Category Archives: Judiciary

Conor Gearty: On Fantasy Island: British politics, English judges and the European Convention on Human Rights

conorMy first encounter with the fantasies that underpin English public law came in the 1980s. I had just starting teaching constitutional law and was taking my first year students through Dicey: the independent rule of law; the availability of remedies to all, without fear or favour; the common law’s marvellous protection of civil liberties; how great we were, how terrible the continent; and all the rest of it. Outside the classroom, striking miners were being routinely beaten up by the police, their picketing disrupted by road blocks, their liberty eroded by mass bail conditions. The Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament was having its marches banned and its protests inhibited by ‘no-go’ areas arbitrarily erected by the police around American bases into which it had been decided to move a new generation of nuclear weapons. Some of my students were even beaten up themselves, on a march against education cuts in London – much to their surprise given what I was teaching them.

Far from confronting any of this from the perspective of principle, the courts were happy to act as a benign legitimating force, their various rulings invariably serving to throw the necessary constitutional camouflage over successive exercises of raw state violence. Eventually the judges overreached themselves even by the standards of the day: their absurd determination to prevent publication of a book (Spycatcher, by Peter Wright) containing serious allegations of criminality against the security services fell apart thanks partly to being published in the US under the protection of the first amendment but mainly to the determination of a European Court of Human Rights to take freedom of expression more seriously than had the supposed guardians of liberty on the Strand. (More on this court later, of course.) The determined commitment of a succession of senior judges to keep Irish prisoners in jail for serious terrorist offences long after it was obvious to all that the men (and in some cases children) involved had been victims of serious miscarriages of justice eventually brought the reckless reactionary partisanship of the senior judiciary to center stage where it could finally be seen and understood by all: the true perspective of the Dennings, the Diplocks, the Lanes, the Bridges, the Donaldsons was eventually exposed for all to see. By the early nineties, the Dicey fantasy I had found on arrival in England was in ruins, believed by almost no one, exposed as a construct founded on deceit.

It is invariably easier to expose the iniquities of the past than it is to address the problems of today. The judiciary has remade itself in a way that has been undoubtedly successful; they are certainly not as they were in the 1980s: aloof, national service men, bound by the Kilmuir rules to an extra-judicial omerta that removed them from all public discourse. The first generation of judges after the catastrophes of the late 1980s responsible for this make-over took to human rights as their penance for past sins and when they got the Human Rights Act (for which many of them had quietly campaigned) they went about interpreting it in a way that has been beneficial. But these men (and a very few women) are now largely going or gone, being replaced by a newer generation of senior figures – even more male than in the immediate past – whose pride in what they do seems untainted by any awareness of past wrong. And in their excitement at their success, not only past wrongs are being forgotten but truths are being constructed in a way that bears striking resemblance to that past. This revival of fantasy is now reacting with the current political atmosphere in a way that threatens to produce a poisonous cocktail that could destroy modern England. I do not believe I exaggerate.

So who are these judges who are at a political front-line many of them probably don’t know exists? We can learn far more than we used to of how they see the world. There are many speeches and public lectures: the Kilmuir rules are long forgotten. The habits of certainty and decisiveness so essential to adjudication are not easily laid aside at the lectern when judges approach it. Perspectives are laid out not as tentative scholarly arguments so much as authoritative findings of fact.   As President of the Supreme Court, Lord Neuberger is understandably one of the more prolific speech-makers. His talk at the Supreme Court of Victoria in Melbourne on 8 August this year introduces us to our first contemporary fantasy: the myth of Whiggish inexorability.   We learn from Lord Neuberger that ‘[t]he history of Human Rights and the United Kingdom in the last 100 years can be divided into several periods’: the ‘dark ages pre 1951 when Europe became ‘sharply aware of the need for [a] strong, clear and codified set of human rights’ when we in the UK did not; the ‘middle ages’ between 1951 and 1966 (when individuals were first allowed to take the UK to the European Court of Human Rights); the ‘years of transition’ between 1966 and implementation of the Human Rights Act 2000 when ‘human rights started to leak into the judicial cerebellum’ and – inevitably – ‘the age of enlightenment’ of today:

There is nothing here about the European choice directly after the war being governed by politics and the fear of the Left that has been so convincingly demonstrated in recent scholarship: the work of Marco Duranti in particular. There is no nod towards the decay of the judges’ standing in the 1980s in the UK that precipitated the move to rights – on Neuberger’s account human rights just sort of leaked into judicial grey matter. And like all such triumphalist accounts of the past, the present is treated as a destination (we are in the ‘still early days’ in our ‘age of enlightenment’), rather than just a brief moment on a journey to somewhere else.

Lord Neuberger is also an exemplar of our second fantasy, that of the civil libertarian common law. The 1980s (and indeed all earlier decades) have been forgotten: ‘there is no doubt that the common law was in many ways the origin and promoter of individual rights’ its only problem being (and the reason for the turn to rights) that ‘it developed such rights in a somewhat haphazard and leisurely way.’ Well that is one way to describe it – the partisanship of the common law for property and contract rights over gender and racial equality; an hostility to trade unions and the Labour party so severe that neither could have survived without legislation directly overturning judicial malevolence; the common law’s service as a base for the serial abuses of liberty with which I began this lecture. In his recent, beautifully written Hamlyn lectures, the celebrated Court of Appeal judge Lord Justice John Laws (The Common Law Constitution ) sings a hymn of praise to the old common law, arguing that it is the unifying principle of the constitution and that ‘its distinctive method has endowed the British State with profoundly beneficial effects.’ The recently retired Lord Chief Justice Lord Igor Judge took a not dissimilar line in a recent lecture at University College London where he defended the courts from executive interference against a background of unquestioned acceptance of the fact of the ‘independence of judicial decision making’ as ‘an integral structure of the constitution’.

Now it is only one step from this position to say that actually the common law is so wonderful that it ought to have superiority over Parliament itself, a position once held by the judges in eras gone by of course, but which one might have thought had been laid to rest by democratic revolution. In fact that is not the case. At least some of the judges have allowed the enthusiasm of certain academic scholars for such a possibility to lead them to what Lord Neuberger in his Melbourne speech called ‘the interesting point’ of whether the courts can in fact overturn Parliament itself. A mini-spate of cases in the Supreme Court have allowed the idea to grow without the unanimous disavowal that would surely have been its fate only a little while ago. On any current account the obstacles against such a judicial overriding of parliament would need to be very high: some draconian flouting of the rule of law or what Lord Neuberger called (and even then only possibly) ‘exceptional circumstances’. Perhaps these are what Lord Carswell in Jackson v Attorney General [2005] UKHL 56 referred to (albeit in the context of a law passed under the Parliament Act) as legislative acts amounting to ‘a fundamental disturbance of the building blocks of the constitution’ (at para 178).

The Human Rights Act currently controls judicial capacity here by its well-known reaffirmation of the principle of Parliamentary sovereignty in sections 3(2), 4(6) and 6(2) – well-known that is to everybody except senior members of the current Government who seem to think that the Act empowers the courts to strike down primary legislation – this fantasy of judicial supremacism in human rights law is a delusion seemingly restricted to the upper reaches of the Conservative party, guided by advisers no doubt to invent a problem in order better to able to curry favour with the electorate by dealing robustly with it. The prime minister has had many opportunities over the past few years to demonstrate how important it is to introduce law into the study of Oxford’s PPE degree – the lack of awareness of the contempt of court demonstrated by his intervention in the trial of the Saatchi PAs and the recent, forthright denial that EU legal obligations apply to British money come to mind. But the nadir was surely his apparent (contrived? genuine?) belief that in implementing a declaration of incompatibility issued in respect of the sex abuse register (so as to afford a modicum of due process to those whose lives had been hugely adversely affected by being on it) he was being forced by the courts to act. The whole point of the Human Rights Act – as my colleague professorial research fellow Francesca Klug has pointed out on occasions too numerous to count – is that declarations of incompatibility do not have to be followed. Lady Hale – who was one of the judges in the case - put it with characteristically understated precision in commenting on this incident: ‘Curiously, when introducing the order in Parliament, the Prime Minister was highly critical of our decision, but made no mention of the fact that the Government could have chosen to do nothing about it’

Repeal of the Human Rights Act – a policy to which the Conservative party is now committed – might well produce exactly that judicial supremacism about which the prime minister complains. Most really strong attacks on the rule of law and/or ‘the building blocks’ of the constitution would inevitably also entail a direct undermining of at least one and possible more Convention rights – the wholesale abolition of legal aid for example would breach the implied right of access to the courts in Article 6, under the Golder and Airey principle. The expulsion of asylum-seekers and others to face torture abroad would engage article 3 and so on. As things stand the judges could surely do nothing about such attacks however fundamental they believed them to be because of the explicit protection afforded parliament when it comes to legislation violating human rights – sections 3, 4 and 6 again. But take that protection away, and the common law solicitude for human rights that would replace it would not necessarily be so beholden to parliament. The primary laws themselves might become vulnerable. This would certainly be very odd: action to end something that could never happen would only serve to bring it about. The fiction of judicial supremacy would be turned into fact by efforts made to deal with it. But abolishing something that isn’t there creates it: in the social as well as earth sciences two negatives do indeed make a positive. Maybe the Tories genuinely don’t care about this – in modern politics the spin is the thing: fantasy rules.

It might seem a little odd to be talking about the British judges in this way, since they have not been at all in the firing line in recent years. The executive and the popular press appear to have a finite capacity for populist indignation against courts and since the decision in the prisoner-voting case of Hirst v United Kingdom in 2005 ((2006) 42 EHRR 41), most of this has been heading out of town, away from the Royal Courts of Justice and towards Strasbourg. True there have been past periods of noisy British scepticism towards the European Court of Human Rights (one thinks in particular of Ireland v UK (1978) 2 EHRR 25 and the Gibraltar decision of McCann v United Kingdom (1996) 21 EHRR 97 holding the UK responsible for the killing of an IRA active service unit) but nothing has been as sustained or as vehement as the head of steam that has been built up over this – it has to be said – relatively minor question of prisoner voting. True the litigant was not ideal from a human rights point of view: an axe-wielding killer celebrating his win with champagne as he pours Youtube abuse on the authorities was something of a low point even in the world of unsavory human rights defendants: And it was unlucky of Strasbourg that they were left holding this particular package when the music stopped – the local courts having deftly avoided trouble by refusing to find any human rights violation when the matter came before them. How the issue has escalated as it has must be a matter for sociologists and political scientists. One of the more remarkable features of the strange times we live in is that the case has produced a myth to which it is own refutation. The myth is that of Strasbourg supremacism: what the European Court of Human Rights says goes. Or as Lord Rodger of Earlsferry famously put it in Secretary of State for the Home Department v AF (No 3) [2010] 2 AC 269 at para 98, ‘Argentoratum locutum: iudicium finitum – Strasbourg has spoken, the case is closed’. But if this were true, prisoners would now be voting. Not only are they not voting; the Supreme Court has itself, in R (Chester) v Secretary of State for Justice; McGeoch (AP) v Lord President of Council [2013] UKSC 67, specifically refused even to issue a declaration of incompatibility to put pressure on the government that they should allow such votes. The obligations under the Council of Europe’s Convention on Human Rights are international not domestic: our legal system does not require their implementation, immediately or indeed ever (see article 46). True adherence to international law is an important matter, one that has many repercussions – the UK might find it harder to tell other countries what to do with regard to human rights; it might find itself in trouble at the Council of Europe; the UK judge at Strasbourg may end up lunching alone; and so on. Importantly for present purposes none of these effects is legal, or more precisely legal in the domestic sense.

The extraordinary way in which our public culture has been mustered to savage the Strasbourg court is one of the dismal wonders of our politically constricted age. That court has rescued the English common law from itself on far more occasions that it has made itself an unnecessary nuisance: the maltreatment of gays purely on account of their sexual orientation (Dudgeon v United Kingdom (1981) 4 EHRR 149); corporal punishment in schools (Campbell and Cosans v United Kingdom [1982] ECHR 1); the inhuman and degrading treatment of internees (Ireland v United Kingdom (1978) 2 EHRR 25); the deliberate shooting of suspected terrorists (McCann v United Kingdom (1996) 21 EHRR 97); draconian contempt laws that prevented campaigning newspapers from exposing wrong (Sunday Times v United Kingdom (1979) 2 EHRR 245); long periods of detention without trial Brogan v United Kingdom (1988) 11 EHRR 117); cruel invasions of privacy (Kaye v Andrew Robertson and Sports Newspapers Ltd [1991] FSR 62) – all unnoticed by the common law’s supposed celebration of individual rights, not leaking into ‘the judicial cerebellum’ so much as being rammed into it by Continental judges in the teeth of domestic opposition. Often this opposition has been led by politicians of course: the annoyance at having executive discretion constrained combines with awareness that the Strasbourg court will not answer back to produce a temptation to play to the gallery that is rarely resisted. But at least politicians have the excuse that they need votes and therefore have to please the Mail, potential UKIP voters and others who for various reasons are disinclined to look honestly at the facts. What excuse do British judges and former judges have for their recent attacks on the Court?

There is a long if not venerable tradition here of British mistrust of what Strasbourg does. The distinguished lawyer F A Mann once gave revealing expression to it in a note in the Law Quarterly Review inveighing against the majority judges in a leading Strasbourg case not on the basis of what they said but on account of the puny countries from which they came: (1979) 95 Law Quarterly Review 348. In the politer 1990s as the chastened judges rebuilt their reputation, such modest recoiling from Strasbourg’s incoherence as there was produced only occasionally expressed judicial puzzlement and a range of tentatively-articulated extra-judicial speeches in favour of incorporating the Convention into UK law and so giving British judges the first say over what it meant, a good example being the late Lord Bingham’s, ‘The European Convention on Human Rights: time to incorporate’ (1993) 109 Law Quarterly Review 390.

Now though we seemed to have entered a new era of vulgarity. Perhaps it was Lord Hoffmann who started this with his famous speech in 2009 to the judicial studies board on the ‘Universality of Human Rights in which he paraded a startlingly ridiculous set of remarks from a dissenting judge on the Strasbourg bench as though they were typical of agreed interventions by a unanimous grand chamber. Lord Judge’s recent interview in Counsel magazine was sufficiently forthright to receive the doubtful accolade of the following Daily Mail headline ‘HUMAN RIGHTS COURT “IS A THREAT TO DEMOCRACY”: EX-LORD CHIEF JUSTICE BLASTS UNELECTED STRASBOURG JUDGES’ There is another fantasy here, that of the neutral judge, the convention that he or she stands above the eddies and flows of the political. No doubt Lord Judge believes that he is making an apolitical point when he writes of the supremacy of parliament and of the need for judges not to get involved in political questions. But saying as much these days is in itself a political intervention. Lord Sumption manoeuvred himself into exactly the same position in his F A Mann lecture lecture on judicial and political decision-making in 2011, shortly before he took up his position as a supreme court judge. His excoriation of the tendency of the Strasbourg court to develop its jurisprudence across all 47 member states in a way which conflicted ‘with some very basic principles on which human societies are organised’ grew out of his belief that the Strasbourg jurisprudence had got out of control, with its ‘large number of derivative sub-principles and rules, addressing the internal arrangements of contracting states in great detail’. But calling for the court to pull back is itself a political intervention. The Conservatives echo this critique when they call for the Strasbourg Court to disown its jurisprudence on the evolving meaning to be accorded rights in the Convention. In doing this they are mimicking the American emphasis on original intent dreamed up by Reagan’s attorney general Ed Meese and supported by the anti-federalists and Christian right as a way of providing scholarly cover for the forced retreat of the US federal government on the one hand and the overturning of the celebrated abortion decision Roe v Wade on the other (In seeming through their arguments to eschew the world of politics both Lord Judge and Lord Sumption are in fact entering that world, their conservative position disguised as neutral by the judicial garb one has just taken off and the other was just about to out on.

A subset of the fantasy of Strasbourg supremacism, encouraged by Lord Rodgers’s ill-advised plunge into Latin, is that Strasbourg’s cases are required to be followed by the British courts.   As even first year law students know, this is simply not the case. The Human Rights Act could not have been clearer in section 2 when it required of the judicial authorities interpreting the Act that they take into account such jurisprudence – no further requirement to (in the English common law sense) ‘follow’ such decisions appears in the Act. Now it is perfectly true that the courts here themselves have tended to support Strasbourg decisions (Lord Bingham’s ‘mirror principle’ in R (Ullah) v Special Adjudicator [2004] UKHL 26, [2004] 2 AC 323) on the sensible basis that it is wise to keep in tune with a body to which your own litigants (or at least the non-governmental ones) can appeal. Never invariable, that mirror principle has loosened up of late, with the courts treating the Strasbourg menu as if not quite a la carte then at least one from which there is a decent choice, including if needs must a house special grown entirely from British produce: R v Horncastle [2009] UKSC 14, [2010] 2 WLR 47. Strasbourg has on the whole gone along with this, conceding some positions to help keep the peace (as in Al-Khawaja and Tahery v United Kingdom (2012) 54 EHRR 23 (GC)) revisiting its case-law in light of guidance from their lordships, (Animal Defenders v United Kingdom (2013) 57 EHRR 21 (GC)) and even recanting when it has been caught out in foolishness (Z v United Kingdom (2002) 34 EHRR 97). This is what all informed observers call ‘dialogue’ – it is not dictatorship. The Conservative Party’s recent peculiar set of proposals, already referred to, for ‘changing Britain’s human rights law’ was full of invective against the Strasbourg court and this led its authors to conclude that the Human Rights Act needed to go (not Strasbourg, oddly). But why the Human Rights Act? The crime is that all this Strasbourg rubbish (‘problematic jurisprudence’) is getting into our law (‘often being applied’) and this has to stop. But then a bit later the paper volunteers that Strasbourg is ‘creating legal precedent for the UK’. So which is it ‘often’ or ‘always’? The paper appears to believe it is both, simultaneously. If section 2 did not already exist it would be produced as the solution to a problem – Strasbourg supremacy – that is simply not there, or at least not there in our domestic human rights law.

I end with the largest fantasy of all, the fantasy that drives all the others on this little island, or accurately a bit of this little island, and which is the only reason I can find for what would otherwise be incomprehensible. Lord Neuberger has it spot on when he told a Cambridge audience in February this year that ‘[t]he loss of the Empire and the loss of world premier league status has inevitably caused problems to the national psyche’ and that it is therefore understandable that ‘a transformation from a global pre-eminent status to just one of many EU or Council members requires an almost super-human attitudinal adjustment’ It is not one that some have been able to make, especially those, it seems, whose entire education has never required departure from the quads, cloisters and colleges of past glory or any kind of mustering in with that England known to the other ninety per cent. The Conservative part of the government increasingly gives the impression that the Act of Union with Scotland was the beginning of an heroic English age of imperialism to which we can now return, the people cheering from the sidelines as they did when Disraeli paraded Victoria as Empress of India.   Down that route is a provincial backwater peopled by well-educated fools, shouting loudly. No judge, past or present, should be encouraging this fantasy of English exceptionalism, especially now as it gathers such populist steam.

 

Conor Gearty is Director of the Institute of Public Affairs and Professor of Human Rights Law LSE. This is the text of the 36th Corbishley Lecture, held at LSE.

 

Suggested citation: C. Gearty ‘On Fantasy Island: British politics, English judges and the European Convention on Human Rights’ UK Const. L. Blog (13th November 2014) (available at http://ukconstitutionallaw.org)

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Colm O’Cinneide and Kate Malleson: Are quotas for judicial appointments lawful under EU law?

malleson-photo-2010a_ocinneide

In April 2014 Sadiq Khan, Shadow Secretary of State for Justice, asked Karon Monaghan QC and Geoffrey Bindman QC to review the options for a future Labour Government to improve diversity in the judiciary. On November 6th their report, entitled ‘Judicial Diversity: Accelerating change’, was published. Starting from the premise that ‘[t]he near absence of women and Black, Asian and minority ethnic judges in the senior judiciary is no longer tolerable’, it proposes a range of recommendations designed to speed up the glacial pace of change. Perhaps the most controversial of these is for the introduction of a quota system for women and BAME candidates. The report reviews the use of quotas in other UK institutions as well as their use in judicial appointments processes around the world, before addressing the question of whether such quotas would be lawful under EU law. This is a key question: EU law casts a long shadow in this context, as the Monaghan and Bindman report makes clear, given that any legislation enacted in Westminster to give effect to a quota system in the process of judicial appointments must conform to the requirements of EU law.

There are two stages involved in any legal assessment of the proposed quota measures under EU law. The first is whether holding a judicial office is classified as being ‘employed’. If the answer is no, then the question of their legality under EU law does not arise as appointments to judicial office will not fall within its scope of application. If the answer is yes, then the judicial appointments process will qualify as ‘access to employment’ which will bring it within the scope of Article 1 of the Recast Gender Equality Directive 2006/54/EC. This will mean that the use of positive action measures, such as quota systems, in the process of judicial appointment will have to conform to the restrictions on the use of such measures set out in the relevant case-law of the Court of Justice of the EU (CJEU).

In the 2012 case of O’Brien v Ministry of Justice, the CJEU indicated that it was a matter of national law as to whether judges should be classified as being in an employment relationship, but made it clear that their status would have to be ‘substantially different’ from that of employees before the relevant provisions of EU employment law would not apply – in this case, the Directive relating to the treatment of part-time workers. Subsequently, when this case was remitted back to the national courts, the UKSC decided that Recorders were in an employment relationship and therefore the provisions of the Part-time Workers (Prevention of Less Favourable Treatment) Regulations 2000 applied. Although Recorders work on a part-time, fee-paid basis and are not permanent judges, the logic of the Supreme Court’s approach in O’Brien would suggest that a similar approach would be applied in general to their full-time, salaried equivalents, who are therefore likely to be classified as being in an employment relationship for the purposes of national and EU employment law.

However, a different conclusion could be reached in respect of Supreme Court Justices, given their particular constitutional role. In many European states, constitutional court judges are not considered to be employees: the view is taken that such a status would be incompatible with their status as holders of a high office of state. Furthermore, as the report makes clear, sensitivity surrounds the issue of whether EU law can or should impact on national constitutional arrangements relating to the status of constitutional courts. These considerations suggest that both the UKSC and the CJEU might be reluctant to hold that the Supreme Court was subject to EU employment law. It would certainly have been very unlikely that members of the Appellate Committee of the House of Lords would have been deemed to be in an employment relationship. The same view could be taken of the Supreme Court given that its role has not significantly changed, despite no longer being structurally part of the legislature. (The interesting question of whether the Supreme Court could legitimately decide whether its own members are employees or not will have to be left to a future blog post, if and when the issue arises).

The current position therefore seems to be that, while O’Brien does not settle this issue definitively, it is likely that members of the judiciary in general will be regarded as ‘employees’ for the purposes of EU law: the status of Supreme Court judges remains less clear. In turn, this means that the provisions of EU gender equality law, in line with the provisions of Article 1 of the Recast Gender Equality Directive 2006/54/EC, would apply to conditions of ‘access’ to that employment, including the judicial selection process.

If so, this gives rise to the question of whether quotas for women and BAME candidates would be lawful within the framework of EU gender equality law. The Monaghan and Bindman report concludes that they would. Given that European law in this context is relatively unsettled and that no cases have been considered by the CJEU specifically on quotas for judicial appointments, some elaboration of the report’s conclusions is required.

The legitimacy of positive action involving preferential treatment of women is well recognised in EU law, as reflected in the provisions of Article 157(4) of the TFEU (formerly Article 141(4) TEU) and Article 3 of the Recast Gender Equality Directive 2006/54/EC.  It is generally accepted that such preferential treatment will be lawful if it is justified and proportionate – i.e. the usual proportionality test is applied. However, the CJEU initially took a restrictive approach in applying the proportionality test in this context, ruling in the case of Kalanke in 1995 that quota systems involving automatic preference for female candidates constituted a violation of the principle of equal treatment as between men and women. In the case of Abrahamsson in 2000, the CJEU similarly ruled that preferential treatment can only be applied to compensate for existing disadvantage as a ‘break factor’ between ‘equally qualified’ candidates, and that an individual merit ranking system has to be initially applied to rank candidates before any automatic preference could be given to members of an underrepresented group. However, this case law has attracted strong academic criticism for imposing excessive constraints on the use of positive action. (See in general C. O’Cinneide, ‘Positive Action and the Limits of the Law’ (2006) Maastricht Journal of European and Comparative Law 351-365.) More recently, the Court has not applied the proportionality test in such a restrictive manner in relation to other situations where women benefited from preferential treatment designed to compensate for established inequalities. For example, in the case of Lommers in 2002, the Court considered that a child care scheme which gave priority to women was compatible with the principle of gender equality, on the basis that the scheme in question was intended to address the under-representation of women.

As such, the legal position in EU law relating to positive action measures designed to redress under-representation of women remains unsettled. The same is true as regards positive action measures directed towards addressing the under-representation of BAME groups: no European case-law exists on this point yet.

However, as noted in the Monaghan and Bindman report, the CJEU in assessing the proportionality of a quota system being used in the UK judicial appointments process is likely to take into account the continued lack of progress on diversity in this context, as evidenced by the recent Council of Europe statistics which show the three UK judiciaries languishing at the bottom of the league table for the proportion of women judges – beaten to the bottom only by Azerbaijan and Armenia. This context makes it more likely that the CJEU would be prepared to uphold a quota scheme as a proportionate response to this ongoing problem, especially given the failure of other less radical policy approaches to address the problem of female and BAME under-representation in the senior ranks of the UK judiciary. It is also arguable that the special constitutional and social importance of the judicial selection process might lead the CJEU to depart from the stricter Abrahamsson approach and to adopt the looser standard of review adopted in Lommers, especially given its preference for non-intervention in national constitutional issues.

To summarise: If judicial selection falls outside the scope of EU law, then it has no effect on any quota system. However, if, as is likely, judicial selection (at least in respect of appointments below the level of the Supreme Court) comes within the scope of EU law, then the legality of the quota system will depend on whether the CJEU adheres to the restrictive approach it adopted in Kalanke and Abrahamsson, or whether it adopts a looser, more accommodating standard of review as it did in Lommers. Given the particular context of the judicial appointments process and the growing trend across Europe to adopt positive action measures to promote greater diversity in public institutions it is likely that gender and BAME quotas for judicial selection in the UK, if carefully designed, will be lawful under EU law.

Colm O’Cinneide is a Reader in Law at University College London.

Kate Malleson is Professor of Law at Queen Mary, University of London

 

Suggested citation: C. O’Cinneide and K. Malleson, ‘Are quotas for judicial appointments lawful under EU law?’ UK Const. L. Blog (12th November 2014) (available at http://ukconstitutionallaw.org)

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Angela Patrick: Suing the state: judicial competence, restraint and redress in Belhadj

AngelaThe coverage of last week’s Court of Appeal’s decision in Belhadj & Or. v Straw & Ors [2014] EWCA Civ 1394 has thus far generated more political heat than legal light. When a claim involves the suit of named officials and former Ministers for their alleged role in the rendition of a major political figure in the new Libya and his family to face torture under the Gaddafi regime, this is perhaps understandable. In a week where the Government – in the context of this claim – has conceded that it must disclose certain of its policies on surveillance and legal professional privilege, it is unsurprising that the press has had little time to digest the detail of this judgment.

Yet, in overturning the decision of Mr Justice Simon to strike out the major part of the claim, the carefully reasoned Court of Appeal (Lord Dyson MR, Lloyd Jones and Sharp LLJ) judgment raises a number of interesting questions for constitutional law scholars and political commentators alike about the function of domestic courts, the place of international comity in the law and the right of individuals to redress for violations of rights guaranteed in domestic and international law.

Suing the state: the role of domestic judges

The Respondents argued that both state immunity and the foreign act of state doctrine precluded the domestic courts from hearing the case. At first instance, they failed on the former but succeeded on the latter point. The Court of Appeal rejected their arguments on both counts.

State immunity

First, agreeing with Simon J, the Court of Appeal finds that the law of state immunity has no application in this case (see [32] – [50]). In reliance on the language of the UN Convention on Jurisdictional Immunities of States and their Property (a Convention not yet in force), and a broad interpretation of existing jurisprudence, the Respondents argued for an interpretation of the domestic law of state immunity which would prevent the court from exercising jurisdiction in any case which might affect the broad “rights” or “interests” of a third state or where the decision of the court would necessarily involve “findings of illegality in respect of acts on the part of officials of foreign states for which they could claim immunity had they been sued directly” [37].   In this case, the Appellants’ claim related to their treatment in China, Thailand and Malaysia and in Libya, the actions of those Governments and their agents and the activities of the United States. The Court of Appeal concludes that this argument on indirect impleading would be an “unprecedented extension” of the law on state immunity [39], which “lacks any foundation in law” [49].

Act of state doctrine

The second issue – the scope and application of the ‘foreign act of state doctrine’ is at the heart of this case. Simon J expressed his own discomfort in striking out the claim on this basis:

residual concern…that what appears to be a potentially well-founded claim that the UK authorities were directly implicated in the extraordinary rendition of the claimants, will not be determined in any domestic court; and that Parliamentary oversight and criminal investigations are not adequate substitutes for access to and a decision by, the Court (at [51]).

The Court of Appeal expressly shares this unease. It concludes that while the doctrine is engaged, significant limitations apply to prevent a strike out. The court confirms that the doctrine is subject to a geographical limitation, generally applicable only to the activities of a third state within its jurisdiction. So, the activities or interests of the US could not affect the role of the domestic court in this case. In any event, a broad policy exception to the rule operates in claims with its foundation in international human rights law.

In light of the stark conclusion of the lower court that an inquiry into the contested evidence in the case would be damaging to the national interest (see [26]), close examination of the Court of Appeal decision is warranted.

a)  The nature of “act of state” doctrine:  Long-standing arguments about the impact of the act of state doctrine are best understood in context. Although used to preclude the jurisdiction of domestic judges, the doctrine is not a creature of statute, nor required by the international legal framework. It has evolved in parallel and distinct from the law on state immunity. As a creature of Anglo-American common law – finding no direct parallel in civil law countries – its scope and the rationale for its existence has varied across the years and its application in either the US or the UK. Its foundation in this jurisdiction is found in Buttes Gas and Oil Co v Hammer (Nos 2 and 3) [1982] AC 888, a case where the courts refused to exercise jurisdiction over a claim involving questions about the lawfulness of an international settlement agreed by four sovereign states. In the UK, the doctrine has been relied upon in such varied circumstances as the seizure of aircraft (Kuwait Airways v Iraqi Airways (Nos 4 and 5) [2002] 2 AC 883) and the determination of claims in connection with intellectual property (Lucasfilm v Ainsworth [2012] 1 AC 208).

The Court of Appeal in Belhadj conducts a considered review of the historical development of the doctrine in its analysis of its application to this claim. It draws a key distinction between the narrow class of claims which may bar a court’s jurisdiction, based on judicial competence (as in Buttes) and the wider rule of law, based on judicial restraint “which may result in a refusal by the English courts to permit the vindication of rights in certain situations in which the validity or legality of certain acts of foreign states and their agents are directly challenged” [68] (recognised in Yukos v OSJC Rosneft Oil (No. 2) [2014] QB 458) .   It rejects the Claimants’ suggestion that the doctrine must be confined to cases engaging questions of competency ([Shergill v Khaira [2014] UKSC 33 (at [41] – [43]).

The foundation of the “act of state” doctrine lies in the sovereign equality of states and the principle of international comity [67]. Thus the Court of Appeal finds that restraint may yet be required in cases where there is no constitutional question about the competence of the court. However, following, Yukos, the Court of Appeal holds that the modern incarnation of the principle must start from its limits, with:

the doctrine…defined, like a silhouette, by its limitations, rather than to regard it as occupying the whole ground save as to the extent that an exception can be imposed [54].

The Court accepted that there was a limitation applicable when the facts of a case would not require the validity of the acts of a foreign sovereign state to be called into question (the Kirkpatrick limitation). However, the Court rejects the Claimants’ contention that this limitation would apply in this claim [76]. The two key limitations in this case were grounded in human rights and territoriality.

b)   The human rights ‘limitation’: The Court recognises a broad public policy limitation to the common law doctrine “where there is a violation of international law or a grave infringement of fundamental human rights” [81] (see also Kuwait Corpn v. Iraqi Airways (Nos 4 and 5) [2002] 2 AC 883). Considering the treatment of this limitation in existing jurisprudence – including in Yukos and Kuwait Airways – the Court concludes that this policy limitation must also apply even when the court must undertake some degree of legal or factual investigation in order to determine whether a violation of international law or a grave infringement of fundamental rights has occurred [89]. The Court explained:

 i.  “Judges in this jurisdiction are now frequently required to determine and rule on such conduct and, in particular, whether it is compliant with international law and international standards of human rights” [91]. Such assessments are conducted in asylum and extradition cases, and in the consideration of whether evidence has been obtained through torture and in cases where it is alleged a person has unlawfully been brought before the court from another jurisdiction. The Courts have acknowledged in commercial cases that the Court is entirely well placed to consider a claim despite reaching conclusions on the acts of state officials (see Lucasfilm v Ainsworth [2012] 1 AC 208).

 ii.  “When it is necessary to do so for the vindication of justiciable rights, courts in this jurisdiction will be under an obligation to decide issues of public international law” [92], citing Abbasi v Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs [2002] EWCA Civ 1598 and again, Shergill v Khaira [2014] UKSC 33.

iii.  Comparative case law supports this conclusion. In Habib v Commonwealth of Australia [2010] FCAFC 12, although the constitutional context was different, the human rights limitation had been determinative. The Court of Appeal reasoned: “In this way, a senior court in another common law jurisdiction has concluded, on facts which bear a striking resemblance to those in the present case, that the limitation of act of state doctrine may be applied notwithstanding the need to investigate the conduct and to rule on the legality of the conduct of foreign states [102].

iv. The Court of Appeal gave consideration of the evidence of the Respondents that this issue would be damaging to the UK’s relationship with the US (and to a lesser extent, with the other countries involved in the claim) and harmful to the national interest. The Court notes that the evolution of the doctrine in the US has led the courts there to afford a significant degree of weight – and deference – to the opinion of the executive [112]. It concludes however: “while an approach based on deference to executive suggestion as to the likely consequences for foreign relations of the exercise of jurisdiction, capable of varying according to the issues raised or the foreign state concerned, may well be suited to the very different constitutional arrangements in the US, it has played no part in the development of the act of state doctrine in this jurisdiction” [113].

In this context, the Court is keen to stress that while evidence of damage to the national interest is relevant, national embarrassment would not be a proper justification for restricting the jurisdiction of the domestic courts [111] (see also [66]).

 v.  There were strong policy justifications for the court to hear this case:

a.  The increasing role of international law in the protection of the individual and the recognition of that system as one which includes the regulation of human rights by international law, a system of which individuals are rightly considered to be subjects. A corresponding shift in international public policy has taken place [115]

b. The allegations in this case were of particularly grave human rights violation:So far as unlawful rendition is concerned, this too must occupy a position high in the scale of grave violations of human rights and international law, involving as it does arbitrary deprivation of liberty and enforced disappearance” (the court having already considered the nature of the international prohibition on torture) [116]

c. The respondents in this case were officials of the UK, not otherwise entitled to immunity: there is a compelling public interest in the investigation by the English courts of these very grave allegations”. [117]

d. The applicable principles of both international law and English law to be applied are well established [118].

e. “[U]nless the English courts are able to exercise jurisdiction in this case, these very grave allegations against the executive will never be subjected to judicial investigation…As a result, these very grave allegations would go uninvestigated and the appellants would be left without any legal recourse or remedy” [119].

 vi. The case should be heard: “despite the risk of displeasing our allies or offending other states, and even the risk of consequences of varying severity which it is said are likely to follow, cannot justify our declining jurisdiction on ground of act of state over what is a properly justiciable claim” [120].

 c) The ‘territorial’ limitation: The Court emphasised that the strike out in Khan v Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs [2014] EWCA Civ 24 could not assist the Respondents. The territorial limitation had not been considered in that case [132].

Although it took a definitive view on the application of the territorial principle in this case, the Court of Appeal expressed some doubt as to whether the limitation might apply in cases which might more closely engage questions of judicial competence, for example, in connection with the transactions between states:

Indeed in the case of such activities it may often be difficult to locate with precision where different elements of the transactions took place. However, in the present case we are concerned with allegations relating to the way in which officials of one state have acted towards nationals of other states and therefore with the narrower principle of act of state. [131]

d) Article 6 ECHR:   The Court of Appeal considers the relevance of the doctrine for the purposes of securing the right of access to a fair hearing guaranteed by Article 6 ECHR. (The Court also considered Article 14 UNCAT, but did not consider it necessary to reach any firm conclusion [124] – [126].)

While its primary conclusions are grounded in the common law, the Court of Appeal thus considers that the same conclusion would be required under the Human Rights Act 1998 and the ECHR. The application of the doctrine, largely confined to Anglo-American jurisprudence, is not required by international law ([51]). Thus, Jones v UK and earlier domestic case law on state immunity is distinguished. The Court of Appeal considers that while the act of state doctrine may be applied consistently with Article 6 ECHR, in this case, its application would be disproportionate and would undermine the Appellants’ right to access the court guaranteed by the Convention [123].   Thus, as in its common law analysis, for Convention purposes, the doctrine of act of state will remain a live point for argument in these cases, with its scope, relevance and application determined on a case by case basis.

Comment

The Respondents have been granted permission to appeal the application of the act of state doctrine. A few points of note can be drawn from the Court of Appeal’s analysis.

The evidence before the Court on the risk posed by the litigation to the UK’s relationship with the United States and to our security was considered at some length. The arguments raised are very familiar to those who followed the passage of the Justice and Security Act 2013. The introduction of closed material procedures (“CMP”) into ordinary civil litigation was justified to Parliament by Government as a means to ensure that litigation of precisely this kind might proceed. The proper scope and function of CMP even under the Act remains open to argument and it is very likely that should this case proceed to trial, the Respondents may seek to rely on the Act. However, the strike-out application in this case and the albeit limited engagement of the “act of state” doctrine serves as a reminder that CMP is not the only tool in the Government’s litigation strategy in dealing with cases which raise concerns about national security or the wider public interests of the UK. Despite the case made for the extension of CMP, a pick-and-mix approach to strike-out, public interest immunity (“PII”) and CMP is likely to prevail, at least as and until the scope of the law is clarified.

An outstanding question is whether the availability of alternative means to address concerns about national interest – such as PII or CMP – may affect the courts’ consideration of the weight of evidence presented to justify an argument on strike-out based on an “act of state” doctrine based on a public policy argument for restraint, rather than a constitutional question of competence. While not considered expressly by the Court of Appeal, its analysis, and its approach to deference suggest that this should be a relevant issue for consideration by any judge considering a claim for strike-out of any otherwise valid claim [see 211].

The Court of Appeal stresses that the Supreme Court in Shergill v Khaira [2014] UKSC 33 (at [41] – [43]) did not intend to limit “act of state” doctrine to cases of non-justiciability on the grounds of competence [67].   Yet, the Court of Appeal in this case does appear to draw distinctions in the law on “act of state” between cases based on competence and restraint. It is clear – particularly in its treatment of territoriality – it envisages that the consideration of the limitations applied may be different where questions of competence may arise.   The Court of Appeal’s analysis places the Yukos “silhouette” approach on a clearer foundation. If the English doctrine of “act of state” is based on judicial restraint rather than constitutional competence, the case for the application of the doctrine should be subject to close scrutiny and its limitations drawn broadly.   Yet, if this approach stands, argument on the boundaries of competence and restraint is likely in future cases, and on the precise scope of the limitations in play.

The practical implications of the Respondents’ arguments in this case – for the extension of protection for the state under both state immunity and “act of state” doctrine – would be to shield individual states and their institutions from scrutiny in many cases where they act unlawfully but in unison or in parallel with other states, circumscribing the ability of individuals to secure redress.

The expansion of immunities to limit the right of individuals to a remedy for violations of rights acknowledged by the international community, as is the case with redress in cases of torture, must begin as an international dialogue.   The expansion of state immunity – or the creation of de facto common law immunities – by way of the unilateral development of domestic rules of jurisdiction or deference would undermine the long-term effectiveness not only of the international framework for the protection of human rights but the agreed minimum standards for state immunity.

Angela Patrick is the Director of Human Rights Policy at JUSTICE. JUSTICE, together with the International Commission of Jurists, REDRESS and Amnesty International intervened in Belhadj v Straw & Ors by way of written submissions. A copy of the submission is available, here.

 

Suggested citation: A. Patrick, ‘Suing the state: judicial competence, restraint and redress in Belhadj(7th November 2014) (available at http://ukconstitutionallaw.org).

 

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Patrick O’Brien: How active were pre-2009 judges as parliamentarians?

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(Click on graph for bigger image)

Is the question of anything more than historical interest? The Constitutional Reform Act 2005 precluded judicial peers from contributing to parliamentary debate from 1 October 2009. Many of the Law Lords were opposed to the change, and many judges are at least nostalgic for the past arrangements. The current Lord Chief Justice (LCJ) of England and Wales, Lord Thomas, and his immediate predecessor, Lord Judge, have both publicly regretted the fact that they cannot speak in Parliament on matters of importance to the judiciary. To the extent that the outlook of judges today is shaped partly by the feeling that they have lost a valuable platform, the issue is worth exploring. In fact judges were very infrequent contributors to parliamentary debate. Whilst past Lord Chief Justices – and other judicial peers – may have occasionally used the chamber of the Lords as a platform for articulating judicial viewpoints, all things considered they did so rarely.

As part of research done with colleagues as part of an AHRC project on The Politics of Judicial Independence in Britain’s Changing Constitution we created a database of the number of Hansard contributions made by each of a set of judicial peers during each year in the period between the commencement of the Appellate Jurisdiction Act 1876 on 1 November 1876 and the creation of the Supreme Court on 1 October 2009. The graph gives a figure for the ‘career average annual contribution’ (CAAC) for each judge (listed in order of appointment on the x-axis). This figure is calculated by dividing the total number of contributions by each serving judge to debate in the House of Lords by the number of years as a serving judge with a peerage. The CAAC figure is intended to provide a rough basis for comparing each judges’ overall activity in debate.

Who were the judicial peers? The Law Lords (the Lords of Appeal in Ordinary) form the bulk of those included in the database, but judicial peers also included figures like the LCJ of England and Wales, who by convention received a peerage with the job, and other senior UK judges who tended to be awarded peerages after appointment (see the ‘Summary Data’ table). For practical reasons we have not sought to track down every single judge with a peerage and so the few judges who held peerages whilst in post but fall outside of these categories are not included. The figures for each category, including ‘All judicial peers’, are calculated independently. This is because a number of judges (16 in total) served in more than one of the judicial offices considered, meaning that in some cases the same person appears in more than one category (e.g. Lord Woolf appears in the figures for Law Lord, Master of the Rolls and Lord Chief Justice).

 

   

 

 

Summary data: judicial peers and their contributions to Lords debates 1876 to 2009

Judicial Position Number with peerages Number who contributed Average/Median CAAC
Law Lord 112 87 (78%) 5.16/1.68
LCJ (England & Wales) 16 13 (81%) 4.64/3.25
Master of the Rolls 13 9 (69%) 4.74/1.75
Lord President (Scotland) 8 4 (50%) 1.16/0.06
LCJ (Northern Ireland) 2 0 0
LCJ (Ireland; pre-1920) 1 0 0
All judicial peers 133 104 (78%) 4.91/1.76

 

What do the data tell us? Contrary to the impression that is sometimes presented of the judicial peers, they were relatively inactive parliamentarians from the very beginning. Most judicial peers contributed very little to debate. A few individuals spoke a great deal by the standards of the group as a whole but this appears to be influenced by personal factors. These judges had mostly had previous careers as politicians. All four judges with CAAC figures of greater than 50 contributions per year were Law Lords. Lord Morris (1890s) and Lord Carson (1920s) were former Irish politicians who retained a keen interest in Irish affairs after their appointment to the Appellate Committee. Viscount Dilhorne (1970s) was another former politician; a prominent former Tory MP and Lord Chancellor. It seems reasonable to attribute the enthusiasm of these three for debate to their familiarity with politics and the debating chamber. The fourth of this group, Lord Ackner, did not have a political background but contributed heavily to the debates on Lord Mackay’s reforms to judicial pay and conditions and to the legal system in the late 1980s and early 1990s. This picks out another feature of judicial contributions: they were episodic and motivated by judges’ interest in specific issues (notably law reform and judicial ‘trade union’ issues).

Half of the total cohort spoke on average less than twice a year (the median CAAC figure is just 1.76 contributions per year). A fifth never spoke at all. There was no significant decline in contributions until the last decade of the Appellate Committee, and – measured as a matter of pure quantity and frequency of contributions to parliamentary debate – there was no ‘golden age’ after 1876 in which the judicial peers were active as legislators to any significant extent. The trend line in the graph above shows a very gentle and gradual decline from the first judicial peer in the sample to the last. Much of the decline is accounted for by the abrupt and almost complete reduction in contributions by the last judicial peers from around the year 2000.

It is not clear to us that judges have lost all that much in their departure from Parliament. There may be subtle ways in which judges could be influential as parliamentarians that are not captured by the Hansard data but judges are not short of ways to express themselves or of contacts in Parliament. Nor is Parliament short of legal and judicial experts, albeit that judges now must be retired before they can take their seats in the House of Lords. Serving judges can still articulate their views on law and justice issues through public lectures, direct engagement with the government and Parliament, and through the formal procedure for laying representations before Parliament (section 5, Constitutional Reform Act 2005). Of most interest to us, and the subject of a pair of papers we are due to complete shortly, is the fact that judges have become regular witnesses before Parliamentary committees. Judges have appeared before committees as witnesses 260 times in the last 35 years, most of those in the last decade. This, however, deserves another post all of its own.

Patrick O’Brien is a Fellow in the Department of Law at the London School of Economics.

 

The research into judicial peers and judicial appearances before parliamentary committees forms the basis of a pair of papers I am currently writing with Robert Hazell on dialogue between judges and Parliament. Readers may also be interested in our forthcoming book, G Gee, R Hazell, K Malleson and P O’Brien, The Politics of Judicial Independence in the UK’s Changing Constitution (CUP, due out in early 2015).

Suggested citation: P. O’Brien, ‘How active were pre-2009 judges as parliamentarians?’, UK Const. L. Blog (28th October 2014) (available at http://ukconstitutionallaw.org).

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Ian Cram: Penalising the googling juror? – Reflections on the futility of Part 3 of the Criminal Justice and Courts Bill (2013-14)

cram2-ianThe hotchpotch of measures that comprises the Criminal Justice and Courts Bill is about to reach Report Stage in the House of Lords. The Bill sets out a panoply of new and controversial measures to deal with dangerous offenders, young offenders, drugs-testing in prisons, wilful neglect or ill-treatment by care workers, reforms to criminal proceedings (including the use of cautions), the possession of extreme pornographic images, civil proceedings involving judicial review (B. Jaffey & T. Hickman), personal injury cases and challenges to planning decisions. The adequacy of this miscellaneous approach to law reform will doubtless come under the fuller scrutiny that it deserves elsewhere. This blog takes as its focus provisions in Part 3 of the Bill which seeks to put on a statutory footing offences connected with private research by jurors. I suggest that resort to the criminal law constitutes a clumsy, impractical and unnecessarily punitive attempt to regulate the extra-curial activities of the modern, online juror. It is incumbent on our lawmakers to explore more imaginative responses to the undoubted problem of jurors’ access to untested, internet materials – responses that might be more obviously premised upon an appreciation of jurors’ dutiful efforts to arrive at just verdicts.

Whilst illicit, private research by jurors long pre-dates the Internet (recall Sidney Lumet’s classic 1957 film Twelve Angry Men), the ability of jurors to seek out materials concerning events and personnel at the centre of criminal proceedings is considerably enhanced in the electronic era. A survey by Thomas for the Ministry of Justice in 2010 which at the time was reckoned to have underestimated the extent of online research, it was revealed that 12% of jurors in ‘high profile’ and 5% of jurors in standard (non-high profile) cases confessed to doing private research into the cases they were trying. (C Thomas, ‘Avoiding the Perfect Storm of Juror Contempt’ [2013] Crim L Rev 483) Despite some well- publicised convictions of jurors in 2011 and 2012 for online research during deliberations (Fraill [2011] EWHC 1629 and Dallas [2012] EWHC 156) resulting in custodial sentences, it would be surprising in 2014 if actual instances of jurors’ private research had not increased beyond the levels reported in 2010.

The legal basis of convictions such as those in Fraill and Dallas remains unclear. Is the offence committed merely when the juror intentionally disobeys a judicial instruction or does it also need to be shown that he/she has acted in a way calculated to create a real risk of prejudice to the administration of justice? Dallas is currently awaiting the outcome of her application to Strasbourg, arguing that the trial judge’s warning to jurors not to conduct private research lacked the requisite degree of clarity needed to make clear both what was prohibited and what the legal consequences of any breach might be.

It is against this somewhat uncertain background that the Law Commission recommended in 2013 the creation of statutory offences of new offences concerning private research by jurors (and its dissemination) as well as giving trial judges the power to order jury members to surrender electronic communications devices for a limited period. To be fair to the Commission, it is intended that these new offences operate alongside non-penal measures such as declarations of good behaviour and an amended oath that will reinforce the importance of trying the case solely upon the evidence presented by the parties.

Research in the US where the ‘google mistrial’ in both criminal and civil jury trials is a recognised phenomenon indicates two main reasons why jurors engage in prohibited online searches. (G Lacy, ‘Untangling the Web: How Courts should respond to Juries using the Internet for Research’ (2012) 1 Reynolds Court and Media Law Journal 169; D Aaronson & S Patterson, ‘Modernizing Jury Instructions in the Age of Social Media’ (2013) 27 Crim Just 4) The first is that some jurors do not understand what forms of conduct are prohibited. They fail thus to see that private inquiry into the meaning of legal/medical terms (such as negligence’ or ‘Van der Woude syndrome’) constitutes ‘research’. In other cases, a warning not to do private research is couched in general, technologically non- specific terms that is misconstrued. These sorts of misunderstanding are or ought to be fairly easily remedied through clearer instructions from the bench. The second reason behind juror online searches is altogether more troublesome however. Even in the face of unambiguous instructions which helpfully make explicit the rationale for restrictions, some jurors refuse to comply, believing that the lawyers are trying to conceal something that is relevant to the proceedings. (T Hoffmeister, ‘Google, Gadgets and Guilt: Juror Misconduct in the Digital Age’ (2012) 83 U Colo L Rev 409) Other empirical research from the Australian state of Victoria refers to a phenomenon of ‘juror reactance’ in which, notwithstanding a judicial direction to the contrary, jurors are unable to discard ‘information’ that is considered relevant to the case before them. (J Johnston et al, Juries & Social Media – A Report prepared for the Victorian Department of Justice (2013) available at http://epublications.bond.edu.au/law_pubs/600/) On this basis, it may be predicted the proposed new criminal restrictions in England and Wales will make jurors more likely to conceal the fact of their illicit research from fellow jurors. It is unlikely to stop the research in the first place. What if, in any given criminal trial, there are four or five jurors who have separately conducted private research and conceal this fact from their co-jurors?

Conclusion

‘Indeed, the internet has made the commission of many criminal offences much easier. It would be absurd to suggest that such conduct should no longer be criminalised on account of the ease with which such offences can now be committed.’– Rt Hon Attorney General Dominic Grieve QC MP (February 2013)

The insistence of the previous Attorney General on using the full force of the criminal law against googling jurors is understandable even laudable (costs of retrials, ordeals for witnesses and delayed justice are not insignificant reasons for taking a serious view of this conduct) but, for reasons advanced above, likely to fail in its primary objective of halting the practice. The empirically documented phenomena of ‘juror ‘reactance’, linked concerns that the adversarial process is keeping relevant material from jurors and an overriding desire to do justice to all parties will continue to prompt a certain (possibly rising) proportion of jurors to engage in online research. The supporters of the new measures have yet to explain satisfactorily how illicit internet use will be policed and detected. If, as seems likely, few cases of online research will be detected, it would be interesting to hear from the Bill’s supporters precisely how the law will (i) bolster the fairness of criminal proceedings and (ii) will not fall into general disrepute. (Interestingly, in the US there are few instances of criminal proceedings against jurors who engage in private research, D Bell, ‘Juror Misconduct and the Internet’ (2010) 38 Am J. Crim. L. 81)

It may be that part of the problem will take of itself in the aftermath of the European Court of Justice’s ruling this May in Google Spain v Gonzalez (and another). Well-counselled defendants may now instruct Google to remove links to webpages that mention them. In this way, ‘googling’ will yield up little of any prejudicial effect. But this incidental form of protection for adversarial justice can hardly be said to offer a coherent way forward. At bottom, the way in which our legal system signals its appreciation of jurors’ sincere efforts to arrive at justice may not be best served by a punitive response to ‘fact-gathering’. A more imaginative response to realities of jurors’ online research may be to explore within certain defined limits ways of accommodating jurors’ desire to be more informed about the case before them. At present, the practice of allowing jurors’ questions varies from Crown Court to Crown Court.

Whisper it quietly for fear of upsetting the legal profession’s control over adversarial proceedings – a better response to the problem of the googling juror may necessitate affording ordinary citizens a more active role in establishing the truth of the kind their 18th century predecessors enjoyed.

Ian Cram is Professor of Comparative Constitutional Law at the University of Leeds.

 

Suggested citation: I. Cram, ‘Penalising the googling juror? – Reflections on the futility of Part 3 of the Criminal Justice and Courts Bill (2013-14)’ U.K. Const. L. Blog (2nd October 2014) (available at http://ukconstitutionallaw.org).

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Graham Gee: Do Lord Chancellors defend judicial independence?

graham-gee-webAs part of its inquiry into the office of Lord Chancellor, the Constitution Committee asks whether “new” (i.e. post-2003) Lord Chancellors have actually defended judicial independence in line with their customary and now statutory duty to do so. I was asked for examples earlier this summer when appearing before the Committee (with Andrew Le Sueur and Patrick O’Brien). I tried to identify some, but rather garbled my answer. Earlier in the year I also sketched some thoughts about Lord Chancellors in Public Law, but struggled to find clear-cut examples. One reason is that collective cabinet responsibility and the confidentiality of exchanges between Lord Chancellors and judges mean that outsiders will seldom have a full picture of what has occurred behind closed doors. This is unfortunate since my impression is that many lawyers assume—mistakenly, I think—that new Lord Chancellors are neither willing nor able to defend judicial independence. This post is hopefully third time lucky in correcting this assumption. By drawing on press reports, public statements and interviews that Robert Hazell, Kate Malleson, Patrick O’Brien and I conducted between 2011-2013, I want to piece together evidence that suggests that new Lord Chancellors can and do defend judicial independence.

Ministerial Criticism

An important part of the Lord Chancellor’s role is to encourage colleagues to respect the convention that ministers should not criticize judicial decisions or the judges who deliver them. One way Straw sought to “repair fences with the judiciary” (p498) after the tensions of the Blair era was by clamping down on breaches of the convention, as obliquely acknowledged in 2010 by the LCJ (Q13). Few ministers, if any, broke the convention during Straw’s tenure as Lord Chancellor. According to a senior official we interviewed, officials in Straw’s private office would contact counterparts in other departments in advance of judgments in politically contentious cases to remind them that ministers must not criticize judicial decisions in public. The contact was between officials, but reflected the tone set by Straw.

Not all Lord Chancellors will be as successful as Straw in promoting respect for the convention: from time to time ministers will vent their frustration. The question that then arises is whether the Lord Chancellor will fulfill his or her duty by, for example, speaking with the ministers, rebuking them and eliciting an undertaking that their outbursts will not be repeated. In 2006, the Home Secretary, John Reid, criticized the sentence handed down to Craig Sweeney, a sex offender. Further criticism followed from the PM’s spokesman in a press briefing and Vera Baird, a junior minister at the Department of Constitutional Affairs. This episode is commonly cited as one where Lord Falconer, “did not fulfill [the Lord Chancellor’s duty] in a satisfactory manner”.  But, as I see it, this should be read as an example of a Lord Chancellor energetically —and, if a long view is taken, rather successfully—enforcing his duty.

No doubt this whole episode was unedifying. But it is difficult to imagine what more Falconer could have done. According to our interviews, the Lord Chancellor spoke with the Home Secretary on the day of his comments. During a tense conversation, Reid indicated that he would not repeat the criticism. When on the next day the PM’s spokesman endorsed Reid’s criticism, Lord Falconer spoke with Blair to explain why Reid’s comments were inappropriate. Like Reid, the PM indicated that the criticism would not be repeated. At the end of the week Vera Baird said on the radio that the judge had got the sentence wrong. Falconer spoke with her and procured a written apology, which was published on the department’s website. Falconer also appeared that week on the BBC’s Question Time programme, stressing that judges should not be treated “as whipping boys”. Deciding how to respond to a ministerial outburst is always a question of judgment. It seems reasonable for Falconer to have concluded that discreet action behind closed doors would be more effective than more public steps. And arguably he was proven correct: so far as I can recall, Reid did not breach the convention during the rest of his time as Home Secretary, at least not as brazenly, with Blair also muted in his public comments on the courts during his final year as PM. Viewed in this light, Falconer could be said to have fulfilled his duty effectively.

Much ultimately depends on the lead set by the PM. This in turn raises the question of whether new Lord Chancellors can effectively rebuke the PM, on whose patronage they will depend to a greater extent than their predecessors who were usually at the end of an eminent legal career and not ambitious for promotion. A recent example suggests that new Lord Chancellors will take senior colleagues, and even the PM, to task. In 2011, the PM and Home Secretary criticized the Supreme Court’s decision in Re (F) on the notification requirements for sexual offenders. Ken Clarke wrote to the Home Secretary, with the letter copied to No. 10 in an indirect rebuke to the PM. As reported on The Spectator’s blog, Clarke reminded Theresa May, and by extension David Cameron, that they were “constitutionally obliged to accept the independence of the judiciary”. I suspect that this incident was one that Lord Phillips had in mind when he referred to “one or two occasions” where Lord Chancellors have “made it plain” to ministers and even the PM that public criticism was not acceptable. (As an aside: Clarke himself received a letter from Phillips objecting to the comments and encouraging him to take action. But as one judge remarked, Clarke would likely have done so with or without judicial encouragement).

Responding to Legitimate Judicial Concerns

A second way that Lord Chancellors can defend judicial independence is by listening to legitimate judicial concerns and articulating them inside government. An example is Lord Falconer’s battle over proposed changes to judicial pensions. In late 2004, The Daily Telegraph reported that a row erupted in cabinet over Falconer’s proposal to exempt judges from rules in that year’s budget that would cap tax relief on pension contributions at £1.5m. The Lord Chancellor had promised an exemption to judges before clearing this with his colleagues. In his memoirs Jonathan Powell relates how the matter, quite unusually, came to the cabinet, where Gordon Brown “and others raised strong objections” (63). No decision was taken for several months, but the Lord Chancellor continued arguing for a judicial exemption. Despite opposition from Labour backbenchers, Falconer announced in late 2005 that judicial pensions would be de-registered from the Finance Act 2004, and hence not subject to the cap. In other words, the judges won their exemption with the Lord Chancellor’s help.

Arguably, this episode was less about judicial independence and more about judicial self-interest. But the judges themselves presented the issue as one impinging on their independence—and for present purposes I’ll assume that they were correct. Threats of judicial resignations and judicial review were important alongside Lord Falconer’s efforts. And it is true that in a different financial climate in 2013 the Treasury clawed back the exemption. On its own terms, however, this furore saw the Lord Chancellor resist pressure from powerful colleagues and backbench opposition to successfully represent judicial interests.

Evaluating Lord Chancellors

My point is that there is evidence that Lord Chancellors can and do defend judicial independence. I’m not suggesting that everything in the garden is rosy. Relations between the government and the judges are at times strained, and Lord Chancellors and judges will disagree about how best to manage, organize and fund the courts, and may have serious disagreements about important issues relating to legal aid and judicial review. There will also be times when Lord Chancellors are slow to defend judicial independence, if they do anything at all. All of this is true and yet much, and possibly most of the time, Lord Chancellors still take seriously their duty to defend judicial independence. Over and above this basic insight, four further points must be kept in mind.

First, it is unrealistic to expect new Lord Chancellors to be preeminent guardians of judicial independence in the same way as was said to be true of pre-03 officeholders. One consequence of twinning the office with the role of Secretary of State for Justice is that Lord Chancellors spend much less time on judiciary-related issues. This likely makes it more difficult to respond as swiftly to judicial concerns. But even if the post-2003 Lord Chancellors are less reliable and less proactive guardians, and even if they not a systematic defender of judicial independence, this does not mean that their role is without value.

Second, the fact that Lord Chancellors might not be the preeminent guardian is off-set by the many other actors who contribute to judicial independence. Some have a clear responsibility to do so (e.g. the LCJ; the JAC; the JCIO, the Constitution Committee); others do so indirectly via their day-to-day work (e.g. the clerks in the Table Office). Other actors within government help foster judicial independence (e.g. the Attorney General; the Treasury Solicitor; other government lawyers). The Lord Chancellor is only one part—albeit, as the examples above demonstrate, a very important part—of the way judicial independence is secured.

Third, politicians without the legal pedigree of old-style Lord Chancellors, or who are not even lawyers at all, can grasp the importance of judicial independence. Several of our judicial interviewees commended recent Lord Chancellors, albeit acknowledging that they had not always seen eye-to-eye with them. One senior judge, for example, said that Straw and Clarke clearly understood judicial independence, and another judge said that he had been “quite impressed” by Grayling despite his lack of legal training, a view echoed by a third judge. New-style Lord Chancellors will not sound like their predecessors, and often this grates on lawyers’ ears (e.g. when Ken Clarke could not recall how many women were on the Supreme Court). But lawyers should be less precious about this, and recognize instead that the new Lord Chancellors can potentially bring something of value to policy discussions (e.g. by adding political impetus to the judicial diversity debate or encouraging judges in leadership roles to “succession plan”).

Finally, Le Sueur and O’Brien have each argued that the office should be abolished, with its functions easily subsumed within the twinned role of Secretary of State for Justice. (See Patrick O’Brien’s posts here and here). I disagree. There is still value in ascribing certain important constitutional functions to the office of Lord Chancellor as distinct from, even if occupied by the same person as, the Secretary of State. This can assist officials who brief new ministers about the office’s special responsibility to defend judicial independence, especially important if the new minister is not legally qualified. It presumably also helps a Lord Chancellor when reprimanding colleagues if he or she can point to their customary duty as Lord Chancellor. And as Lord Hope has suggested, “we would lose something intangible” if the office was scrapped. In a constitution such as ours, symbols such as the office of Lord Chancellor matter. But, above all, now is not the time to inject more uncertainty into the judicial system by scrapping the role. Judicial-executive relations have changed considerably since 2003, and will do so for some time yet as the full implications of recent reforms become clear. What is required now is a period of relative stability to allow new practices to solidify, leadership roles to become clearly defined and relationships to mature.

 

Graham Gee is a lecturer at the University of Birmingham. Between 2011-13, he worked with Robert Hazell, Kate Malleson and Patrick O’Brien on an AHRC project exploring, amongst other things, the office of Lord Chancellor. Their book on The Politics of Judicial Independence in the UK’s Changing Constitution is published by CUP in 2015.

Suggested citation: G. Gee,Do Lord Chancellors defend judicial independence?’ U.K. Const. L. Blog (18th August 2014) (available at http://ukconstitutionallaw.org).

 

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Andrew Lynch: Judicial Appointments in Australia – Reform in Retreat

AndrewThe creation of formal processes governing the appointment of judges has been a notable element in the broader project of constitutional reform in the United Kingdom over the last 16 years. As is frequently acknowledged, the changes introduced by the Constitutional Reform Act 2005 were that rare thing – an instance of the executive relinquishing power. But the legislation also appeared to stimulate much more debate about the selection and composition of the judiciary than it resolved. Enactment is more typically seen as the culmination of public discussion about the desirability and design of a reform. What has been fascinating – at least from the perspective of external observers – is the way the significant measures implemented in 2005 have remained under the microscope, being the subject of sustained academic commentary, government and parliamentary review and then fine-tuning through passage of the Crime and Courts Act 2013. The announcement in April that, even after all this, the Labour opposition was open to the use of quotas to hasten the diversification of the United Kingdom judiciary signaled that the whole matter of appointments remains extremely contentious.

Participating in unremitting constitutional debates can undoubtedly prove rather fatiguing, but spare a thought for those of us in jurisdictions where reform is not just both slower and more modest, but is then later reversed. Australia’s recent experience in judicial appointments reform has followed this disappointing trajectory. This is despite political rhetoric in this country consistently echoing the United Kingdom’s fidelity to ‘merit alone’ as the basis for selection albeit accompanied by recognition of the need to enhance judicial diversity. In this post I describe these developments before identifying some features of the short-lived reforms which offer an interesting contrast with the United Kingdom approach. Specifically, the provision of a shortlist of suitable candidates to the Commonwealth Attorney-General was seen as entirely uncontroversial. It arguably affirmed a more inclusive understanding of ‘merit’ in this jurisdiction, under which the preservation of ultimate executive discretion was appreciated as a legitimate means for the achievement of greater diversity.

The traditional approach of the Commonwealth of Australia to judicial appointment was one purely of executive discretion lacking any stipulated criteria and any formal or open process. Beyond an eligibility threshold of judicial service or enrolment as a legal practitioner for not less than 5 years (and in the case of appointment to the Family Court of Australia, a requirement that a person shall not be appointed unless ‘by reason of training, experience and personality, the person is a suitable person to deal with matters of family law’), there is no statutory guidance offered as to the necessary attributes of a candidate. The only procedural requirement applies exclusively to vacancies on nation’s final court – the High Court of Australia. This is merely an obligation that the Commonwealth Attorney-General will ‘consult’ with his or her State counterparts before filling a vacancy on that Court.

Shortly after coming to office in late 2007, the Attorney-General in the Labor government, Robert McClelland, announced that he would be introducing more formal processes for appointing individuals to the ranks of the federal judiciary. The catalyst for his doing so undoubtedly included, but was not limited to, developments in the United Kingdom. But additionally, there had been reform in some of the states in the Australian federation, as well as attention to the issue in both New Zealand and Canada.

McClelland’s objectives in unveiling the reforms were later repeated in the government’s 2010 publication Judicial Appointments – Ensuring a strong, independent and diverse judiciary through a transparent process. Their purpose was to ensure:

  • greater transparency, so that the public can have confidence that the Government is making the best possible judicial appointments
  • that all appointments are based on merit, and
  • that everyone who has the qualities for appointment as a judge or magistrate is fairly and properly considered

That document also stated:

The Government is pursuing the evolution of the federal judiciary into one that better reflects the rich diversity of the Australian community. To this end, the Government seeks to increase the diversity of the federal judiciary in relation to:

• gender

• residential location

• professional background and experience, and

• cultural background.

The three pillars of McClelland’s reforms may be succinctly identified as: (1) the articulation of publically available criteria; (2) the advertisement of vacancies and call for nominations; and (3) the use of an Advisory Panel (comprising the head of the relevant court or their nominee, a retired judge or senior member of the Federal or State judiciary, and a senior member of the Attorney-General’s Department) to assess potential candidates, possibly through interviewing them, before making a report to the Attorney-General listing those found to be ‘highly suitable for appointment’.

While the stated criteria had much in common with those used in the United Kingdom, the similarities between the two jurisdictional approaches do not extend much further. First, and most fundamentally, the changes were not legislated. Second, no Judicial Appointments Commission was created. Although McClelland initially professed an open mind on the need for such a body, at the same time he expressed concern that the United Kingdom’s JAC was ‘overly bureaucratic and the whole appointments process is unreasonably intrusive as well as taking too long’. This led to suspicions that ‘the best candidates have not put themselves forward’. McClelland’s negative assessment of the JAC was probably unfair given the size of the task that lay before the organisation upon its establishment and how little time had yet passed. More recent assessments from United Kingdom commentators portray the factors raised by the Commonwealth Attorney-General as teething problems since resolved.

Third, the Advisory Panel was, at just three members, small and contained no lay representatives. Fourth, the Panel was able to recommend a number of names to the Attorney-General for consideration, leaving him or her to make the final selection. This stands in stark contrast to the requirement in the United Kingdom that the JAC or, in the case of appointments to the Supreme Court, a specially-convened commission, furnish only one name recommended for appointment. Fifth, whereas the United Kingdom acknowledged the special status of its final court through adoption of a distinct process, the High Court of Australia (along with the appointment of heads of the other three federal courts) was simply exempt from the McClelland reforms on the basis of its ‘different status’. Nominations were not called for and nor was an Advisory Panel of any sort convened, although the Attorney-General undertook to consult with a number of stakeholders beyond the mandated State Attorneys. It was unclear what weight, if any, was accorded to the explicit criteria in respect of such appointments.

The basic features of the new system received the bipartisan endorsement of the Senate Legal and Constitutional Affairs Committee in its 2009 inquiry into the Australian Judiciary. McClelland’s two Labor successors as Attorney-General made judicial appointments in accordance with the reforms. However, the Attorney-General in the new Coalition government, Senator George Brandis QC, appears to have entirely discontinued those measures and reverted to the traditional approach of unfettered executive discretion. With neither fanfare nor warning, all trace of the processes initiated by McClelland slipped from the departmental website. On the topic of court appointments, the Attorney-General’s Department now simply advises that, ‘As the nation’s first law officer, the Attorney-General is responsible for recommending judicial appointments to the Australian Government.’ On 14 April 2014, the Attorney-General issued a media release announcing his first appointment to the federal judiciary. The vacancy on the bench of the Federal Court of Australia had not been advertised on the website, nor was there anything in the media release suggesting that the appointment was the outcome of any particular process.

The revival of smog-like opacity around federal judicial appointment processes has not gone unremarked, with concerns voiced about the consequences for efforts to improve judicial diversity. Justice Ruth McColl of the New South Wales Court of Appeal has said of the reversion that ‘any move that strips away progress towards greater equality of judicial appointment is, at the very least, highly problematic’.

The McClelland reforms were obviously relatively modest when compared to those of the United Kingdom. But they were certainly an advance on the customary practice. Brandis’ rejection of them is curious not only because the new process hardly constrained his power of selection to an intolerable degree, but also because he had participated in the 2009 Senate inquiry which gave its approval to the reforms. Indeed, that committee urged greater transparency upon the Attorney-General at the time – including ‘making public the number of nominations and applications received for each vacancy and, if a short-list of candidates is part of the process, to make public the number of people on the short-list’ (Recommendation 3).

While readers in the United Kingdom might sympathise with the view that this retreat from transparency and process is to be lamented, some may, nevertheless, be doubtful about the capacity of the measures introduced by McClelland to promote judicial diversity. After all, in 2012, the House of Lords Select Committee on the Constitution was emphatic in rejecting the view of a number of witnesses who appeared before it to submit that shortlists would facilitate a swifter diversification of the judiciary. The Committee did so because, as it said, ‘unless a Lord Chancellor is committed to the promotion of diversity, the use of shortlists could have the reverse effect of reducing the diversity of the judiciary.’ That outcome is obviously possible but perhaps questionable, given broad political acknowledgment of the need for the judiciary to be more representative. Certainly it seems just as likely that diversity might be thwarted by giving serving judges too much influence over appointments, risking the self-perpetuation of the judicial class in its own image, as highlighted by Professor Alan Paterson and Chris Paterson in their report Guarding the guardians?.

Professor Kate Malleson wrote on this blog in 2012, the use of a shortlist ‘would allow for an appropriate degree of political input in the process and would open space for the Lord Chancellor to promote greater diversity though his choice of candidates while maintaining selection on merit’. That appears to have been exactly how the use of shortlists worked in Australia for appointments to the federal courts other than the High Court. The government described the Attorney-General’s role in the process as ‘identifying a preferred candidate’ from the names forwarded to him or her by the Advisory Panel. While the Senate Committee agreed that the final decision was appropriately left with the executive, it was searching in respect of how that determination was made:

If the Attorney-General identifies the most suitable person based on their assessment against the selection criteria then it is desirable for this to be articulated. On the other hand, if the Attorney-General is not willing to state that selection is directly based on the selection criteria then this should also be articulated.

While the government was apparently not prepared to risk the political danger of divorcing itself from the rhetoric of making appointments ‘solely on merit’, if everyone on the shortlist has been judged sufficiently meritorious by the Advisory Panel then clearly some other factor is the ultimate determinant. In light of the government’s stated commitment to enhancing the diversity of the federal judiciary it is not hard to imagine that the candidates’ other attributes entered the equation. Some explicit support for this conclusion is discernible from an examination of some of the announcements of new appointments made under the reformed system – with the individual’s contribution to the diversification of the bench being occasionally acknowledged by the Attorney-General.

While judicial appointments reform in Australia has gone backwards, perhaps some aspects of it offer a useful perspective on live questions in the United Kingdom debate. In particular, the way in which ‘merit’ is generally conceived is startlingly different. The House of Lords declared that shortlists were basically antithetical to the principle of appointment on merit – a view not taken by members of the Australian upper house nor voiced in a single submission from the judiciary, legal professional associations or academics to that chamber’s inquiry.

The recent amendment to the Constitutional Reform Act providing that diversity considerations may be used to determine which name goes forward ‘where two persons are of equal merit’ has been welcomed but there are concerns as to the difference it will make in practice. To Australian eyes that scepticism appears well-founded since the ‘equal merit’ provision still reflects an insistence not only that the quality of potential candidates may be objectively measured, but that this enables persons to be ranked with some exactitude. Accordingly, a dead-heat must be anticipated as unlikely – and the statute simply does not countenance merit as something that might relevantly be possessed more widely than just two individuals.

Contrast this with the candid remarks in 2008 of Stephen Gageler SC, then Solicitor-General of the Commonwealth and since appointed to the High Court of Australia:

… [A]t any time there would be fifty people in Australia quite capable of performing the role of a High Court justice. My perception is that the pool gets proportionately wider the further down the judicial hierarchy you go… The notion that appointment can only validly be based on ‘merit’ is naïve.

McClelland’s reform of judicial appointments in Australia did not reject the rhetoric of ‘merit’ as the ultimate justification for selection of individuals to serve in the federal courts. But the design of those processes effectively signalled that while merit was essential, it was not the exclusive consideration. Although those reforms have now been undone, it is to be hoped that as a result of their five years’ operation, the government cannot completely retreat behind ‘naïve’ explanations as to why one individual is chosen for judicial appointment from amongst others possessing equivalent qualifications, expertise, and professional skills.

 

Andrew Lynch is a professor and Director of the Judiciary Project at the Gilbert + Tobin Centre of Public Law at the University of New South Wales, Australia.

(Suggested citation: A. Lynch, ‘Judicial Appointments in Australia – Reform in Retreat’ U.K. Const. L. Blog (26th May 2014) (available at http://ukconstitutionallaw.org/).

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