Frustrating

I am quite late on this, but I have only recently come across a post by Grégoire Webber on the UK Constitutional Law blog, arguing that the Supreme Court’s reasoning in Canada (Attorney General) v. Bedford, 2013 SCC 72, the decision striking down various prostitution-related provisions of the Criminal Code is based on flawed inferences from the fact that these provisions did not criminalize prostitution itself (i.e. the sale of sex). Prof. Webber argues that

[t]he judgment’s repeated assertion that there is a legal liberty to sell sex for money draws on the unstated premise that there is a moral quality to this liberty or to all liberties in the law, such that that which is not criminally prohibited is therefore just, choice-worthy, and not to be discouraged by government or law.

In prof. Webber’s view, this “unstated premise” is mistaken. That selling sex is not legally prohibited does not make it morally permitted. The Supreme Court compared the Criminal Code’s prohibitions on prostitution-related activities, which had the effect of making sex work more dangerous than it would have been in their absence, to a prohibition on wearing a helmet while riding a bicycle. The trouble, prof. Webbers contends, is that

[t]he assumed persuasiveness of this analogy rests on the Court’s unstated and undefended premise that one also has a moral liberty to sell sex for money. Absent that premise, the analogy can do no work, just as it would do no work if appealed to in support of the legal liberties to bully, to commit adultery, and to lie to one’s friends.

If prostitution ―unlike riding a bicycle ― is morally wrong, then it is permissible for the legislature to “frustrate [it] by indirect means,” such as the criminalization of various activities surrounding it, which is exactly what the provisions invalidated in Bedford did.

With respect, I think that this argument misses the point. The issue in Bedford is not whether Parliament ought to be able to frustrate the commission of moral wrongs by indirect means, but whether the means it had chosen were permissible.

Take an example offered by prof. Webber ― say adultery ― and assume that a legislature wants to frustrate its commission without criminalizing it. (For the sake of convenience, make it a legislature in a unitary state, unencumbered by the division of powers under the Canadian constitution, albeit subject to a bill of rights exactly like the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms). The legislature could do several things. It could fund couple-therapy programmes that would (hopefully) make for happier marriages and less adultery. It could require anti-adultery education in schools. It could make a public promise of fidelity a requirement for entering into a civil marriage. It could implement rules punishing adulterous spouses in the event of a divorce, for example depriving them of property or support entitlements they would otherwise obtain. It could also amend the criminal law to provide that the killing of an adulterous spouse is not to be treated as a murder, but as justified self-defence.

The first two of these options would obviously be legally permitted, and I think there is nothing wrong with them from a broader perspective of political morality (though mandatory anti-adultery education sounds a bit creepy). They may or may not be effective, but not legally or morally problematic. A mandatory promise of fidelity may be constitutionally problematic as a violation of freedom of conscience, as I have argued here, insofar as there is disagreement in society over the meaning of marriage and the value (or interpretation) of fidelity. It would also, I think, be morally disturbing, because overbearingly paternalistic. Family law rules punishing adulterous spouses would probably not be unconstitutional, unless it is shown that their application punishes one gender more than the other, in breach of the constitutional guarantee of equality. Morally, such rules would be troubling, not least because of the perverse incentives and acrimony they would generate; even assuming that their purpose would be worthwhile, they could easily do more harm than good. Finally, I think it is quite clear that exempting the killers of adulterers from the law of murder would be both immoral and unconstitutional, no matter how effective such a measure might be at “frustrating” adultery. Subjecting adulterers, no matter how badly we think of them, to an increased risk of death would be a violation of the rights to life and to security of the person, and an entirely disproportionate one.

Indeed, so would be a rule allowing police officers to shoot persons whom they caught in the process of committing actual crimes in situations where doing so is not necessary to preserve anyone’s life or safety. That the activity a legislature seeks to frustrate is a morally ― or even legally ― prohibited one is simply not a sufficient justification for depriving those involved in the activity of certain rights.

Thus, even assuming that sex work is morally wrong ― which I do not believe (and which, as I read his post, prof. Webber might not believe either) ― Parliament is not justified in seeking to frustrate it by any means. The means it chooses, just like the means it chooses to prevent the commission of actual crimes, must still comply with the Charter, and in particular with the security of the person guarantee that was invoked in Bedford.

H/T: Paul Daly

Looking Back

Rule of Law theorists invariaby insist that legislation must be prospective ― that the law must be changed, if changed it must be, for the future only and not for the past. But a thoughtful opinion delivered last week by Justice MacDonnell of the Superior Court of Ontario shows that sometimes at least, things are more complicated, and Rule of Law values might actually counsel against applying the requirement of prospectivity too rigidly.

The decision in question is R. v. Pandurevic, 2013 ONSC 2978. It arose out of an application by an accused for a clarification on whether the instruction that would be given to the jury regarding the defence of self-defence that he intended to advance would be based on the self-defence provisions of the Criminal Code that prevailed at the time he allegedly committed his offence or on an amended provision that was enacted between the time of the alleged offence and that of the trial. It is worth noting that, unusually, it was the accused who was pushing for the new provision to be applied ― and thus to be given retroactive effect, in violation of the usual understanding of requirements of the Rule of Law, ― while the government was arguing for prospectivity.

Justice MacDonnell sided with the accused, holding that Parliament, even though it did not say it in so many words, must have intended the new self-defence provisions to be used in all trials after their coming into force, including where this meant retroactive application. Although courts normally presume Parliament to have no such intent, this presumption can be rebutted, and, said Justice MacDonnell, was rebutted in this case.

One reason for this holding was the fact that the old law was, as Justice MacDonnell put it, “the subject of uniformly withering criticism from law reformers, academics and all levels of the Canadian judiciary for more than 30 years” (par. 10). It was generally agreed to be incomprehensible and incoherent, “little more than a source of bewilderment and confusion to the jury” (par. 13) in the words of Justice Moldaver, then at the Ontario Court of Appeal. Courts and academics had been asking for reform for close to 30 years. Now that Parliament had, at last, heeded their calls, the implementation of much-needed reforms should not be delayed.

Another important, and somewhat related, consideration was that the new self-defence provision is, in Justice MacDonnell’s view, really only ‘new’ in inverted commas. In reality it distills and captures such general principles as can be found in the jurisprudence that developed around the ‘old’ provisions.

The last reason invoked by Justice MacDonnell, related to the previous one, was that to the extent that the new self-defence provisions have changed the law, they have done so in favour of the accused. They did not deprive anyone of a vested right, as legislation which courts in past cases refused to apply retroactively typically had. This suggested that the usual presumption against giving legislation retroactive effect did not apply with as much force as in these cases, because the main (although not the only) reason for the presumption is fairness, and no unfairness results from applying to a party rules that are as or more favourable than those that would normally have applied to his actions.

That principle has indeed long been recognized, and it is usually accepted that retroactive laws that confer a benefit are much less disturbing from a Rule of Law standpoint than impose or increase a punishment or a burden. However, Jeremy Waldron has pushed back against this intuition in a very interesting paper, arguing that fairness, especially in the narrow sense of “fair warning,” is not all there is to the matter. (Justice MacDonnell recognized this, observing that “the presumption against the retrospective or retroactive application of legislation affecting substantive rights is not only based on considerations of fairness – concerns for stability, certainty and predictability would remain relevant even if fairness were factored out of the analysis” (par. 35).) Prof. Waldron argues that, for one thing, fairness must be understood more broadly, so that while a retroactive law that benefits the person to whom it is directly applied is not unfair to that person, it is potentially unfair to others. And, quite apart from fairness, we should also worry about the effect of retroactive legislation on the authority of law as a whole. Knowing that a legal rule can be changed retroactively diminishes the authority of legal rules, regardless of whether the retrospective change is beneficial or punitive.

These arguments are applicable to Pandurevic. In particular, we might argue that, if Justice MacDonnell is right that the new self-defence provision is as much or more favourable to the accused than the old ones, then applying it to his case is “unfair” to his victim, and that this is not an immaterial consideration even though the victim is not a party to the criminal trial in which Mr. Pandurevic is accused. It is perhaps too bad that Justice MacDonnell’s reasons do not address this question.

On the other hand, Justice MacDonnell points to considerations that, although perhaps not very common, arguably make this a proper case in which to depart from the usually sound intuition in favour of prospectivity. The “mischief” which the law which he decides to apply retroactively is meant to cure isn’t just a matter of policy (or, worse, as in the case that prompted prof. Waldron’s article, partisan advantage). It is a failure of the Rule of Law itself. The Rule of Law ideal requires laws to be not only prospective but, just as importantly, clear, accessible, and coherent. It also requires them to be enforced consistently. If Justice MacDonnell’s assessment of the old law of self-defence is correct ― it at least seems supported by a good deal of authority, though I am utterly ignorant in this area and cannot be sure ― then this law failed to meet the requirements of the Rule of Law to a considerable extent. So Justice MacDonnell had to choose not between violating the requirements Rule of Law or not, but between different ways of breaching them. I am inclined to think that he picked the right poison.

Legislation should normally look to and act on the future. But the law itself always looks both forward and back, and not only to past actions of persons, but to its own past. If what it sees in its past is cringe-worthy,  it is appropriate for the law to change retrospectively.

The Limits of Independence

I want to return to the Québec Bar’s challenge against the constitutionality of all the mandatory minimum sentences increased or created by Bill C-10, the “tough on crime” omnibus bill adopted by Parliament earlier this year, about which I blogged here earlier this week. One of the grounds of possible unconstitutionality which the Bar raises in its application is that the new mandatory minimums infringe judicial independence and separation of powers. I think that this argument is badly mistaken.

The Bar argues that judicial independence and separation of powers (which amount to the same thing, because what is at issue here is the separation of the judicial power from the legislative) require that the judiciary enjoy complete autonomy in the exercise of its functions. In particular, the legislative power cannot interfere with “the law courts’ exclusive function of issuing orders based on law and evidence” (par. 92 of the application). In criminal cases, it is the courts’ role to give a sentence based on the evidence and considerations of proportionality, appropriateness and justice. This judicial function is essentially discretionary. Interference with that discretion is therefore an interference with an essential adjudicative function. And, of course, a minimum sentence takes (some) discretion away from the judge. Imposing a minimum sentence oversteps the constitutional boundaries between Parliament and the judiciary. Furthermore, the Bar submits, “this judicial discretion is necessary for judges to be able to deliver just decisions, the very foundation of the courts’ legitimacy” (par. 101).

These arguments prove too much. If they were accepted, not only the minimum sentences at issue in this challenge, but also any legislative interference with sentencing discretion would be constitutionally prohibited. Such an outcome would be neither sound in principle nor justified by the law.

If it were true that separation of powers required judges to have the discretion to set sentences that they deem just and proportional, then no statutory limits on that discretion would be permissible―neither mandatory minimums nor mandatory maximums. If untrammelled discretion in sentencing is constitutionally required, there is no ground on which to distinguish a mandatory minimum from a mandatory maximum. If, say, a judge feels that a man who stole the last piece of bread of a poor little old lady deserved a harsher punishment that the maximum of two years’ imprisonment set out in s. 334 of the Criminal Code for theft under 5000$, he ought, if we follow the Bar’s reasoning, to be constitutionally free to do so, as much as a judge ought to be free to disregard a mandatory sentence of imprisonment and not to send a man to prison for growing a couple of marijuana plants. But the Criminal Code imposes a mandatory maximum punishment for every single offence it creates―and nobody, to my knowledge, ever thought that somehow wrong. I very much doubt that the Bar thinks so. Judicial independence is important, but it does not include the power to make laws; indeed, separation of powers requires that power to be left to the legislature (subject possibly to a role for the judiciary to develop the law―but subject, in turn, to legislative over-ride). And the power to make criminal laws has always included a power to prescribe a penalty. We impose constitutional limits on this power, in particular in s. 12 of the Charter, which prohibits cruel and unusual punishment. But that has nothing to do with judicial independence. Power must be checked and limited. The legislature’s power to change the law―including in ways with which the judiciary might not agree―is probably the most important check on and safeguard against the power of the judges.

The Bar invokes a couple of Canadian cases to support its claims that sentencing discretion is a requirement of judicial independence, but in my view, its use of these precedents borders on bad faith. The first, R. v. M. (C.A.), [1996] 1 S.C.R. 500, concerned the power of an appellate court to vary a sentence imposed at trial. It is in this context that the Supreme Court held that sentencing was discretionary―within the bounds set by the Criminal Code―and therefore subject to deferential review on appeal. This does not prove that Parliament cannot limit the sentencing judges’ discretion. Indeed, the Supreme Court noted that the Criminal Code usually prescribes a maximum punishment and sometimes a minimum, though minimum sentences are sometimes subject to suspicion under s. 12 of the Charter. The other case, Ell v. Alberta,  2003 SCC 35, [2003] 1 S.C.R. 857, concerned the independence of justices of the peace. It mentions the justices’ discretionary powers over bail―not sentencing―a procedure which is thoroughly regulated by the criminal code. The Bar also invokes a Privy Council decision, Liyanage v. The Queen, but that concerned what was effectively a bill of attainder enacted as retribution against specific political opponents. As much as we may detest the government’s “tough on crime” programme, it is a far cry from that.

Mandatory minimum sentences may, in many cases, be cruel, disproportionate, and even irrational. Courts have already struck down a number of provisions imposing them, and are likely to strike down more. But judicial independence has nothing to do with it. The Québec Bar’s arguments on this point are misguided and very weak. I’d be astonished if they were accepted.

A Bar Brawl

The Québec Bar has launched a constitutional challenge against a substantial part of the Conservative government’s “tough-on-crime” agenda, Radio-Canada reports. In an application filed in Québec’s Superior Court, it contends that every provision of the the omnibus criminal law bill, C-10, enacted by Parliament this year as the Safe Streets and Communities Act, S.C. 2012 c. 1, that creates or increases a mandatory minimum sentence of imprisonment is unconstitutional. (A note on terminology: I, for one, do not wish to play the government’s game by using the tendentious and self-serving name it chose for this piece of legislation, so I will refer to it as bill C-10, even though, the bill having become law, this is not strictly correct.)

The grounds for the challenge are summarized at par. 9 of the application. The Bar argues that the mandatory minimums breach s. 7 of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, which prohibits deprivations of liberty except “in accordance with principles of fundamental justice,” first, because they are arbitrary in that they bear no relationship to the stated objectives of the legislation, and, second, because they might result in sentences disproportionate to offences. For this reason, some of them also breach s. 12 of the Charter, which prohibits cruel and unusual punishment. Furthermore, says the Bar the mandatory minimums infringe the equality rights of Aboriginal Canadians, protected by s. 15 of the Charter. Finally, they are an intrusion on judicial functions and thus contrary to the principles of judicial independence and separation of powers.

There have been plenty of challenges against specific elements of bill C-10. I have blogged about some of them―my posts on the topic are collected here. But this is a different beast. Rather than an accused challenging the specific provision pursuant to which he is charged, this is an interest group attacking the entire policy of mandatory minimum sentences wholesale―but doing it not in the context of the political debate, but in the courts.

Yet in some ways, the application of claim reads like a political rather than a legal argument. It asserts that

minimum sentences … do not serve the public interest; respond to no real need; do not contribute to protecting citizens; and do not permit the realization of the public safety objective (par. 3; translation mine throughout).

It also points out that the vast majority of Canadians do not feel unsafe because of crime and that both the number and the severity of crimes committed in Canada has long been falling.

For the most part, though, the application elaborates the four grounds of unconstitutionality listed above. I will not discuss them in detail here. I canvassed some of the applicable principles in previous posts dealing with challenges to elements of bill C-10, and I might return to the substance of the Bar’s arguments in future posts, especially to the claims about judicial independence and separation of powers. For now, I want to say a couple of things about the challenge as a whole.

One question I want to address is whether the Bar has standing to bring a challenge of this sort. Of course, it is not accused of any crime. It argues that, nevertheless, it has “public interest” standing to bring this application in accordance with the principles set out by the Supreme Court in its recent decision in Canada (Attorney General) v. Downtown Eastside Sex Workers United Against Violence Society, 2012 SCC 45, which I summarized here. (Another explanation of the decision, by Pivot Legal, which represented the respondents, is here.) In that case, the Supreme Court held that public interest standing should be granted when “in all the circumstances, the proposed suit is a reasonable and effective way to bring the issue before the courts” (par. 37). In particular, courts should consider a would-be plaintiff’s “capacity to bring forward a claim,” the possibility that the litigation would bring before the courts an issue affecting those too disadvantaged to litigate on their own behalf, and the existence of alternative avenues for the issues, and the perspective a would-be plaintiff brings on these issues, to be brought before the court (par. 51). The Bar argues that its challenge fits these criteria. It is a concerned with rights and liberties, has intervened in a variety of constitutional cases to protect them, and seeks to have the constitutionality of the mandatory minimums determined at once, in order to prevent the potential violation of the rights of a great number of accused.

That may indeed be so, but I do not think that the Bar’s challenge is comparable to that which the Supreme Court allowed to go ahead in Downtown Eastside. Unlike in that case, there seems to be no special difficulty in bringing constitutional challenges against mandatory minimum sentences by the traditional route―by individuals who stand accused of crimes conviction of which carries a mandatory minimum sentence. Indeed, many such challenges have already succeeded or are working their way through the courts. Now the existence of alternative routes by which a constitutional challenge can be brought is not dispositive, the Supreme Court said in Downtown Eastside. But there are other differences too. In that case, the Court emphasized the fact that the challenge was to the entire scheme Parliament adopted to regulate prostitution; such a wholesale challenge gives the court a much more complete picture than piecemeal attacks on individual provisions. Here, although the challenge aims at a large number of similar provisions, they are really quite disparate, and not part of a single scheme attempting to respond to one social problem. Finally, a crucial point about the Downtown Eastside challenge is that the groups bringing it are able to marshal substantial evidence to support their claims, evidence that individual accused would be most unlikely to bring to bear on their cases, and which is likely to be essential to the challenge’s chances of success. Here, the Bar does not seem to intend to bring any sort of evidence that would not be accessible to an accused. Its application relies largely on past decisions of courts, including for examples of cases where the new mandatory minimum sentences would have been disproportionate, rather than on social science or testimony which it would be uniquely well-positioned to gather, as the respondents in Downtown Eastside.

This brings me to the second point I wanted to make. The Bar’s challenge ill suits the very nature of the judicial review of legislation as it is understood in Canadian law. Judicial review of legislation in Canada normally happens in the context of specific disputes, with a set of facts to which the court can look to appreciate the effect of the legislation it is reviewing in real life. Of course, the facts of the case tend to be no more than a starting point; courts must also think beyond them when evaluating the constitutionality of legislation. Nevertheless, they often insist, and rightly so, on the importance of a “factual matrix” for adjudication. Adjudication, after all, is application of the law to a set of facts. It might involve other things too, like the development of the law, but at a minimum, it is that. The Bar’s challenge to the constitutionality of mandatory minimum sentences is abstract. It is a shortcut. Its very raison d’être is to avoid waiting for the relevant facts to arise. That’s not how judicial review is supposed to work.

My two cents is that the Bar’s challenge to mandatory minimum sentences will fail because the Bar does not have standing to bring it. And so it should. This is not to say that mandatory minimum sentences are a good idea, or even constitutional. But they should be challenged in real cases, as indeed they are already being all over the country.

Booze, Fights, and Federalism

As Justice Fish pointed out in a recent lecture on “The Effect of Alcohol on Canadian Constitution,” “alcohol has nurtured our constitutional development from its earliest days.” Canadian constitutional lawyers can proudly say, with Churchill, that we “have taken more out of alcohol than alcohol has taken out of” us. For instance, the double aspect doctrine, after which this blog is named, originates in an alcohol-related case, Hodge v. The Queen, (1883), [1883-1884] 9 App Cas 117. This venerable tradition is alive and kicking. The most recent booze-fuelled constitutional case, R. v. Keshane, 2012 ABCA 330, was decided just last week by the Alberta Court of Appeal.

Ms. Keshane got into a fight outside a bar in Edmonton. Police officers saw the fight and gave her a ticket for contravening s. 7 of Edmonton’s Public Places Bylaw, which provides that “[a] person shall not participate in a fight or other similar physical confrontation in a public place.” Not contesting the facts, she rather challenged the constitutional validity of this provision, arguing that it was, in pith and substance, related to criminal law, and thus beyond the powers of the province of Alberta, from which the City of Edmonton’s bylaw-making jurisdiction is delegated. Parliament has “exclusive Legislative Authority [in] all matters [related to] … Criminal Law” by virtue of subs. 91(27) of the Constitution Act, 1867.

The first thing a court must do when deciding a division of powers challenge to a legislative provision is to determine its “pith and substance”―the thing that it is intended to do and what it really does. The purpose of the prohibition on fighting, says the court, “to promote the safe, enjoyable and reasonable use of such property for the benefit of all citizens of the City” (par. 26). It is different from the criminal law’s purposes in that it aims more at making city streets safer and more enjoyable rather than at protecting the victims of assaults. The effect of the challenged provision is also somewhat different from that of related criminal law provisions, not only in that it prescribes a much milder punishment, but also in that it prohibits some activities, such as consensual fights, which the criminal law does not. The court also finds no “ulterior motive” underlying the prohibition; it is not a disguised attempt to achieve some aim that really belongs to the field of criminal law.

That said, it is also undeniable that the prohibition on fighting overlaps with some criminal law provisions, and that it is possible to describe at as aimed at the maintenance of peace and safety, which are traditional criminal law purposes. Furthermore, the offence of fighting in a public place is not directly linked to “property and civil rights,” over which the province has jurisdiction, although there is an indirect link, insofar as fights on city streets tend to reduce the enjoyment of property, whether public or private. And then there’s the matter of the Supreme Court’s decision in Westendorp v. The Queen, [1983] 1 S.C.R. 43, which held that a municipal bylaw outlawing being on the street for the purpose of prostitution was, in pith and substance, criminal, and thus beyond the powers of the province and the municipality. Indeed, in Westendorp, Chief Justice Dickson clearly assumed that the idea that a municipality could  “punish assaults that take place on city streets as an aspect of street control” was preposterous.

The court decides that this is not enough to make the prohibition on street fighting criminal law. “[A] degree of overlap with criminal law does not compel the conclusion that the dominant purpose is within federal legislative jurisdiction” (par. 37a), and provincial legislation can address potential harm to the enjoyment of property, and not merely actual harm. As for Westendorp, it is distinguishable, because the bylaw at issue there criminalized the very fact of being on the street for the purpose of prostitution, rather than any act that really tended to threaten the enjoyment of property. Justice Dickson’s comment implying that a municipality could not “punish assaults … as an aspect of street control” was an obiter, and “in the context of having found an ulterior motive” (par. 37h) behind the bylaw, which is not present here.

The  court holds that the prohibition on street fighting can be characterized as both criminal and provincial, in equal measure. It thus has “a double aspect,” and is, therefore, valid provincial law.

I’m not quite sure about this conclusion, in particular about the distinctions the court draws with Westendorp. As in that case, it is possible to say that the prohibition on fighting does not really aim at nuisances caused by the fighting but at the act itself, regarded as an evil to be suppressed. And anyway I’m not at all convinced that Chief Justice Dickson’s comment about the punishment of assaults by a municipality, albeit admittedly an obiter, depended specifically on the finding of ulterior motive.

Perhaps the Supreme Court should take up this case. It might seem not to be of national importance. But, to quote Churchill again, it is “pretty hazardous to interfere with the ineradicable habit of a lifetime”―whether drinking in Churchill’s case, or developing constitutional law under the influence of alcohol in the case of Canadian courts.

Petty Punishment

The Court of Appeal for British Columbia has struck down yet another element of the “tough-on-crime” agenda of the Conservative government in a recent decision, Whaling v. Canada (Attorney General), 2012 BCCA 435, holding that the abolition of accelerated parole could not be applied to prisoners sentenced before the coming into force of the Abolition of Early Parole Act, S.C. 2011 c. 11. (I wrote about cases in which other parts of the “tough-on-crime” programme were struck down here and here.)

Three prisoners who would have been eligible for accelerated parole under the old terms of the Corrections and Conditional Release Act, S.C. 1992 c. 20, which were in force at the time of their sentencing, challenged the constitutionality of applying to them the abolition of accelerated parole. They won in the Supreme Court of British Columbia. The federal government appealed. It lost.

The challenge is not to the abolition of accelerated parole itself: there is no dispute that Parliament can set the terms of parole eligibility. The issue is rather whether Parliament can change these terms for the worse for an inmate after he has been sentenced and started serving his sentence. The respondents argued that this is a violation of their right “not to be punished … again” for an offence for which they were already punished, protected by par. 11(h) of the Charter. The heart of the dispute was whether the new rules making prisoners already sentenced eligible for parole at a later date and on more onerous conditions than the old ones impose a form of punishment on them, or are merely a matter of sentence administration, as the government contended.

The Court observed “that not every consequence of being convicted of a criminal offence is ‘punishment'” (par. 48)―being required to submit a DNA sample, for example, is not. However, “courts have consistently found delayed parole eligibility to be ‘punishment'” (par. 49) when it is imposed by a sentencing court. In this case, though, it was imposed not by a sentencing court, but by legislation (and thus on all prisoners who might have been eligible for accelerated parole rather than on one in particular in response to his specific crime).

The government argued that the purpose of the legislation made all the difference, and the purpose of the Abolition of Early Parole Act was not to punish, but “to improve sentence management” (par. 50). The Court did not really dispute this characterization of the statute’s purpose, though there was some evidence that it was, at least to some extent, intended as a punitive measure. Rather, following Supreme Court precedent, the Court held that the statute’s effects are as important as its purpose when considering its constitutionality. And the effect of the abolition of accelerated parole is undoubtedly to increase “the harshness of the sentence” the respondents will have to serve. In that, it is “no different from that of parole ineligibility imposed by a judge” (par. 57), which had been held to constitute “punishment” within the meaning of the Charter. Imposing this form of punishment on those who had already been sentenced previously, as the respondents had, was contrary to par. 11(h) of the Charter.

Nor could this violation be justified under s. 1. However worthy the general objective of the Abolition of Early Parole Act might be, what must be justified is its retroactive application in violation of constitutional rights and, the Court held, they are not important enough to do that. It was simply not necessary abolish accelerated parole retroactively.

Indeed. Whatever the reasons for abolishing accelerated parole for the future, imposing tougher punishment retroactively seems merely petty.

A Strike against Three Strikes

The Superior Court of Ontario has struck down another element of the Conservative government’s “though-on-crime” legislative programme last week, in R. v. Hill, 2012 ONSC 5050. (I blogged about another such case here.) The provision at issue in Hill was s. 753(1.1) of the Criminal Code, which provides that if an accused is convicted of one of a list of offences (mostly, but not only, sexual and/or violent ones) and a sentence of two years’ imprisonment or more would be appropriate, and the accused has already been twice convicted of one of the same list of offences, then the accused is presumed to satisfy the criteria for being declared a dangerous offender, unless he proves the contrary on a balance of probabilities, which will normally lead to the imposition of an indefinite sentence of imprisonment. It is a milder version of the three-strikes-and-you-are-out laws popular in certain quarters in the United States, although it creates a rebuttable presumption rather than imposing life imprisonment automatically.

Mr. Hill challenged s. 753(1.1) on the basis that it contravened the presumption of innocence protected by s. 11(d) of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, the prohibition on cruel and unusual punishments protected by s. 12, and the right not to be deprived of liberty except in accordance with principles of fundamental justice, protected by s. 7. of the Charter. Justice Bryant’s decision deals mostly with s. 7. (S. 11(d) doesn’t apply at the sentencing stage, and there is no need to consider s. 12).

S. 7 is obviously engaged by s. 753(1.1) of the Criminal Code, since it makes the imposition of an indeterminate sentence much more likely than it would have been in its absence. Instead of the Crown having to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that an accused meets the criteria for being classified as a dangerous offender, as it has to prove any other element of the offence or aggravating circumstance that can increase the sentence to be imposed, s. 753(1.1) provides that the accused is presumed to meet these criteria unless he can show otherwise. The reversal of the burden of proof is all the more significant since it frees the Crown not from the civil balance-of-probabilities burden, but from the much heavier beyond-reasonable-doubt one.

That is problematic, holds justice Bryant. After reviewing the jurisprudence on the presumption of innocence (which is relevant, despite not being directly applicable at the sentencing stage, once the accused’s guilt has been established) and the burden of proof in criminal cases, he concludes that “the onus and standard of proof for aggravating factors are principles of fundamental justice” within the meaning of the Charter (par. 52). Yet even if the accused manages to raise reasonable doubts about whether he really meets the criteria to be classified a dangerous offender, s. 753(1.1) provides that he must still be classified as such, if he cannot meet the rather more difficult standard of the balance of probabilities. For this reason, s. 753(1.1) is “in prima facie violation of the principles of  fundamental justice” (par. 56). Justice Bryant refers to R. v. D.B., 2008 SCC 25, [2008] 2 S.C.R. 3, in which Justice Abella argued, in her majority reasons, that

[a] young person should receive, at the very least, the same procedural benefit afforded to a convicted adult on sentencing, namely, that the burden is on the Crown to demonstrate why a more severe sentence is necessary and appropriate in any given case (par. 82).

The circle is now complete: young offenders must receive the same benefits as adults; adults now must receive the same benefit as young offenders. That seems like a dubious argument to me, but the conclusion that freeing the Crown from the burden of proving an aggravating factor beyond a reasonable doubt is contrary to fundamental principles of Canadian criminal law seems exactly right.

Justice Bryant then turns to the government’s attempt to justify s. 753(1.1) pursuant to s. 1 of the Charter. Its objective of protecting members of the public against threats to their life and health is pressing and substantial. But it is not necessary to achieve it:  “[t]he Crown did not adduce evidence that a reversal of the onus of proof was necessary to overcome practical evidentiary hurdles which impede the successful prosecution of dangerous offenders” (par. 64). The Crown has access to the necessary evidence; it can require the accused to undergo a psychiatric assessment. It doesn’t need the shortcut created by s. 753(1.1). Furthermore, as the Supreme Court held in D.B., even if the possibility of a heavy (or, here, indefinite) sentence being imposed is necessary to protect the public it is not necessary for its imposition to be easy. Justice Bryant concludes that “it is the availability of an indeterminate sentence which advances the objective of the protection of the public rather than the allocation of the onus of proof to the offender” (par. 70). For no benefit, s. 753(1.1) exacts a heavy cost since, as the Crown’s expert psychiatrist testified, it might require the indefinite imprisonment of people the basis of evidence which, from a scientific point of view, is insufficient to deem them dangerous. It is thus not only unnecessary, but disproportionate. S. 1 cannot save it.

Sounds right to me. Too bad though, that we don’t have a three-strikes-and-you’re-out rule of constitutionality: there have already been more than three strikes against the Tories’ tough-on-crime legislation.