Coercing Virtue (12 page)

Manfredi makes it clear just how strong that evidence was. The draft of section 7 used the phrase “due process of law.” But those words were objected to on the grounds that the Canadian courts could use them, as the American courts had, to develop a doctrine of substantive due process allowing the courts themselves to judge the substance of the law for reasonableness. The language change was made in response to that objection. “To the officials of the Justice Department responsible for drafting the Charter … the phrase ‘principles of fundamental justice’ … did not have any substantive connotation in Canadian law. …” A representative of the department, in testimony before the Special Joint Committee on the Constitution in 1981, stated:

Minister of Justice Jean Chrétien reported the same understanding to the committee.

The clarity of this history did not deter Justice Lamer, who reached a conclusion that Manfredi, with considerable restraint, calls “remarkable.” The clear intention of the legislature did not save the Act from a declaration of unconstitutionality. The Justice discounted the testimony of the Justice Department and the minister of justice because it was given by civil servants and did not sufficiently indicate the intentions of the legislative bodies that adopted the
Charter
. The absence of any counterargument in those bodies would normally, of course, indicate that they agreed with the drafters. If the Court bound itself to the substantive intent underlying the various constitutional guarantees, the
Charter’s
rights and freedoms would “become frozen in time to the moment of adoption, with little or no possibility of growth and adjustment to changing societal needs.” This interpretation, of course, ignores the function of Parliament and the provincial legislatures in meeting changing societal needs.

Some Canadian commentators see the same problems that certain of their United States counterparts do with judicial review. Manfredi agreed that “rights-based judicial review is a positive element of liberal democracy”
because it safeguards “individual rights and liberties by enforcing constitutional limits on legislative and executive power,” ensuring that “liberal democracy does not degenerate into tyranny.” But he went on in a passage partially quoted in the epigraph to this chapter:

Justice Lamer, among others, undeterred by the fact that the
Charter
was meant to deny the Court an unstructured authority to judge the substance of statutes in the guise of constitutional interpretation, used the “living tree” metaphor to justify rejecting the framers’ original understanding of what it was they were doing in favor of the judicial understanding of what should be done now. The metaphor is both misleading and pernicious. Under the similar name of the “living Constitution,” it serves the same illegitimate function in America as in Canada. A constitution necessarily grows when a judge applies
existing principles to unforeseen circumstances. That is what Holmes meant when he said that the movements of the courts were properly molecular rather than molar. It is the task of today’s judge to discern how the constitution makers’ principles, defined in the world they knew, apply to the circumstances of the world the judges know. As I wrote some time ago, “The world changes in which unchanging values find their application.”

Examples in American law are plentiful. I cited the Fourth Amendment’s prohibition of unreasonable searches and seizures, written to prevent the constable, acting on nothing more solid than his own whim or vague suspicion, from entering upon a citizen’s home. The amendment’s general words, however, indicate a general principle, a presumption of privacy against unwarranted government intrusion in the name of law enforcement. After an initial hesitation, the Supreme Court applied the principle to modern technologies of electronic surveillance. More recently, the Court has applied the principle to police use of thermal imaging to detect certain activities within a home. The technique of judicial adaptation does not, of course, apply simply to changes in technology. In an opinion that ruffled some of my conservative colleagues on the bench, I applied the First Amendment guarantee of freedom of the press to defeat a libel claim. Granting that the framers of the amendment did not see libel actions as a threat to press freedom, I argued that, over time, if the libel action evolved so that in some of its new applications it became dangerous to that freedom, judges should properly adapt their doctrines to deal with
the new problem. A change in the legal environment provided by common law or statutory law is surely no different from a constitutional judge’s standpoint than is a change in the technological environment.

It is quite another thing, however, to say that the “living tree” metaphor means that judges must keep up with the times and with changing conditions by creating new constitutional principles to be enforced as if they were actually in the document. At that point the judiciary arrogates to itself the powers of a constitutional convention, with one difference: a constitution must be submitted to the people or their representatives for approval before it goes into effect; a judge’s amendment to a constitution needs no imprimatur from anyone but the judge.

In a similar locution, a court’s invention of a new principle – the right to an abortion, say, or the special protection of homosexuality – is often justified by saying that “our” understanding of an old value such as equality has evolved. The lie in that formulation is the word “our.” If the new understanding of equality had evolved, that fact would be reflected in legislation – and, in fact, it often is, as demonstrated by civil rights statutes. But when judges make the supposed evolutionary change in understanding the basis for declaring a statute invalid, it is perfectly obvious that the change is not ours, but theirs. And in that they are speaking for the values of the New Class which have not yet found, and perhaps never can find, favor in the legislature.

Morton and Knopff conclude
The Charter Revolution and the Court Party
with an observation that applies not only to Canada but to activist courts everywhere:

P
ride of place in the international judicial deformation of democratic government goes not to the United States, nor to Canada, but to the State of Israel. The Israeli Supreme Court
¹
is making itself the dominant institution in the nation, an authority no other court in the world has achieved.

Imagine, if you can, a supreme court that has gained the power to choose its own members, wrested control of the attorney general from the executive branch, set aside legislation and executive action when there were disagreements about policy, altered the meaning of enacted law, forbidden government action at certain times, ordered action it thought the government should take at other times, and claimed and exercised the authority to override national defense measures. Imagine as well a supreme court that has created a body of constitutional law despite the absence of an actual constitution. No act of imagination is required: Israel’s Supreme Court has done them all.

It was not always so. Though Israel has been a highly politicized nation from its formation, the Supreme Court, in order to establish its legitimacy, according to Martin Edelman, wrote opinions that were “characterized by highly formalistic legal style, narrow interpretations of
statutes and precedents, adherence to
stare decisis
, and deference to the decisions of the Knesset, the government, and the Israel Defense Forces.” Gradually, however, the Court began to assert its authority to interpret statutes according to the principles of “natural justice” – an amorphous concept designed to cut the Court loose from the restraints of positive law. But the subjectivity was too obvious. Searching for something that could be designated a mandate for overriding judicial power, the Supreme Court began to claim that its supremacy had been legitimated in 1992 by the passage of two laws: the
Basic Law: Freedom of Occupation
and the
Basic Law: Human Dignity and Liberty
. The first of these laws forbids restrictions on the right to practice any vocation. The second, which is more important for our purposes, prohibits infringements on a person’s dignity, life, body, or property. Each
Basic Law
contains an exception clause: “There shall be no violation of rights under this Basic Law except by a law befitting the values of the State of Israel, enacted for a proper purpose, and to an extent no greater than is required.” An earlier clause in both laws describes Israel’s values as those of a “Jewish and democratic state.”
²
These words seem at least marginally more confining than “natural justice,” but in practice they have liberated rather than constrained the Court.

These
Basic Laws
provide an inadequate platform for a
Court intent on invalidating legislative action. For one thing, the
Basic Laws
are even more general and undefined than major provisions in the United States
Bill of Rights
and the
Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms
. The American amendments and the Canadian
Charter
were, at least, written, proposed, and ratified as constitutions. By contrast, it is not at all clear that Israel’s
Basic Laws
were designed to be more than precatory. The
Basic Laws
were enacted by the Knesset in the middle of the night without even a majority of the 120 members present. The
Law
dealing with liberty and dignity passed by 32 to 21 votes; that dealing with freedom of occupation by 23 to 0. There was no discussion in the Knesset indicating any recognition that a constitution was being adopted. Certainly there was no understanding that the Supreme Court was to be the final arbiter of what the
Basic Laws
meant. Yet that is how the Court has chosen to read them.

The extraordinary events that followed cannot be understood without reference to one man, Aharon Barak. From the beginning of his tenure on the Supreme Court in 1978 to his assumption of the presidency in 1995 to the present day, Barak has been the dominant figure in Israeli law and, increasingly, a major force in shaping the nation’s policies. He is without significant opposition within the Court. So broadly has he spread the Court’s powers that it is no exaggeration to say, along with Hillel Neuer, that “Barak may well be the single most influential person in Israeli public life today.” Barak’s philosophy, now apparently shared by the Court, is that there is no area of Israeli life that the Court may not rule. This
radical position follows from three extraordinary legal doctrines also adopted by the Canadian Supreme Court, whose
Charter
jurisprudence has greatly influenced the Israeli Court. But these doctrines appear to have led in Israel to an even more extreme body of decisions than Canada’s, or any other nation’s for that matter: first, all behavior, governmental or personal, is examinable and may be controlled by the Court; second, all persons may raise any issues they choose for consideration by the Court; and third, all questions are fit for Court resolution. These are not dusty technicalities, but revolutionary changes in the Court’s role in government and, hence, in the distribution of power within Israel.