a social problem really be a moral, never mind a legal, standard by which to judge government action (or inaction)? Indeed, it is not clear that a full solution would exist even with unlimited funding. And if a partial solution, or movement towards a solution, are sufficient, as the relief sought by the applicants suggests, then how is a court supposed to decide what is satisfactory?

Justice Pardu is also right that the remedies the applicants seek will be either empty words or well beyond the capacity of a court to implement. Justice Feldman’s invocation of Canada (Prime Minister) v. Khadr, 2010 SCC 3, [2010] 1 S.C.R. 44 as an example of a case where declaratory relief for a violation of the Charter was appropriate is ironically revealing. The Supreme Court’s declaration that Mr. Khadr’s rights had been infringed led to no meaningful action on the government’s part.

I share one concern with Justice Feldman, however. I believe that the claims in this case are not justiciable, but I’m not convinced that they are obviously, unarguably so. Is it impossible that a court will find them justiciable? Perhaps, but I’m not sure. If this were a ruling on the merits of the application, I would have no doubt that the majority is correct. But on a motion to strike, the issue is not whether the applicants’ claims are well founded, or even reasonably likely to be well-founded, but only whether there is any chance that they will succeed. So I’m not sure that, weak as they are, they do not meet this very low threshold.

The trouble is that, as best I can tell, there is no way to adjudicate the merits of the justiciability issue on a Charter application without having a full hearing on the merits of the application itself. So the court might be simply treating the motion to strike as an opportunity to rule on the merits of the justiciability issue, so as to avoid what it thinks is an unnecessary full hearing. And I agree that a full hearing is not necessary here. No amount of evidence of the inadequacy of the governments’ housing policies, were it to be introduced, could change the fact that a court of law is not the proper place to debate this evidence. Still, treating a motion to strike as in effect a preliminary merits hearing is not legally right.

These qualms aside, there are good reasons for the courts to refuse to adjudicate, if not any and all social and economic rights claims, then at least out of vast campaigns intended to reshape entire areas of government policy. There is the issue of competing priorities ― if not all claims on public support can be satisfied, which ones should be favoured? It’s not obvious, to say the least, that the answer to that question ought to be “those who got adjudicated first.” There is the issue of legitimacy of unelected judges having to order Parliament and legislatures to increase taxes. Charles I lost his head for trying to raise taxes without Parliamentary approval, and George III lost an empire for insisting that he had the right to tax without consent. It is, again, not obvious that judges would fare any better. There is the issue of federalism. Generally speaking, housing and homelessness are not the federal government’s responsibility (except on reserves). The federal government chooses to help the provinces discharge many of their constitutional responsibilities, and the provinces accept the money (and ask for more), but how a court could assign responsibilities between the two level of government ― something that takes sometimes difficult political negotiations ― is really beyond me. There is, finally, the issue of the law’s inherent conservatism. If a court decides that social programme X is constitutionally required, then programme X cannot be got rid of even to be replaced by a more effective but differently organized programme. If the courts decide that the Charter requires governments to build social housing, then governments cannot subsequently decide to spend that money, say, on vouchers that allow people to get their own places, even if, say, the experience of other countries shows that this leads to better outcomes for the people concerned. At best, the government would have to turn to the courts and demonstrate  that its proposed programme would be enough to discharge its constitutional obligations. But it could not really demonstrate this ― it would have to speculate, and it’s not clear that a court ought to be convinced by such speculation.

Canadian courts, unlike the powerless talking shops that generate international human rights by the hundred while knowing full well that there is no prospect of most these “rights” ever being implemented, wield considerable power, because they know that their decisions will be obeyed and enforced. They know that with great power comes great responsibility, and do not exercise it lightly. They also know that a power that overextends itself and disregards the people from whom it comes and for whom it is supposed to be exercised will not last long.