Reducing the randomness of online virtue testing: Ramelson v R, 2022 SCC 44

When can the police legitimately trick people about whom they have no prior knowledge into committing a crime?

And in what circumstances may such trickery be carried out online, as opposed to in a physical space?

The Supreme Court of Canada considered these matters in Ramelson v R, 2022 SCC 44 (24 November 2022).

A finding that the police acted unlawfully, here by entrapping a person into committing an offence, would be grounds for issuing a stay of proceedings. The drastic nature of issuing a stay makes the decision highly contextual.

Although highly contextual - dependent on the particular circumstances of a case - the decision process is structured. Ultimately, stays are issued to preserve the respect and support that the community has for the law. Given that as the ultimate criterion, one would expect that when a stay is necessary, it will be obviously necessary. The eggregiousness of the police tactic used to obtain the evidence should be obvious to most people. So, why have an elaborate decision model?

In Canada, the police can present any person with the opportunity to commit a crime if they conduct a bona fide inquiry. Bona fide means having a reasonable suspicion that offending is occurring over a sufficiently precise space, and having the genuine purpose of investigating and repressing crime [35].

The notion of space might refer to a geographical area in which offending is suspected to be occurring, or it might refer to a communication channel such as a phone number if it is reasonably suspected to be being used for a criminal purpose. And where crime is conducted through the medium of the internet, the space may need to be curtailed to meet the “sufficiently precise” requirement [51].

In Ramelson the investigation was into the grooming of young people for sexual purposes at an internet site that hosted explicit advertisements by young people offering such services. The police covertly posted similar advertisements on the site. To commit the relevant offence, a person had to go to the site, click on an advertisement, and then message a number mentioned in that advertisement. Those three steps in effect sequentially increased the precision with which the space was defined. They served to reduce the randomness of virtue testing that otherwise could have been beyond the bounds of acceptable police conduct [55].

The police advertisements here presented opportunities to commit offences for which there were reasonable grounds to suspect were occurring, and also slightly more serious offences for which there had been no such grounds. In the circumstances this did not matter, because the two kinds of offence were rationally connected and proportionate to each other [69], [94]-[100].

The judgment discusses in detail the various considerations that can be relevant to the definition of an online space [62]-[68].

The significance of error at trial: Awad v The Queen [2022] HCA 36

When is an error at trial sufficient to cause an appellate court to examine the safety of a conviction?

Appellate judges occasionally differ over the significance of an error in the context of a trial.

Context is important because some errors are slips that can be neutralised during a trial, for example where a judge in summing up to the jury on the law accidentally misstates the way the evidence of a defendant must be approached. This error might be corrected, with the correction being adequately emphasised, by further instructions in the same summing up.

Whether adequate correction of this sort of error occurred was the point under appeal in Awad v The Queen [2022] HCA 36 (9 November 2022). The Court, by a 4-1 majority, ordered a new trial. If the prosecution wishes to pursue that opportunity, each side will, no doubt, find useful the issues identified by Gordon and Edelman JJ at [105].

Steward J dissented, in a judgment that, read on its own, is a convincing argument in support of the immateriality of the error in this case. Broadly, and in my words, he reasoned that as perfection tends to be elusive [115], the point is whether the jury was thrown off course by the error [116], and this is to be assessed in the light of the whole of the judge’s instruction to the jury [122]. Here, trial counsel decided that the best course was to pass over the error [120], and the judge had made adequate correction of the mistake [126]. More controversially, Steward J added that “today’s juries have never been so well educated” [131]. Really? In Greek, Latin, Logic? The news media tell us that educational standards are in decline. People are leaving school less literate, less numerate, and consequently more ignorant than (if I may, following Steward J, use the rhetorical device of hyperbole) ever before. Anyhoo, Steward J was able to conclude that an error in directing the jury on the topic of credibility did not matter in this case where the issue was the credibility of one of the defendants.

So much simpler was the approach of the majority, although the existence of two joint majority judgments will make readers wonder why there were two judgments, and what any difference between them might be. Perhaps the difference is that Gordon and Edelman JJ are more discursive (for example at [93]-[95]).

Kiefel CJ and Gleeson J were sensitive to the possibility that the jury was (presumably despite its education) confused by the misdirection [37]. This risk of confusion took the issue beyond that addressed by the majority in the Court of Appeal, to whether on the whole of the record the convictions were inevitable [38].

Gordon and Edelman JJ took the same approach, setting out the law at [78]. They gave three reasons for concluding that the error was a significant one that could have affected the result ([101]-[104], but compare Steward J’s three considerations at [127]-[134]).

Again broadly, as this was a case where the credibility of a defendant’s evidence was material, the appellate court was not, by a majority, in a position to say, on the face of the record of the trial, that the convictions were safe. A new trial was therefore ordered.

Some people may wonder why, in view of the burden and standard of proof, a new trial was ordered. Perhaps the explanation is that it was the judge who threw the spanner into the works, and it was not the fault of the prosecution that the error occurred. It would be unfair to the Crown to deny it a properly conducted trial.

Failure to caution a suspect: R v Tessier, 2022 SCC 35

The Supreme Court of Canada’s decision in R v Tessier, 2022 SCC 35 (14 October 2022) concerns the admissibility consequences of a statement obtained without giving the standard police caution about the right to silence.

This was an issue determined under Canadian common law. It may be compared, by evidence law buffs, to the way the same issue is addressed in the statutory evidence law of New Zealand under the Evidence Act 2006.

The Canadian law gathers together concepts, most of which are familiar: voluntariness, fairness, reliability, balance, repute to the administration of justice, prima facie, beyond reasonable doubt, threats, promises, oppression, trickery, and the so-called operating mind doctrine (which requires that the interviewee exercised a meaningful choice to speak and was not improperly influenced by state action).

These are packed into a decision model that is summarised at [89]. It applies to any person questioned as a suspect, as defined at [81]-[82].

In New Zealand the Practice Note on Police Questioning issued by the Chief Justice requires a caution to be given in the circumstances described in [2]. It applies to anyone in custody, and also to anyone whom a member of the police has sufficient evidence to charge with an offence.

Failure to caution such a person can have forensic consequences, according to whether the admissibility of the uncautioned statement is challenged under s 28 (unreliability), s 29 (influenced by oppression), or s 30 (improperly obtained). The standard on each issue is, for unreliable and improperly obtained statements, the balance of probabilities, and for those obtained by oppression beyond reasonable doubt. Reading each in its context suggests a greater intolerance of oppression than of unfairness.

Here the concern is with investigatory fairness, not trial fairness. In Tessier the  Canadian court notes that fairness is important but it doesn’t exclude other values (at [72]). Similarly, under s 30 the consequences of unfairness in the obtaining of evidence is determined by the balancing exercise described in that section.

The statement was ultimately ruled admissible in Tessier. Would the same result have been arrived at under New Zealand law? (5 marks.)

Three fundamentals of evidence law: R v Schneider, 2022 SCC 34

You wouldn’t expect to find huge differences in the law of evidence between common law legal systems, even where legislation has replaced the common law. So it is reassuring to experience once again the similarity of Canadian evidence law to that in New Zealand: R v Schneider, 2022 SCC 34.

The appeal concerns the law of hearsay. In general terms, the decision framework for determining admissibility can be, and is, put as having three component parts: (1) is the evidence relevant? (2) Is it excluded pursuant to a rule? (3) Should an applicable discretion have been exercised so as to exclude it? [1]

The Supreme Court of Canada split 7-2 on the relevance component. The minority ([89] ff) would have excluded the evidence because it was impossible to determine its relevance as it was too vague to be identified. You have to know what the challenged evidence is before you can decide whether it is relevant. And here, its prejudicial effect necessarily outweighed its probative value ([96]).

The majority, being satisfied that the challenged evidence was relevant, then considered whether it was inadmissible because of the hearsay rule. Here the evidence was of what the defendant himself had said, and unsurprisingly it was not inadmissible hearsay. In New Zealand we don’t apply the hearsay rule to a defendant’s own statements because there are separate provisions in the Evidence Act 2006 covering this. [2]

Then, and this is the only bit that I find incongruous, the third component of the determination was addressed. It was referred to as a “balancing” of probative value against prejudicial effect. [3]

This so-called balancing has a long history in the common law. It isn’t really balancing, because a high risk of improperly prejudicial effect is not needed to make evidence inadmissible when its probative value is high. Improper prejudice usually amounts to a risk that the fact-finder will use the evidence in an improper process of reasoning. If there is that risk, and if it can’t be overcome by judicial instruction, then the evidence will be inadmissible no matter how probative it is.

Even where this discretion is described as a “weighing” exercise, this is a context where weighing is not balancing. But I have said this before, on 8 October 2019, in greater detail. This is just a matter of getting the decision model clear.

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[1] In New Zealand we no longer (since the enactment of our evidence law) use the term "discretion" to describe the decision process, and there is no deference to the trial judge. Instead, the various admissibility decisions in criminal cases are treated as applications of rules and admissibility is a question of law (see R v Gwaze [2010] NZSC 52, noted here on 18 May 2010) and on appeal the appellant is entitled to the unfettered judgment of the appeal court. In that sense it is sufficient to say that in New Zealand the decision framework has only the first two components mentioned in Schneider.

[2] The Evidence Act 2006 largely enacted the New Zealand common law together with the previous legislation (with some changes, such as the provisions concerning expert evidence, compare Ellis v R [2022] NZSC 115 and s 25 of the current Act) on specific topics. The special provisions on the admissibility of a defendant’s own statements (see s 27 and the sections mentioned therein) were necessary to preserve what had been an exception to the common law rule excluding hearsay (see Scheider at [52]).

[3] We have enacted this too: s 8, where it is described as a weighing, and the relevance rule is in s 7.

Tikanga Māori and the common law of New Zealand: Ellis v R (Continuance) [2022] NZSC 114

Today our Supreme Court released two decisions in the Ellis case. The case concerns the convictions in 1993 of the appellant for sexual offending at the Christchurch Civic Creche. The first of the decisions contains the reasons, in separate judgments, for allowing the appeal to continue despite the death of the appellant after the grant of leave to appeal. The second is the substantive decision of the Court in a single judgment quashing all the convictions. I will just mention the first decision here, and I do not try to give a detailed account, as there is no substitute for reading the individual judgments.

The first decision, Ellis v R (Continuance) [2022] NZSC 114, includes important discussions of the relationship between tikanga Māori and New Zealand common law. Fortunately for everyone, the Court has done the hard work of pointing us to the relevant parts of the judgments in its Summary of Reasons, paras [1]-[23].

To what extent is tikanga part of the decision? The reasoning of the judges differed, but fell into two camps. The majority, Glazebrook, O’Regan and Arnold JJ, were able to decide the continuation-of-the-appeal point on factors listed at [8], without requiring those factors to be modified in this case by tikanga concepts which nevertheless “may be relevant” [11]. The minority, Winkelmann CJ and Williams J, were able to “fold in” tikanga concepts into their decision framework [10].

The unanimous approach to tikanga is summarised at [19]: where relevant, tikanga can be “recognised in the development of the common law”. The majority (here, Winkelmann CJ, Glazebrook and Williams JJ) held that the “relationship between tikanga and the common law” will evolve contextually, case by case [21]. Further, “the courts must not exceed their function when engaging with tikanga” [22].

Glazebrook J’s remarks at [126]-[127] describe the current relationship between tikanga and the common law. Winkelmann CJ notes, and agrees, that the role that tikanga will play in the development of the common law is best addressed on a case by case basis [183]. Williams J too stressed the importance of context [261], [266]-[272].

Tikanga was relevant in this case because the convictions adversely affected the mana , among other tikanga considerations, of Mr Ellis and his family: [128]-[135]. Significantly, Mr Ellis was not Māori [136], but expert opinion was that there was nevertheless an impact on his mana [141]. Glazebrook J noted that tikanga may be relevant “particularly if any of the parties involved are Māori” [144], and even where they are not a tikanga perspective may highlight important values [145]-[147].

I do not think that this case supports the view that a separate legal system should be developed, concentrating on tikanga values. Rather, it seems that the common law (where applicable - that is, where not replaced by legislation, which itself may require consideration of tikanga) will evolve and be informed by tikanga where relevant, either by taking it into account on an individual basis, or by adopting it gradually as precedent. The process will be one of enrichment and not of contrast. The courts cannot change tikanga, or rule on what tikanga should be, but they can accept expert opinion on tikanga, just as they can accept expert opinion on, for example, science, without being able to change the science itself. Tikanga can serve to emphasise what is common to everyone.

Update: for an interesting media review of the decision and a collection of commentaries, see this article from Stuff, published on 15 October 2022. I must say that some of the critical comments about judges over-stepping their role and trespassing on what is parliament's business are incorrect. If we think back to how the common law started, when King Henry II sent judges in England on circuit to ascertain and apply local laws, and then required them to hold meetings to thrash out a law that, taking the best of all the ideas, would subsequently be applied across England, we can see how the common law - which is the business of judges and which is always able to be replaced by legislation - can draw upon the best of the ideas circulating in the country and meld them together. If parliament thinks some improvement is necessary, it can pass the appropriate enactments.

Further update: Observations on tikanga are to be found in Smith v Fonterra Co-operative Group Limited [2024] NZSC 5 at [182]-[189]. At [187]: "... tikanga was the first law of New Zealand, and it will continue to influence New Zealand’s distinctive common law as appropriate according to the case and to the extent appropriate in the case. [Footnote: The past and present interface of tikanga and the common law was recently discussed in: Te Aka Matua o te Ture | Law Commission He Poutama (NZLC SP24, 2023)]."

Attempting to have possession of a controlled drug

If legislation [1]  has omitted to provide for an offence of procuring a controlled drug for supply, and so also omitted an offence of attempting [2] to procure the drug for supply, can there be implied into the legislation an offence of attempting to have possession of a controlled drug for supply?

This was a puzzle that intrigued subtle-minded law students when I was at law school.

It raises questions about the interpretation of criminal legislation: should the narrow view be taken, so that it is for the legislature to plug the gaps if that is what it wants to do, or should the courts fill in the gaps on behalf of the legislature under the guise of applying what is thought to be the legislature’s intention?

There could be good reasons for the omission from the legislation of an offence of attempting to have possession for supply. For example, possession for supply is a state of affairs, of itself causing no harm to anyone. It doesn’t make a drug available to potential users (that is addressed by the offences of importing, manufacturing, cultivating, supplying). The offence of possession of a drug was introduced relatively late in the history of our drug laws. [3] It is a sort of preparatory (inchoate) offence. Of itself, it is less of a threat to the community than conspiracy to supply a drug, or attempting to procure a drug. Those offences will usually involve interaction with other people, and it is their combined interest in the drug that is the threat to the community. A person who has possession of a drug for supply could be said to be on the threshold of committing a more serious offence. There might follow an attempt to supply the drug. The possession might be part of, or might lead to, a conspiracy to supply the drug. No one doubts that there are such offences as attempting to supply a controlled drug and conspiracy to supply a drug. The law extends plenty of community protection in such circumstances. And the offence of attempting to procure the drug is available too, but the penalty is  (deliberately, in view of the reduced societal threat) lower. [4]

On the other hand, perhaps it is so obvious that there is an offence of attempting to have possession of a drug that there was no need for the legislature to say so. Possession is an offence, and an offence can be attempted. [5] The ingredients of the offence are: having an intent to have possession of the drug, and doing or omitting an act for the purpose of achieving that possession, as long as that act or omission is not merely preparatory for the commission of the possession. This is really the same as attempting to procure the drug, but there is no offence of procuring a drug for supply and therefore no offence of attempting to procure a drug for supply. So, on this interpretation, an offence of attempting to have possession of a drug for supply does the same work.

Strict interpretation, or purposive interpretation? Which shall it be?

The history of this issue, and its present resolution, is addressed in Mesman v R [2022] NZCA 418 (7 September 2022).

The phrase that sticks out for me, probably because it must have been written with a twinkle in the eye, is in para [23]: “Statutes … have never been a safe haven for the grammarian …”. Of course this is not to be taken literally, because grammar is of fundamental importance in statutory interpretation. But it flags a pragmatic approach in the service of harm reduction.

The appellant had tried to obtain delivery to herself of a package by courier ([4]-[7]). My knowledge of this case comes entirely from the judgment, but it seems to me that the appellant may have been liable as a party to the attempted supply of the drug to herself by inciting that attempt. [6]

The Court in Mesman held that there is an offence of attempting to have possession of a controlled drug.  Noting at [22] that the Crimes Act “criminalises attempts to commit any offence”, the Court begged the question. The Crimes Act does not criminalise attempts to commit “any” offence, but uses the word “an”, which can mean “an offence that can be attempted”. A ruder person that I could think that judgments have never been a safe haven for logicians. And of course they haven’t, for policy has its place and may well override logic in matters of statutory interpretation.

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[1] The legislation relevant here is s 6 of New Zealand’s  Misuse of Drugs Act 1975.

[2] Our relevant attempt offences are provided for by s 72 of the Crimes Act 1961.

[3] The first of our drug possession offences was introduced in 1908 and referred to opium that had been imported in contravention of customs legislation. The first drugs legislation was the Sale of Poisons Act 1866 and this was directed at the labelling of containers of poisons which included opium and laudanum. Then, in 1871 an upgraded Act required vendors of poisons to be registered.

[4] Procuring is an offence against s 7(1)(a) of the Misuse of Drugs Act 1975, and the attempt is an offence against s 72 of the Crimes Act 1961, with the penalty provided for in s 311 of that Act (a maximum of half the penalty for the full offence).

[5] But “an” is not necessarily “any”. If it were, there would be an infinite series of attempts to attempt.

[6] Party liability is governed by s 66 of the Crimes Act 1961. By consigning the drug to the courier, the supplier did everything necessary to commit the attempt to supply the drug to the appellant. By inviting that attempt, the appellant appears to be liable for the incitement. There is some conflict of authority on whether the supply must have been intended for someone else (the offence is “supply to any other person”, s 6(1)(c)), but it seems sensible to say that the other person is the appellant. This is the approach taken in R v Drew [2000] 1 Cr App R 91, [1999] Crim LR 581  (CA).

The principle underlying judicial recognition of retrospective removal of a defence: Stephens v The Queen [2022] HCA 31

If the legislature changes the law by removing a defence, and that change is not specified to apply to trials that have commenced and not been completed when the enactment takes effect, does the change apply to such trials?

Broadly, this was the issue in Stephens v The Queen [2022] HCA 31 (7 September 2022). It arose from a complicated interplay of charges and legislative change. To summarise, again broadly, there was uncertainty over when some of the offences charged were committed, and the time of their committal was relevant to whether an offence which otherwise might have been proved had then been repealed. This difficulty was belatedly addressed by the provision that had to be interpreted, s 80AF of the Crimes Act 1900 (NSW), which is set out at [19] of the judgment.

Here, the trial started (according to the relevant procedural meaning of the start of a trial applied by the 4-1 majority) on 29 November 2018, and s 80AF came into force two days later, on 1 December 2018. If s 80AF applied to this trial then a defence would be removed: [22].

Given that the legislation itself did not answer the question, this became an exercise in ascertaining the reasonable expectations of those who acted in reliance on the assumption that the known state of the law at the time that actions were done will determine their legal consequences: [33].

That is the underlying principle. It does not involve wrestling with difficult distinctions (substantive or procedural law: [31]-[32]) and difficult nomenclature (retrospective or retroactive legislation: [29]). Artificial distinctions must not be allowed to control the underlying principle: [32].

As to ascertaining the relevant reasonable expectations, the fundamental principles of criminal law, the accusatorial process, and the law in force at the relevant time will be informative [33], and the force of the presumption that the reasonable expectations will be determinative will depend upon the circumstances, as described at [34].

The Court was unanimous on the “reasonable expectations” test for determining whether retroactive effect was intended, and on the relevance of the nature of the rights that had been altered (at [49]), but Steward J dissented on whether in this case Mr Stephens did have reasonable expectations that were significantly disturbed by the application of s 80AF to his trial. Steward J took a different view on when the trial started ([55], compare majority at [8]), holding that s 80AF was in force before the trial started [56]. He examined preparatory materials to ascertain the legislative intent, concluding that s 80AF was intended to apply to trials that had commenced [61], [67], and Mr Stephens’s lawyers would have been well aware of the change in the law when it was pending and they were preparing his trial [68]. In short, Steward J described Mr Stephens’s position as seeking to have these convictions quashed merely because he was formally arraigned for the first time two days before s 80AF came into force.

Identifying unlawful benefit

Calculating a person’s unlawfully obtained benefit from criminal activity can raise some complicated issues.

Suppose a lotto ticket has been bought with illegally obtained funds, and it wins first prize. Is the unlawful benefit the value of the prize?

What if the ticket had been bought mostly with lawfully obtained funds, but to a small extent with unlawfully obtained money? Is the unlawful benefit the proportion of the prize that is the same as the proportion of the ticket cost that was paid with unlawfully obtained funds? Or, if the ticket could not have been bought at all without the small contribution of the unlawfully obtained funds, is the unlawful benefit the whole of the prize?

And what if the ticket could have been bought with lawful funds, but the purchaser absentmindedly reached into the wrong pocket for the money?

What if land is bought with unlawfully borrowed funds, and at some stage during the period the land is owned the loan is repaid with lawfully obtained funds, and throughout this time the land steadily grows in value?

What if a contract to do work is obtained dishonestly, but the work is done satisfactorily? What if the contract would still have been awarded even if the dishonesty had been known to the other party? What is the relevance of the absence of any loss to the deceived party?

And, as occurred in R v Andrewes (Defendant) [2022] UKSC 24, what if employment is obtained as a consequence of presentation of a dishonest c.v.? How much influence might the false representation have had on the successful application for the job? If the work was done satisfactorily and remunerated according to the contract of employment, what was the unlawfully obtained benefit? What if there had been no other applicants for the job? Or no applicants remotely suitable?

In Andrewes the Court reviews some cases where these sorts of questions are considered. The main one is R v Waya [2012] UKSC 51, [2013] 1 AC 294, which I have discussed here .

And for those of you who are pronoun buffs, try rewriting the first paragraph of Andrewes to remove the gender pronouns:

This appeal raises an important issue on the confiscation regime laid down by the Proceeds of Crime Act 2002 (“POCA”). It concerns what is often referred to as “cv fraud” (“cv” being shorthand for “curriculum vitae”). Typically, as in this case, this occurs where a fraudster includes lies on his or her application form for a job (for example, by including qualifications or experience which he or she does not have) and, as a result, is appointed to the job. The fraudster performs the agreed services satisfactorily and is paid the agreed salary until the fraud is discovered. On a conviction for fraud, should there be a confiscation order stripping the fraudster of his or her earnings (net of tax and national insurance)? In particular, would such a confiscation order be disproportionate under the proviso in section 6(5) of POCA? 

My suggestions:

 …. lies on an application form …

… by including non-existent qualifications …

… stripping the fraudster of those earnings …

Ho ho. And happy blog-birthday to me for tomorrow! Eighteen years! Merde, how time flies.

How much of the work should a final appeal court do? Two remittal and retrial decisions of the High Court of Australia.

Sometimes one wonders why an ultimate appeal court orders new trials or refers issues back to lower courts. Why not decide cases finally, since they have arrived at the final appeal court?

Two decisions of the High Court of Australia today prompt these questions.

First, whether the High Court should have decided the issue itself instead of pointing out the error of the court below and remitting the case for reconsideration by that court. In Dansie v The Queen [2022] HCA 25 (10 August 2022) the Court corrected a view that had been held on the approach to appeals brought on the grounds that the verdict of the tribunal of fact - whether a judge alone or a jury - was unreasonable.

Having pointed out the error and having said what the lower appellate court should have done, the High Court remitted the case back to that court for it to follow the method set out. Couldn’t the High Court have saved time and expense by applying its own statement of the correct method?

Ironically, the error had been one of deferring to the assessment of the evidence by the fact-finder, instead of the first appellate court assessing the evidence for itself and making up its own mind on whether there was a reasonable doubt about guilt that could not be dispelled by taking into account advantages that the fact-finder may have had in assessing the evidence.

In this case there was no evidence that gave the fact-finder an advantage over an appellate court, so there was no reason to have any deference for the fact-finder’s assessment of the evidence.

This was one of those heart breaking cases about whether the death of the defendant’s spouse had been accidental. There was little dispute about the evidence, and the issue was what inferences could be drawn.

The High Court has clarified the law at [15]-[16], and has usefully referred to Pell at [13].

Secondly, on whether a new trial should have been ordered: O’Dea v Western Australia [2022] HCA 24 (10 August 2022): Here the issue was whether the liability of the person who actually commits an offence includes liability of someone who doesn’t actually commit the offence.

Simple, you might say, and simple it was - at least for the majority of the Court in a 3-2 split.

The prosecution had been brought on the basis that the defendant had been sufficiently involved to the extent that he was guilty even though it could not be proved that he did the act that was a necessary element of the offence, because of a sort of agency. There were alternative and proper ways of alleging guilt, but the prosecution case eschewed those and opted for the (incorrect) “actually does the act” but by way of agency basis for the alleged liability.

Having decided that the chosen basis means what it says, and that therefore the jury had not been left with the correct issues, the Court ordered a new trial. Wasn’t this double jeopardy? Why give the prosecution a second opportunity, after carefully spelling out at [79] what the prosecution needed to do? Could the High Court have done what it has recently decided it can do: assess the evidence for itself and decide whether there was a reasonable doubt about guilt under the law as correctly applied? In view of the prosecutor's stance at trial (see [41]) - accepting that it could not be proved beyond reasonable doubt that the criminal acts were done by Mr O'Dea - should a verdict of not guilty have been entered on this appeal?

Arbitrary detention, right to legal advice, a 5-4 split on final appeal: R v Lafrance, 2022 SCC 32

The first thing that strikes one on reading R v Lafrance, 2022 SCC 32 (22 July 2022), is that the Supreme Court of Canada was divided 5-4. This difference of opinion between the two judgments centred on evaluating the evidence on the issues of detention and access to counsel. The majority held that the Charter rights had been breached and on application of the balancing exercise set out in R v Grant, 2009 SCC 32, [2009] 2 S.C.R. 353 the evidence was inadmissible. The minority found no Charter breaches and so did not need to consider the balancing exercise.

My impression is that this difference in evaluation of the evidence is illustrative of the inappropriateness, in the different context of appeals against conviction, of allowing appellate judges to act as juries. But don’t get me started on that topic.

More positively, or just positively, the majority in Lafrance set out at [90] the current approach to the balancing exercise in Grant. I have previously, and somewhat sarcastically, suggested that the original description of the process as a “decision tree” would be more appropriately put as an “impenetrable thicket”. But it seems that the thicket has been given the severe pruning it so richly deserved, a development going back at least as far as R v Le, 2019 SCC 34.

As you can see, in deciding whether or not admission of the evidence would bring the administration of justice into disrepute, the seriousness of the impropriety and its impact on the defendant’s rights are assessed cumulatively, and then weighed against society’s interests in adjudication of the case on its merits.

This admirably clear decision process is comparable to that which is set out in case law interpreting New Zealand’s s 30 of the Evidence Act 2006.

Truth-seeking? R v J.J., 2022 SCC 28

I don’t know how well the person who determines the wording of Canada’s federal laws speaks English. Look at this:

“(3) The judge shall, as soon as feasible, inform the complainant who participates in the hearing of their right to be represented by counsel.”

“Their” right? Why not say “the” right? Gratuitously bunging in unnecessary pronouns is surely one of the more shameful habits that can be picked up at university.

The provision I quoted is part of s 278.94 of the Criminal Code, so the Supreme Court of Canada is not entirely to blame for adopting this ugly usage in R v J.J., 2022 SCC 28 (June 30, 2022).

The case is of limited interest to those who are not subject to the law of Canada, but there are some points that catch one’s attention.

The Court follows its long-established practice of referring to a criminal trial as a “search for truth” (at [1]). Is this accurate? A commission of inquiry is a search for truth. A police investigation should be a search for truth. But a criminal trial is a test of the prosecution’s case as measured against the high standard of proof. Consequently, an acquittal is not a declaration of innocence. An acquittal is not a finding of truth. So, calling a criminal trial a search for truth is, to say the least, misleading.

The idea of the trial as a search for truth goes back to R v Mills, 1990 CanLII 135 (SCC) at [73]-[74], giving this as an example of a “principle of fundamental justice” which may embrace interests and perspectives beyond those of the defendant. It is “society’s interest in having the trial process arrive at the truth.” This, in my view, is a poorly examined concept.

And at [2] the majority judgment refers to the “bleak picture” painted by accounts of the experiences of complainants in trials of a sexual nature and the tendency of victims not to report such crimes. Parliament has made procedural reforms to address this, but, the majority say, “More needs to be done.” It is unusual for judges to comment on legislative policy in this way, and it may give some readers the impression that now the Court is going to do what it can to help with the task, instead of addressing the constitutionality of the legislation in an unbiased way.

Another attention-catching point is the habit in Canadian jurisprudence of treating the requirement that a trial must be fair as meaning that it must be fair to all concerned: the defendant, the prosecution, witnesses, and the community (at [2], [125]). And why not throw in anyone else you can think of. This is, in non-Canadian terms, nonsense. A criminal trial must be fair to the defendant. It is the defendant who has the right to a fair trial. This is an absolute right. However, there may be procedural constituents of that right (for example, the right to confront witnesses for the prosecution) that can be subject to some limitation without compromise to the absolute nature of the defendant’s right to a fair trial. A witness may be screened from the defendant, or may give evidence remotely by video link, or may - within very circumscribed limits - give evidence anonymously, without affecting the defendant’s ability to cross-examine the witness.

While I agree with the majority judgment, I must admit that I find parts of it incredible. The suggestion that a witness (here, complainant) will not be tainted by disclosure of a tactic that will be used as a challenge to credibility at trial (at [186]-[187}), is optimistic. And the conclusory opinion, at [186], that “ambush” is not an effective weapon is contrary to common sense and experience. By including these points the majority is over-stating its case.

Even so, apart from these quirks, the majority judgment is persuasive. It has the excellent quality of addressing the concerns expressed by the dissenting judges. It is persuasive because the sort of evidence that the legislation deals with is (a) only rarely going to be available to the defendant, and (b) it would, in any event, be subject to the basic rules of evidence concerning relevance and the need for it not to have an improperly prejudicial effect on the proceeding. And it should come as no surprise to a complainant that the defendant has the relevant record, and that the defendant might seek to use it at trial, so pre-trial announcement of that intention is unlikely to damage the defence.

Pre-trial disclosure of the defence position may take some of the drama out of the trial. In Auckland a few years ago (actually, a good few years ago) in a rape trial the defendant had - most wisely as it turned out - made a secret video recording of the events which all occurred in his bedroom. The complainant wasn’t aware of this and at trial gave a convincing account of having been raped, but when confronted with the recording in cross-examination, her claim of lack of consent was shown, when the recording was played, to be plainly absurd.

Quite possibly, such a video recording would be outside the definition of record in this legislation (see [55]), and therefore would remain admissible subject to the basic requirements of relevance and absence of improper prejudice, but the point is that the law should be hesitant to restrict cross-examination of complainants on matters such as whether there was an actus reus and whether there were reasonable grounds for absence of mens rea.

Prosecutor's fallacy and conditional probability reasoning: R v Lyttle [2022] NZCA 52

The prosecutor’s fallacy is an error in reasoning that can be very difficult to notice. It came to attention recently in what is now our leading case on costs in criminal cases: R v Lyttle [2022] NZCA 52.

The Court dealt with appeals from three separate trials, and the one relevant here is R v S, the discussion of which begins at [105].

The issue was whether injuries had been caused by assault or by accident.

There was no evidence indicating guilt other than expert medical opinion evidence. The Crown called five experts, the defence two.

Inevitably, the experts’ evidence was all based on studies of similar injuries where the causes were known [165].

Usually, experts give their evidence in the form of a likelihood ratio: for example, the injuries are much more likely to have been caused by assault than by accident. The cases for the prosecution and the defence in the trial are compared in that way.

Although it is not obvious here, it seems that the experts, as summarised from [116], were in effect saying (for the Crown): the injuries here were very much more likely to have been caused by assault than by accident.

In calling attention to the prosecutor’s fallacy, the Court was in effect saying that the probability of seeing the injuries if they were caused by assault is not the same as the probability of assault, given the injuries.

That indeed is so, as is obvious if we consider a simple example of the same error: the probability of seeing that an animal has four legs, given that it is a sheep, is not the same as the probability of  seeing that an animal is a sheep, given that it has four legs.

There are two separate things under examination in these cases: injuries by assault and injuries by accident; sheep and quadrupeds.

The seriousness of this error depends on context. If you are talking about all the sheep and all the quadrupeds in the world, it is a very serious error. But if you mean just those sheep and those chickens in that field, the error will not matter.  If the context tends to exclude innocent explanations it is like the field, but with greater recognition of innocent explanations it becomes more like the world. In a trial the context of the case provides what can be called the prior probabilities of guilt and innocence.

In R v S the context was that of a situation where accidental fall was possible, and where the defendant was of good character, well spoken of as a caring person, and a person of whom months of covert audio surveillance after the event revealed nothing to raise any suspicion.

If we pretend that the combined likelihood ratios of the experts' evidence strongly favoured guilt, say only one chance in a hundred of innocence, that would in mathematical terms be 99 to 1. But without any other evidence of guilt, and to the contrary, every indication of innocence, the prior likelihood of guilt may be 1 in 99.

Combined, the priors and the likelihood ratio on these hypothetical figures would be 1. This is the ratio of the probability, on all the evidence in the case, of guilt to the probability on the same evidence of innocence. This means a one in two probability of guilt, or 0.5, which is not enough to meet the criminal standard of proof. Nor even the civil standard, which requires more than 0.5.

At [166] the Court summarised the approach that the prosecutor had suggested at trial. This seems to have involved the sheep/quadruped fallacy: a low probability of getting the evidence of the injuries if the defendant was innocent does not in context mean a low probability of innocence given the evidence of injuries.

All the evidence in combination had to be considered when assessing the likelihood of guilt.

One lesson of the appeal in R v S is that lawyers need to be trained in reasoning with conditional probabilities. The major hurdle is that people who become lawyers have mostly been taught at an impressionable age that they are no good at maths. People who become lawyers do, however, tend to be good at logical reasoning, so let’s not despair.

Another lesson is that rare events happen, and apparently overwhelming statistical evidence is only about probabilities, not about the actuality in a particular case. This seems to be the point that was made by the witness whose comment is noted at [127]. Indeed, in law facts are only ever established to some degree of probability, expressed in words as on the balance of probabilities or beyond reasonable doubt.

The jury in R v S were unable to agree on a verdict, and the Crown elected not to seek a retrial, as noted at [112], so the charge (manslaughter) was dismissed, which is equivalent to an acquittal.

If you are interested in this sort of thing, there is more on this site: just enter "Bayes" in the search box.

Overruling "final" decisions: Chandler v The State (Trinidad and Tobago) No 2) [2022] UKPC 19

You can’t read Chandler v The State (Trinidad and Tobago) (No 2) [2022] UKPC 19 without thinking of the anticipated overruling by the Supreme Court of the United States of Roe v Wade.

When will a court of final appeal overrule its own earlier decision, particularly on a point of constitutional interpretation?

The Board addressed the jurisprudence on this at [55]-[66]. The main points are:

Strong reasons for departure from the earlier decision are needed [56].

Stare decisis requires the greatest of hesitation before re-opening the issue; the earlier decision must be shown to have been wrong and lacking a sufficient foundation [57].

As the SCOTUS has said, a special reason for departure is needed, beyond a mere belief that the earlier decision was wrong [58].

It is necessary to avoid damage to the rule of law [58].

Something more than simply thinking the earlier decision was wrong is needed: for example it may have hampered the proper development of the law or distorted the law by being in conflict with established legal principles or by having to be distinguished in subsequent cases to such an extent that the law is uncertain [59].

There needs to have been a material change in circumstances since the earlier decision [60].

Where the court interpreted legislation, it will be more appropriate for the legislature to make the change, in contrast to common law which is more appropriately left to judges to change (citing Posner) [61].

The fact that the earlier decision was that of a mere majority does not weaken it, because the law has to have some way of resolving differences between judges [63].

Stare decisis promotes certainty, predictability, planning and the giving of legal advice [64].

As Lon L Fuller said, a system of legal rules has eight “desiderata”, relevantly here - retroactive laws should be avoided, legal rules should be clear, there should be a constancy of law through time, there should be correct administration of law [66].

 I add this: Another thing lawyers can’t help thinking about in this context is the difference between the internal and the external morality of law. If conformity with the requirements of the rule of law is a matter of the internal morality of the law, does such conformity tend to serve the requirements of external morality too? The (sadly, late) Professor of Jurisprudence at Oxford, John Gardner, considered this in his Law as a Leap of Faith (2012, OUP) Chapter 8, where at 220 he concludes, “Fuller is no legalist but he is surely, on this front, a bit of a quietist. He encourages lawyers to think that they are already doing their bit, qua lawyers, to save us from the abyss so long as they are upholding the rule of law. But there is always more, and sometimes more important, work to do.”