Still Unhappy

The Canadian Judicial Council’s report on the former Justice Camp does little to ease my concerns

First of all, my apologies for the silence in the last couple of weeks. Let me return to something that happened during that period: the Canadian Judicial Council issued its Report to the Minister of Justice in the matter of Robin Camp, the “why didn’t you keep your knees together?” judge. The Council confirmed the recommendation of the Investigative Committee it had previously set up that the judge be dismissed, and Justice Camp finally resigned ― which, as I argued in my post on the Committee’s report he should have done long ago. Unfortunately, Justice Camp’s failure to do so gave the Committee the occasion to issue a report that was, in my view, seriously flawed. The Judicial Council’s own Report does little to remedy these flaws.

My general objection to the Committee’s report was that it was not clear on what basis it recommended that Parliament dismiss Justice Camp. Perhaps it was his (inconvertible) sexism. Perhaps it was his “antipathy” towards, indeed his “bias” against, the law he was applying, or maybe not the law itself but the values underlying it, though it is possible that that was only because this law was “laden with concerns about gender equality bias and discrimination”. Perhaps it was because Justice Camp’s behaviour contributed to a public impression that the system is rigged against the victims of sexual assault. All of these factors were present in Justice Camp’s case, but what about some future one where they would not be? Parliament’s power to remove a judge from office is too grave to be exercised on an uncertain basis.

Unfortunately, the Judicial Council does not clarify matters. Its own report, beyond assertions that it has carefully considered that of the Committee, consists mostly of and of responses to Justice Camp’s objections. The responses are arguably sufficient so far as they go, but while they may have persuaded Justice Camp to finally fall on his sword, they provided little guidance for future that may be somewhat, but not entirely, similar to his. We still do not know whether the various factors identified by the Committee are all necessary, or which of them are, for a judge to be removed. As I did in my earlier post, I want to acknowledge the difficulty of being precise here. Each case is unique and calls for a judgment on its own fact. But I still believe that more clarity about the circumstances in which it is permissible to interfere with judicial independence would have been in order.

The Council might have tried to address one specific point tried to make ― not that I think it did so because I made it! ― about the potential chilling effect of the Committee’s report on judges who might be less than enamoured with the law as it happens to stand from time to time. The Council wants us to know that it is

mindful that any criticism Council levels against a judge must not have a chilling effect on the ability of judges, generally … to call attention to deficiencies in the law in appropriate cases. Indeed, judges have a duty to be critical of existing legislation in specific circumstances, for example where a judge forms a view that a specific provision contravenes our Constitution or otherwise operates in a deficient manner. We do not in any way intend to deter judges from asking the hard questions and taking the difficult positions that are sometimes necessary to discharge their judicial responsibilities. [35]

This is a useful clarification, although in my view it does not go far enough. It does not address the Committee’s confusing, and in my view unsustainable, attempt to distinguish (permissible) criticism of a law’s practical effects and (impermissible) criticism of values underpinning the law. Nor does it address the unjustified asymmetry between judicial commentary that criticizes the law and that which goes out of its way to approve it, though admittedly the latter sort of commentary was not in issue here. Be that as it may, the Council notes that “some of the Judge’s comments in this case were not in the nature of legitimate legal inquiries or comment” [36], perhaps because they were irrelevant to factual and legal issues before him. But again, this strikes me as too vague to provide useful guidance for the future about the scope of “legitimate … comment”.

It is said that hard cases make bad law ― not hard in the sense of intellectually challenging, but hard in the sense of emotionally difficult. But perhaps so do easy ones. Justice Camp’s case was easy ― in the sense that it was easy to want him gone from the bench. But that may well have encouraged the people who decided it ― thoughtful jurists though they are in their day jobs ― to spare themselves some difficult line-drawing exercises. I can only hope that we do not come to regret this.

Justice in Masks

(Some) French judges want their names removed from the decisions they make

In the traditional iconography, Justice wears a blindfold. When we come before her, she must listen to our arguments, but not see us. But should justice also wear a mask, so that we do not see her face? This is the question raised by a report by Caroline Fleuriot for Dalloz Actualité. Ms. Fleuriot writes that the French judges’ union is demanding their names be removed from their decisions, in anticipation of these decisions being made freely available online ― although a number of judges who she quotes are opposed to this idea. And this demand might, of course, seem rather astonishing to us in the common law world. But then again, as Peter McCormick’s recent articles on decisions “by the Court” issued by the Supreme Court of Canada, about which I blogged here, suggest, the concept of judicial anonymity is not entirely foreign to us either. I think the French proposal is a good occasion to further our reflection on it.

As best I understand Ms. Fleuriot’s report, the French judges make two arguments in favour of removing their names from their decisions. They say, first, that failing to do so would encourage increased criticism and even formal complaints aimed at judges personally rather than at their decisions, potentially compromising trial fairness. Second, it would allow the performance of each individual judge to be assessed, including “to identify judges who do not issue decisions that follow the wishes of the government of the day”.

To some extent,these justifications ring hollow. In the common law world, the authors of judicial decisions are routinely identified, and while this does open the door to sometimes personal, and occasionally outright vicious and distasteful criticism, and occasionally formal complaints, this is not generally seen as imperilling judicial independence or impartiality. Neither is the existence of statistics about the decisions of individual judges, even though such statistics are routinely (at least in the United States) pressed in the service of attaching rather crude and sometimes unfair ideological labels to members of the judiciary.

To be sure, I am not at all an expert on the French judiciary; I do not know how strong the protections for judicial independence are in France. If they are much weaker than in countries such as Canada, the United Kingdom, or the United States (in the federal judiciary), perhaps the judges’ union’s concerns are more justified. But if the French judiciary is sufficiently independent now, its worries seem rather overblown, if they are sincere. Indeed, one might wonder whether what is really going on is not simply an attempt to escape criticism ― whether from the government or from parties and civil society.

That said, if we are indeed right be skeptical of the French judges’ seemingly self-serving claims, we should also ― as prof. McCormick urges us ― take a hard look at our own. The Supreme Court is in the habit of issuing decisions signed by “the Court”, without attribution to one author (or several authors, as is increasingly common). Insofar as there is a common thread to these decisions, it is that many (although by no means all) of them involve potential confrontations between the Supreme Court and either a government, whether federal (say l’Affaire Nadon, Reference re Supreme Court Act, ss. 5 and 6, 2014 SCC 21, [2014] 1 S.C.R. 433) or provincial (say Quebec (Attorney-General) v Blaikie, [1979] 2 SCR 1016), whether on issues concerning the judiciary or on other politically salient topics, from the death penalty to language rights. In these cases, the Supreme Court may well be concerned, rightly or wrongly ― often wrongly, I suspect ― about deflecting criticism from its individual members and even with preserving its independence.

Admittedly there are important differences between this practice and that which the French judges’ union is looking to institute. In France, appellate decisions (rendered by multi-member panels) already are anonymous in the sense that “by the court” decisions are: they do not identify an individual author, though first instance decisions rendered by a single judge necessarily are not. If I understand the point of the judges’ union’s demands correctly, so far as appellate courts are concerned, they seek to hide the composition of the panels, as well as the identity of the actual authors of the decision. When the Supreme Court (or, on occasion, provincial courts of appeal) issue “by the court” decisions, we are always told who was on the panel. And of course, the practice of “by the court” decisions is quantitatively marginal ― although qualitatively significant ― one. On average, the Supreme Court issues only one or two decisions a year without attribution.

Indeed, these differences are a good starting point in thinking about whether the anonymity of judicial decisions is a problem, as prof. McCormick argues it is, and as I am now inclined to think too. Does it matter that we know the composition of the panels that render unattributed decisions? I suppose some information is better than none. And of course, in a very important sense, judges should be accountable, or amenable to criticism, not just for the decisions they happen to write, but also for those with which they agree ― at least in the common law world, where concurring and dissenting is (almost) always possible, if sometimes unpopular with one’s colleagues on the bench. Still, the composition of the panel ― especially a large panel at the Supreme Court ― seems insufficient. Does it matter whether only a few, or many, or all decisions are unattributed? I think it does. If the practice of “by the Court” decisions were really sporadic (and it is now a bit more than that), it would arguably matter very little. If it were clearly reserved for decisions where the Courts feel the very separation of powers, or indeed the future of the country, is at stake (as the Supreme Court may have felt in, say Canada (Prime Minister) v. Khadr, 2010 SCC 3, [2010] 1 SCR 44, and in Reference re Secession of Quebec, [1998] 2 SCR 217), it would be more readily understandable. But it is neither, and as prof. McCormick shows, it is difficult to establish a coherent narrative that would account for all of the “by the court” decisions.

Thus it may well be that the French judges’ proposal is, from our standpoint, not exactly an entirely alien idea, but rather something like a reductio ad absurdum of our own Supreme Court’s practice. It is possible to criticize the former and accept the latter, of course. But perhaps we should not be too quick to do so. Whatever we might think of justice in robes, justice in masks does not seem like a very attractive ideal.

H/t: Pierre Trudel

Says Who, Again?

Peter McCormick on why “by the Court” decisions matter – and who wrote them.

A few years ago, I blogged about an attempt to unmask the authors of “per curiam” opinions of the Supreme Court of the United States by having a computer identify individual judges’ word use patterns. Although I was skeptical about the value of the exercise, I noted that if, as its authors suggested, the attribution of opinions to the Court rather than to individual judges is indeed cause for concern, then

we in Canada have a problem ― and need somebody to replicate their study for our own Supreme Court a.s.a.p. [because] [f]or over 30 years, it has had the habit of issuing opinions ‘by the Court’ in the most important and controversial cases”.

In a couple of articles published last year, Peter McCormick takes up the double challenge of identifying the authors of the anonymous decisions of Supreme Court of Canada issued since Beverley McLachlin became Chief Justice, and of describing the overall history of such decisions (including those signed by all of the judges in a majority, such as the one in l’Affaire Nadon), going back to when they first became a significant factor in the Supreme Court’s jurisprudence.

Prof. McCormick details this history in  “‘By the Court’: The Untold Story of a Canadian Judicial Innovation“. Although the device of unanimous and anonymous decisions has been in use for almost as long as the Court has existed, it is only in the 1960s that it was deployed in significant cases, rather than minor procedural ones. And it was, prof. McCormick suggests, something of an accident. The Court issued its first anonymous opinion, signed by the eight members of the majority, in Reference Re: Steven Murray Truscott, [1967] SCR 309, in which, as prof. McCormick puts it, the government was asking the court, “Had you heard the appeal that you denied leave to eight years ago, would you
have allowed it?” (1057) In an “extraordinary” (1058) attempt to save face and resist the accusation implicit in the question, the majority issued a “joint opinion” signed by each of its members. Shortly thereafter, the precedent was applied when the Court delivered its opinion in Reference Re: Offshore Mineral Rights, [1967] SCR 792, signed this time as “the joint opinion of the Court”, and again a dozen years later, in Att. Gen. of Quebec v. Blaikie, [1979] 2 SCR 1016 ― a “revival” that prof. McCormick credits to Justices Martland and Ritchie.

Blaikie was followed by the trickle of “by the Court” opinions that has not stopped to this day: prof. McCormick counts “fifty of these in the forty-eight years since 1967, a number
that shrinks to forty-five if we treat companion cases … as single examples”. (1059) Not all of these opinions are very significant; there have been cases where the choice of unanimity was “clearly less a matter of strategic choice than of administrative convenience … where a judgment simply could not be attributed in the normal way” (1064) due to the death or health problems of its true author. But most of the anonymous decisions were in important cases, largely in various areas of constitutional law. Many unanimous opinions were delivered in response to reference questions asked by the federal government, especially when the Supreme Court was unanimous. Others arose in “cases that deal with issues that relate directly to the judiciary as an institution”, (1075) or indeed specifically with the Supreme Court ― although, as prof. McCormick notes, there have also been many cases dealing with judicial independence that were not anonymous, including the notorious Reference re Remuneration of Judges of the Provincial Court (P.E.I.), [1997] 3 S.C.R. 3. And, under the long leadership of Chief Justice McLachlin, the Supreme Court’s use of anonymous opinions is arguably more vigorous than ever.

Does this matter though? Prof. McCormick insists that it does. The “packaging” of court decisions, as well as their “content”, is significant;  “the mode of presentation” of the Supreme Court’s decisions is “the product of conscious and shared choices” (1052) by the judges, not an accident. Because the Court matters, these choices matter too. The choice to present a judgment as the opinion of the “the Court” itself, rather than any individual judge, represents the extreme case of the Court’s collective ethos prevailing over the individual ambitions of its members, and is inextricably linked to the Court’s positioning itself as an institution to be reckoned with, especially in references where the Court acts as “a unified institution providing the other half of a conversation about national governance with the federal government”. (1074) Moreover, such a choice “flatly repudiates [the] expectation”, nearly universal in common law jurisdictions, that a judge will take responsibility for his or her decisions and can be praised or criticized for them: “the whole point is that no single judge is identified and no individual accepts responsibility”. (1054)

But prof. McCormick’s other article, “Nom de Plume: Who Writes the Supreme Court’s ‘By the Court’ Judgments?”(2016) 39 Dal LJ 77 (not freely available, alas), seeks to make sure that the judges face the music, if only belatedly. Like the American paper on which my original post about “by the Court” opinions was based, it uses linguistic analysis to identify the likely authors of anonymous opinions ― in prof. McCormick’s case, those of the Supreme Court of Canada since Beverley McLachlin became Chief Justice. This should give us an insight into “how the Court is evolving in its decision-making and equally important decision-explaining process”. (84) Is the process of reaching decisions attributed to the Court as a whole the same as with other cases, or is it somehow different (for example, with an even more important role for the Chief Justice)?

The attempt isn’t entirely successful: prof. McCormick is only able to identify a “probable” author for a little more than a third of the decisions that he has analyzed. For most of the others, he points to two, and in a couple of cases to three “possible” authors. (It is of course possible that these decisions were jointly written, as some of the Court’s attributed decisions are, but it seems unlikely that all were.) And even when prof. McCormick points to a single “probable” author, this is not always a clear finding. Still, it’s an impressive achievement. For instance, prof. McCormick points to Chief Justice McLachlin as the “probable” author of both the majority opinion in l’Affaire Nadon and the Court’s opinion in the Reference re Senate Reform, 2014 SCC 32, [2014] 1 SCR 704. The Chief Justice is likely to have written or co-written many of the other “by the Court” decisions too, with a few other judges also more regular likely authors than others. Prof. McCormick concludes that more research would be warranted into the issue and, given both his partial but real success and the remaining uncertainties, it is hard to disagree.

Overall, prof. McCormick has persuaded me that my previous rather casual dismissal of the importance of this issue was misguided. “By the Court” decisions matter, as he says, because it matters how power ― including judicial power ― is exercised. While I often accept the need for confidentiality, even secrecy, in the working of government (including the courts), any given instance where government seeks to withdraw information ― perhaps especially information that it normally makes available, such as the identity of the author(s) of judicial opinions ― deserves scrutiny. An institution engaged in information-withholding should be prepared to justify itself. The Supreme Court does not do that. So long as it does not, at the very least, it should not be surprised at receiving some extra scrutiny, welcome or otherwise.


Would term limits for Chief Justices be a good idea?

Yesterday was the 17th anniversary of Beverley McLachlin’s appointment as Chief Justice of Canada. The Supreme Court’s account issued a celebratory tweet. And for my part, to visualize this length of time, I headed over to the Internet Archive to find what the Court’s website looked like in early 2000. A worthy exemplar of fin de siècle web design it was.


But, on a (slightly) more serious note, I have also been asking myself this question: is it a good idea for a Chief Justice to remain in this position for so long? This isn’t, mind you, a dig at Chief Justice McLachlin, or at least it isn’t only that. I have my differences with her, but the issue here isn’t a personal one. It’s about whether the position itself is such that no person, whoever she or he may be,  should occupy it for such an extended period of time.

Admittedly, Chief Justice McLachlin’s tenure, although record-breaking in Canada’s history, isn’t exceptionally long in a comparative perspective. Indeed, our Chief Justice is not even the longest-serving one among her current peers. New Zealand’s Sian Elias was appointed on May 17, 1999 (although she was the Chief Justice of the Court of Appeal at the time, and New Zealand still retained appeals to the Privy Council, the Supreme Court of New Zealand only being created in 2003, at which point the senior Court of Appeal judges were promoted). And while Chief Justice McLachlin’s tenure will soon overtake that of Warren Burger as Chief Justice of the United States, she will not quite catch William Rehnquist before she retires ― never mind John Marshall, who was Chief Justice for more than 34 years.

Still, one can wonder whether this all might be too much of a good thing. Now, I think that the Canadian approach to judicial terms ― appointing judges until a fixed retirement age ― is generally the right one. (Other Commonwealth countries, including New Zealand, generally follow this approach too.) Appointing judges for a fixed term, even a long one, means that, unless they are appointed at a relatively old age, they will be looking for post-bench employment, which is not especially conducive to independence in office. If the term is renewable, the problem is that much worse. Conversely, life-time appointments with no age limit, like those of federal judges in the United States, allow judges to continue in office longer than is probably good for them and, more importantly, for everyone else, as the recent escapades of Justice Ginsburg and Judge Posner demonstrate. But it’s not clear that the office of Chief Justice should be treated in the same way as that of an ordinary judge.

It is, after all, perfectly conceivable that a judge will become Chief Justice of his or her court for a time, and then return to the position of an ordinary ― or, in the language of the Supreme Court Act, puisne ― judge. Indeed, this is precisely the approach taken to the lower federal courts in the United States, where the Chief Judges of the Circuit Courts serve in that position for seven years or until they turn 70. Put the details ― the length of the term, and whether there should be an age limit where judges are already subject to mandatory retirement ― to one side. The question of whether Chief Justices should be individually chosen, as they are now, or selected pursuant to an automatically applicable rule, as the Chief Judges of Circuit Courts are, is also secondary. What I’m interested in is whether, once chosen in whatever fashion, a Chief Justice should retain that position so long as he or she remains a judge or only for a fixed term.

Unlike fixed terms for the tenure of ordinary judicial office, I do not think that such a rule would raise any concerns about judicial independence. There would be no question about what the soon-to-be-former Chief Justice is going to do next, or any reason to worry about his or her currying favour with a successor. A more serious concern might be whether a fixed-term Chief Justice would be weaker than an indefinite-term one when staring down other branches of government, as Chief Justice McLachlin had to do when the federal government sought to cast aspersions on her and her court’s integrity in the aftermath of l’Affaire Nadon. But I doubt that a Chief Justice’s position in such an unfortunate circumstance is meaningfully strengthened by the absence of a term limit. Again, provided that at the end of his term he or she simply reverts to being an ordinary judge able to serve until retirement age, the Chief Justice would be no more vulnerable to the government’s pressure than Chief Justice McLachlin was. In short, I do not see much of a downside to fixed term appointments to the position of Chief Justice ― though perhaps I am missing something.

As for upsides, they are admittedly speculative, but they might nevertheless be worth pursuing. A Chief Justice’s powers are narrow, but they are powers all the same, notably that of assigning the writing of opinions. And all power ― not only absolute power ― tends to corrupt. It is probably best if a single person does not exercise power for decades on end ― for the institution over which that person presides, the persons whose fates that institution decides, and indeed that person her- or himself. Moreover, in addition to the corrupting effects of power, a Chief Justice is also liable to be influenced by her or his position as the representative of the court, and indeed of the judiciary more broadly. Chief Justices are liable to see their loyalties as being primarily to the institutions they head, rather than to the law; they dislike it when their colleagues dissent; they might vote with an eye to their court’s standing and be tempted to twist arms if not break legs to get their colleagues to go along. These tendencies may be understandable, and perhaps even useful to some extent, but they can also become toxic if they are too strong. And it seems reasonable to suppose that the longer a person remains in the position of Chief Justice, the more he or she gets used to seeing the world from the distinct, and not always healthy, perspective that this office gives. Limiting the time during which a judge is put in this special position may check these tendencies, again to the benefit of all concerned.

Take this for what it’s worth ― it’s only me thinking out loud. And of course, should anyone take up the suggestion, the question of whether implementing it could be done by amending the Supreme Court Act or requires an amendment pursuant to par 42(1)(d) of the Constitution Act, 1982 would have to be faced. (The short answer to that question is “Who knows?”.) As it is, Chief Justice McLachlin is bound to retire by September 2018. But if the Prime Minister chooses to appoint one of the Québec judges to succeed her, then the next Chief Justice’s term might be even longer than hers.

Abusus Non Tollit Usum

Should judges refrain from accusing their colleagues of acting illegitimately?

In a recent conversation, my friend and sometime guest here Maxime St-Hilaire argued that judges should refrain from accusing their colleagues of having overstepped the bounds of the judicial role, or otherwise acted illegitimately ― which they are mostly, although not exclusively, apt to do in dissenting opinions. Prof. St-Hilaire is especially opposed specifically to the use of the labels of “activism” and “restraint” to advance such criticism. Having long argued that these are unhelpful, muddy concepts, I agree with him to this extent. And I agree that accusations of illegitimate behaviour should not be levelled lightly, and that those who make them risk being exposed as hypocrites. However, I disagree with the point of principle: in my view, it is not inappropriate for a judge to claim that a colleague’s opinion not only misinterprets the law, but amounts to the sort of decision-making that is not open to judges acting within the confines of their constitutional role.

Prof. St-Hilaire has two reasons for his position. First, he believes that philosophizing is not part of the judicial job description. Second, he thinks that accusations of illegitimacy undermine the courts’ authority generally and judicial review of legislation specifically, and ultimately the Rule of Law itself. In my view, this is not so. Committing philosophy, as it were, is an inextricable part of the judges’ job. The scope of judicial authority is contestable and contested, and these contests are very much a part of the business of law, and not only a theoretical debate external to it. As for the Rule of Law, in my view, it does not depend on the courts presenting a united front despite existing disagreements among their members.

It is tempting to say that the controversies about the nature of law, its relationship to morality, and the proper role of the judge in respect of both law and morality, which excite the minds of legal academics, ought to be of no concern to sitting judges. Indeed, some legal academics advocate this view as a means of escaping the (admittedly often stale and always abstruse) debates about legal positivism and anti-positivism. But a judge’s theory of law matters in some cases. It matters that in the Patriation Reference, [1981] 1 SCR 753,  a majority of the Supreme Court adhered to a legal theory that I have described in a forthcoming piece as “pusilanimous positivism ― which simultaneously insists that any rules of law that are not enacted, whose existence cannot seriously be denied, must have been made by judges, and that judges have no mandate to engage in such law-making”. Had they adhered to a different legal theory, they could have recognized the legal status of constitutional convention, or given effect to constitutional principles as Justices Martland and Ritchie would have. Conversely, if the Court remained wedded to the legal theory the majority embraced in the Patriation Reference, then its opinions in Re Manitoba Language Rights, [1985] 1 SCR 721Reference re Secession of Quebec, [1998] 2 SCR 217, and perhaps most significantly Reference re Remuneration of Judges of the Provincial Court (P.E.I.), [1997] 3 S.C.R. 3 and its progeny, which were also based on the idea that principles, and not just posited rules, were part of the law of the constitution, would have been quite different.

To be sure, one can be concerned that judges are not very good legal philosophers. Some legal theories ― notably Ronald Dworkin’s ― assume that they are, but this is probably a mistake. There is simply no particularly good reason to think that judges are good philosophers. But then, they are also not very good economists, political scientists, geneticists, and much else besides. A snarky person might add that they are all too often not very good lawyers, either. But judges still have to engage with these various disciplines on occasion ― especially, although certainly not only, in constitutional cases ― and they must then do it as best they can. Whether or not judges are candid about this does not change the underlying reality that these other disciplines bear on, and sometimes are decisive to, the courts’ resolution of the disputes that come before them ― and there is, surely, a great deal to be said for judicial candour.

But assuming that judicial candour is good, can there be too much of a good thing? Prof. St-Hilaire thinks so. For him (and for many others who agree with him) the contemporary understanding of the Rule of Law principle encompasses judicial review of legislation. Arguments to the effect that a court has acted illegitimately in exercising its power of judicial review legislation undermine the authority of judicial review generally, and criticism that calls the legitimacy of judicial review into question undermines the Rule of Law itself. Accordingly, judges of all people should refrain from it. (Prof. St-Hilaire is not opposed to this sort of arguments being made by academics or journalists, presumably because they do not have the same responsibilities to the Rule of Law.)

In my view, by contrast, judicial review is not an inherent part of the Rule of Law, but only one possible means to secure the Rule of Law requirement (naïve though it may be) that public authority be exercised in accordance with the law. Indeed judicial review must itself be exercised in accordance with the law ― notably, constitutional text, but also other relevant legal rules, whether or not they have entrenched constitutional status. When a court acts without legal justification, it acts every bit as illegitimately (as well as illegally) as the executive or the legislature in like circumstances. It follows that the power of judicial review can itself become destructive of the Rule of Law if used for purposes other than ensuring that the executive and the legislature stay within the bounds of their authority. If, for example, a court uses its power of judicial review to attempt to bring about the just society, then it is not upholding the Rule of Law at all. It is indulging its members’ preferences, in the same way as government that knowingly secures the enactment of unconstitutional legislation, but in a manner that is all the more pernicious because it claims the authority and respect due to law.

It seems to me that, if they see this happening in a decision made by their colleagues, judges can ― and even should ― speak out. For very good reason, judges are not accountable for their exercise of their powers, except in the limited but still very important sense of having to give reasons for (most of) their decisions. Among other benefits, reason-giving exposes judges to scrutiny and criticism, starting with scrutiny and criticism by their colleagues who, in the common law tradition, have generally (the occasional resistance of some Chief Justices notwithstanding) been allowed to publish dissenting or concurring opinions.The possibility of criticism, starting with criticism in a separate opinion, is the only check on the power of a judicial majority in a case, beyond the restraint that individual conscience may or may not impose. So this check should be applied vigorously in order to ensure that the judicial power, and especially the power of judicial review, is exercised so as to further, not to undermine, the Rule of Law. As the Rule of Law’s first line of defence, dissenting judges must undertake, not shirk, this responsibility.

Of course, as I wrote here not long ago, those who criticize judges, including other judges, should do so “without resorting to taunts, insults, and sloganeering”. Accusations of “activism”, unless elaborated and supported by argument, amount to sloganeering at best. But as I wrote in that post,

[i]f we are to have, in John Adams’s celebrated phrase, a government of laws not of men, judges, like legislators and ministers of the Crown, must obey the law ― and be called out when they fail to do so. It is for this reason that I am wary of, and do my best to contradict, those who would shut down criticism of the judiciary on the pretense that it risks undermining the Rule of Law.

Sure, “juristocracy” or “gouvernement des juges” can be used as taunts and empty slogans ― and are so used by people who do not for a second care for the Rule of Law. But as the Romans put it, abusus non tollit usum. That something can be abused does not mean that it should not be used properly.

Unhappy Camper

The shortcomings of the report into the misconduct of Justice Camp

The Inquiry Committee set up by the Canadian Judicial Council to investigate whether Justice Robin Camp ― the “why didn’t keep your knees together” judge ― has “committed misconduct and placed himself, by his conduct, in a position incompatible with the due execution of the office of judge” has produced a report concluding that he did. The Report has been praised, not least for its pedagogical qualities. But of course, its primary function is not to be a teaching aid in educating lawyers and judges about rape myths and the conduct of sexual assault trials, useful though it may be in doing that. It is, first and foremost, the potential foundation for Parliament’s exercise of one of its most tremendous powers: that of moving an address for the removal of a judge. And in that respect, in my view, the Report falls short of what would have been desirable.

To be clear: I do not say this out of any sympathy for Justice Camp. His conduct towards the complainant (and, to a lesser extent, the prosecutor) during that notorious trial was appalling, as the Report details. And, unlike Brenda Cossman, I do not think that whatever efforts Justice Camp has undertaken since to educate himself about the history and purposes of sexual assault law are enough to allow him to go on in office. This re-education, whatever its value, cannot address the fact that he had the conceit of conducting a trial in an area of law about which he knew next to nothing. Since he is now at the Federal Court, there would be no sexual assault trials in Justice Camp’s future even if here were to stay there, but there could be plenty of other cases in areas of the law about which he does not know much ― and I do not think that litigants who appear before him in such cases can be assured that he will make enough efforts to educate himself about those. So there are sufficient reasons in the report for Justice Camp to resign ― indeed, to make resignation the only right course of action.

But are there sufficient reasons for Parliament to fire him? That is not so clear to me. The Report never quite articulates a clear reason why Justice Camp should be removed from office. Instead, it seems that a combination of several factors, which may or may not have been sufficient on their own (we are never told), lead to that conclusion. Such an approach is not necessarily objectionable in other contexts, but it is a problem here, because, not knowing which of the Report’s concerns might have been the decisive one, governments, activists, or simply disgruntled individuals with an ax to grind may be tempted in future cases to use any one of them as a stand-alone motivation for an attempt to remove another judge. And this is disturbing, because these concerns can potentially extend to circumstances quite unlike those involved here, and the exercise of any power, but especially one as awesome (in the old sense of the word) as the removal of a judge, in the absence of clear principles limiting this power, is worrying.

* * *

Part of the reason why the Report suggests that Justice Camp ought to be removed from office is simply the sexist stereotyping that many of his comments during the trial and his subsequent reasons for judgment reflect. But it is only a part, and as I read the Report not the decisive one. Rather, the Report puts a great of emphasis on the fact that Justice Camp’s comments demonstrated his “antipathy towards laws designed to protect vulnerable witnesses, promote equality, and bring integrity to sexual assault trials”. [6] The Report suggests that “antipathy” towards the law the judge is charged with applying, or maybe to the values underlying this law, in itself amounts to bias ― though it is not quite clear whether this is only in the unique circumstances of a sexual assault trial, but perhaps more generally.

The Report notes that “[g]enerally, judges refrain from commenting on the merits or wisdom of laws enacted by Parliament or the provincial legislatures”, but also “that judges are permitted to criticize the law in certain contexts”, [86] especially in constitutional cases. The Report concludes, however, that

Justice Camp’s comments about [the ‘rape shield’ provision] of the Criminal Code are far removed from … permissible criticism. His comments were gratuitous and stemmed from a limited understanding of what he was so quick to criticize. Moreover, his criticisms were not based on thoughtful analysis nor even any analysis at all. [88]

This criticism is to be contrasted with, not compared to, the good sort of criticism that “ha[s] nothing to do with the values underlying those provisions” that a judge is criticizing, “and everything to do with the well-known and widely accepted fact that” the application of these provisions did not serve these values well. [89] The report finds that “Justice Camp held a bias, whether conscious or unconscious, in the form of an antipathy towards the present laws governing sexual assault trials”; [104]  indeed, “his bias, whether conscious or not, led him to express disdain for the law in its current state”, [108] to formulate “comments … reasonably understood as being disparaging of legislative attempts to remove discredited myths from sexual assault law”. [182]

What the Report sees ― quite fairly, I hasten to add ― as Justice Camp’s “disdain for the careful development of the law through legislation and jurisprudence designed to bring balance and equality to a process that historically discriminated against women” [276] is, if I understand correctly, every bit as important as his underlying sexism in justifying Justice Camp’s removal. On the one hand,

[s]exual assault law and sexual assault trials are laden with concerns about gender equality, bias and discrimination. Justice Camp’s manifest failure to behave impartially and to demonstrate respect for equality in such a context, over a protracted period of time, has raised considerable public concern about how women who allege they have been sexually assaulted are treated in the judicial system. [287]

On the other,

[w]hen a judge displays disrespect or antipathy for the values that a law is designed to achieve or towards witnesses whose vulnerability is exposed, it encourages a similar disrespect or antipathy in others in the judicial system. Judges are not viewed simply as participants in the justice system. They are expected to be leaders of its ethos and exemplars of its values. … A judge who uses his role in a criminal trial to denigrate values he should respect commits serious and significant misconduct. [289, 291]

The Report makes an additional, and only distantly related point, stating that,

Justice Camp’s conduct … renders it more difficult for judges to make credibility findings adverse to a complainant in a sexual assault prosecution without fear of facing complaints that they too are part of a system rife with bias. [292]

Again, it is difficult to tell what contribution this argument makes to the report’s overall conclusion: is it important? is it necessary? is it sufficient? There is no telling.

* * *

None of the points the Report makes are wrong. But, as I suggested above, because we do not know how decisive each of them is, I worry about their being taken in isolation and used to attack judges in the future. Even if the attacks prove unsuccessful, they are liable to have a chilling effect that would undermine judicial independence.

Take the very last point, about Justice Camp’s conduct contributing to an impression that, to use a recently popular term, the system is rigged. It is very likely true. But how much can it matter? If a court issues a decision which is legally questionable and which provokes a public outcry, this is likely to “render it more difficult for judges” to reach similar outcomes “without facing complaints that they too are part” of a rigged system. But does this mean that any legally questionable, or indeed obviously mistaken, judicial decision is grounds for complaint to a judicial council (as opposed to appellate intervention, which is supposed to be the remedy for errors of law, even very bad ones)? I don’t think this is what the report means to suggest, but on its face, its argument is not limited to “credibility findings adverse to a complainant in a sexual assault prosecution”, and could be applied in all sorts of other situations.

The report’s discussion of judicial “antipathy” for or “denigration” of the law suffers from the same flaw. Is it always true that antipathy to a law that a judge ought to apply ― or perhaps to the values underlying this law ― amounts to bias and hence to misconduct? If so, then opinions such that of Judge Richard Posner in Khan v State Oil, 93 F.3d 1358 (1996) (7th Cir.), much of which was devoted to showing why the relevant Supreme Court precedent was “unsound when decided”, would amount to judicial misconduct (although Judge Posner actually applied the precedent that he was criticizing). And by the way, why is there, if indeed there is, a distinction between judicial criticism of the law, which may (at least sometimes) be tolerable (though this isn’t very clear), and judicial criticism of values underlying the law (which apparently is not)? Judges, after all, are not just sworn to uphold the values of the law ― they are sworn to uphold the law itself, though they sometimes forget this, so if criticism of values suggests that a judge might not do his or her duty, then presumably so does criticism of the law itself.

But perhaps criticism only amounts to bias when the law in question is “laden with concerns about gender equality, bias and discrimination”. Yet what area of the law is not laden with concerns about equality, bias, discrimination ― at least in the opinion of some theorist? (And whose opinion about these matters ought to count?) I am not being snarky here ― I certainly do not mean that the report is wrong about sexual assault law being laden with these concerns, or that various critical theorists are always wrong about the presence of bias in other areas of the law. What I am saying is that if the existence of concerns about bias, or perhaps about one specific form of bias (but then, why this one in particular?), are the limiting principle that defines when criticism of the law is and is not permissible, then the principle is hopelessly uncertain, and cannot do much limiting at all.

Let me make a final point in this vein, which is something of a pet peeve. If, as the report suggests, judicial antipathy to the values underlying existing law is in itself bias against those whom the law is meant to protect, then isn’t vocal sympathy for the values underlying existing law bias in favour of its beneficiaries? And isn’t bias in favour of a party or, as in this case, a witness, just as much a breach of judicial impartiality as bias against one? This isn’t just a theoretical concern: courts do sometimes go out of their way to commend the law, and while I have argued elsewhere that they should avoid doing so, I would not want judges who commit this particular judicial sin to be the subject of inquisition.

* * *

Perhaps I am making a little too much of the Report’s failure to draw clear lines between what is and what is not permissible. Perhaps a little chilling effect forcing judges to err on the side of circumspection in their commentary might even be a good thing. Then again, I doubt somehow that judges who go around the country or even the world telling people that their job is “to think about what’s best for Canadian society” rather than anything so lowly as merely applying the law will be deterred.

 It may be that judicial misconduct is, to some extent, one of those “I know it when I see it” things. But people disagree about what it is that they see. Where I see distressing arrogance, others see business as usual, and vice versa.  We might all agree about Justice Camp, but it is likely enough that we will not agree about some future cases. And while reasonable disagreement is inevitable in law and politics, and arguably something to be embraced rather than feared, there a few areas where clarity and generally understood rules are especially important. The realm of permissible interference with judicial independence is one of them. For this reason, the Report leaves me with a very uneasy feeling.

Sub Lege

I often criticize judges, on this blog and elsewhere. I think it is very important that people who exercise power over citizens be subject to criticism whenever they exercise it unwisely or, worse, recklessly, and still more when they abuse or overstep the powers given them. While the media can, more or less, be counted on to criticize legislators and bureaucrats, from time to time anyway, criticizing judges is difficult, because this criticism has to be informed by technical knowledge and skills, which few journalists possess (though there are worthy exceptions). This means that it is especially important for lawyers, including academic lawyers such as myself, to be the judiciary’s critics. And precisely because I am an unabashed critic of the judiciary that I think I need to do so something that might be outside the scope of my normal blogging.

I want to express my dismay, my horror even, at the way in which judges have been treated in much of the British Press in response to the High Court’s ruling that legislation is necessary before the United Kingdom’s government can formally initiate the process of withdrawing the UK from the European Union. The Guardian has collected the front-page reactions: “Who do you think you are?” “The judges versus the people” “ENEMIES OF THE PEOPLE“. A paper “helpfully” noted that one of the (very distinguished) members of the panel that heard that case is gay. Another is apparently just as suspicious by virtue of his wealth. This is shocking, vile stuff.

I do not feel confident enough to comment on the merits of the High Court’s ruling, but there appears to be quite a strong case ― made for instance by John Finnis and other experts for the Judicial Power Project, as well as by Adam Tomkins ― for the proposition that the Court erred. That’s beside the point ― except insofar as these arguments, some of them quite forceful, remind us that it is possible to criticize judicial decisions without resorting to taunts, insults, and sloganeering. Whether or not the High Court rendered the right decision, it decided the case before it in accordance with its understanding of the law and of its own constitutional role. The argument implicit in the tabloids’ headlines is that the court had to decide otherwise ― having no regard to the law, but only to the supposed will of the people. But that would be a culpable dereliction of duty; that would make judges act like politicians in robes; that would make their unelected, unaccountable status grounds for criticism.

But perhaps trying to discern an argument amidst that fury is already too generous. Look at the words they use. Enemies of the people! In modern history, the phrase was apparently first popularized by Robespierre. In case anyone is wondering what life under the Jacobins was like, they should read Dame Hilary Mantel’s A Place of Greater Safety, which succeeds remarkably at creating an atmosphere of all-encompassing, pervasive fear. That same atmosphere was also characteristic of the other period in history where “enemy of the people” was a label used by power to justify mass murder ― Stalin’s purges. This is the heritage which the English press now claims. Land of hope and glory, mother of the free!

Criticizing courts is necessary if we are to hold on to the inevitably precarious proposition that there is a law apart from what the courts say the law is; that there can be a Rule of Law and not merely a rule of judges. If we are to have, in John Adams’s celebrated phrase, a government of laws not of men, judges, like legislators and ministers of the Crown, must obey the law ― and be called out when they fail to do so. It is for this reason that I am wary of, and do my best to contradict, those who would shut down criticism of the judiciary on the pretense that it risks undermining the Rule of Law. But if we are to have a government of laws not of men, then even the most revered men and women ― which in a democracy means the voters ― cannot stand above the law.

A final historical parallel, perhaps more exact although of greater antiquity, is in order. When in 1607 the King of England thought that he could substitute his own judgment for that of the law, his Chief Justice would not let him:

His Majesty was not learned in the laws of his realm of England, and causes which concern the life, or inheritance, or goods, or fortunes of his subjects, are not to be decided by natural reason but by the artificial reason and judgment of law, which law is an act which requires long study and experience, before that a man can attain to the cognizance of it: that the law was the golden met-wand and measure to try the causes of the subjects; and which protected His Majesty in safety and peace: with which the King was greatly offended, and said, that then he should be under the law, which was treason to affirm, as he said; to which I said, that Bracton saith, quod Rex non debet esse sub homine, sed sub Deo et lege [that the King ought not to be under any man but under God and the law].

Like once their king, the people of England ― or at least the demagogues who would speak for them ― may be offended by being “under the law”. But ― as the examples of the Jacobins and the Bolsheviks remind us ― it is the law that protects them in safety and peace. One has every right to insist that judges too keep to the law. But it is lunacy ― suicidal lunacy ― to wish to with to throw off the law’s protection under the pretense of throwing off its shackles.