Adam Perry

Pardon powers are common but difficult to justify. A pardon power is, roughly, a power that is (a) possessed by a non-judicial official, (b) used to cancel legal liability to a criminal sanction in a particular case without thereby altering the law, and (c) unconstrained by law. So defined, pardon powers seem to be at odds with two constitutional principles. Contrary to the separation of powers, the pardon power gives to someone other than a judge a decisive role in determining criminal liability in particular cases. Contrary to the rule of law, the pardon power is neither constrained nor ruled by law. Here I provide a novel defence of pardon powers, in three steps. First, even an optimal legal code requires suboptimal results in some cases. In such cases there is a “gap” between what is required by the code we should have and what we should do absent that code. Adhering to the code in every gap case is undesirable: while it would avoid suboptimal results, it would create too much unpredictability. Deviating from the code in every gap case is also undesirable: while it would ensure predictability, it would produce too many suboptimal results. The best strategy is to adhere in some cases and to deviate in others, that is, to selectively deviate. The most important thing about selective deviation is that it leads to like cases being treated differently. This is the second step in the argument. Third, pardon powers are an appropriate vehicle for selective deviation. Selective deviation calls for a power that can be used to set aside the code without changing it. It calls for a power that can be used inconsistently. Moreover, it calls for a power that is not in the hands of a body institutionally disposed towards consistency in decision-making, such as the judiciary. That is, it requires a power with features (a)-(c) – a pardon power. This argument overcomes the various objections to pardon powers. Contrary to the objection from the separation of powers, selective deviation is a task better carried out by non-judicial officials. Contrary to the objection from the rule of law, a power of selective deviation must be unconstrained to preserve the law’s guiding function. Overall, the features of pardon powers that seemed to be in tension with the separation of powers and the rule of law turn out to be favoured by those same principles.

The norms of a legal system are relevant in deciding on what rights and duties people have within that system. But many norms which are not part of that system will nonetheless be relevant within it. These other norms may include the norms of foreign legal systems, games, clubs, contracts, grammar, arithmetic, unions, universities, and so on. What distinguishes the norms which are part of a legal system (“local norms”) from the norms merely relevant within it (“adopted norms”)? Where, in other words, are the law’s boundaries? There are three main answers in the literature. Matthew Kramer claims that adopted norms are under the control of external actors, whereas local norms are not. Scott Shapiro flips that idea on its head. Adopted norms are not created through the exercise of local powers, he says, whereas local norms are. Joseph Raz, meanwhile, distinguishes adopted and local norms based on the reasons officials have for relying on them. But there are obvious counterexamples to each of these answers. My own answer draws on a distinction in constitutional scholarship between direct and indirect relevance. Roughly, directly relevant norms suffice for some conclusion about people’s rights and duties. Indirectly relevant norms bear on the interpretation, applicability, or exact consequences of other norms. Whereas local norms are directly relevant, adopted norms are merely indirectly relevant. Thus, what distinguishes the two types of norms is the directness of their legal relevance. I conclude by showing that it makes a practical difference on which side of the boundary a norm falls.

Judges often give statutes strained interpretations. What makes an interpretation strained? What, if anything, justifies a strained interpretation? Is there always a point past which an interpretation would be too strained, or are there some interpretations which judges are entitled to adopt, whatever a statute says? I claim to answer these questions. Using the formula about conditional probability known as Bayes’ theorem, I offer a precise definition of a strained interpretation, and identify two reasons for strained interpretations. I claim that the case for strained interpretations is often stronger than is realised, and illustrate that claim with a novel defence of the House of Lords’ decision in Anisminic Ltd. v Foreign Compensation Commission. Finally, I suggest that even if a legislature is sovereign, there may be meanings which a legislature is unable to enact into law, and thus there may be limits on even a sovereign legislature’s powers.

Some people who seek leave to apply for judicial review do not have a private interest in the matter to which their application relates; instead, they seek “public interest standing”. To be entitled to public interest standing, a claimant must bring the right sort of case. She must also be the right sort of person: she must have the right motive, the right background, the right knowledge and understanding, the right reputation, and so on. The relevance of a claimant’s case to public interest standing is obvious, but the identity of the claimant is not. Here we provide a rational reconstruction of the test for public interest standing, according to which civic virtue is essential for a claimant to obtain leave in the public interest. Our account explains the bulk of the case law on public interest standing, on the one hand, and goes some way towards justifying it, on the other.

In recent years, British courts have treated constitutional statutes differently from ordinary statutes. This article sets outs to explain: (1) how courts have treated constitutional statutes differently from ordinary statute; (2) what a constitutional statute is; and (3) why constitutional statutes should be treated differently from ordinary statutes. Courts have made it harder for ordinary statutes to repeal constitutional statutes by implication, and easier for constitutional statutes to repeal ordinary statutes by implication. A constitutional statute is a statute which regulates state institutions, and which possesses importance of a particular type that we describe. The nature of a constitutional statute largely – but not entirely – justifies the special treatment they have been given. These conclusions have wider implications, including for proposals to codify the British constitution.

Administrative officials are permitted to have policies as to the exercise of their discretionary powers, but those policies must be flexible, not rigid. The “flexibility rule”, as I call it here, is nearly a century old. Over time, it has become part of the furniture of judicial review: often used, rarely examined. That neglect has led to confusion, on display most recently in R (Sandiford) v Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs, in which the Supreme Court appeared to misunderstand key aspects of the flexibility rule. In this article I try to put the flexibility rule back on a sound footing. I argue, first, that the flexibility rule requires authorities to treat policies merely as rules of thumb. Second, the primary justification for the flexibility rule is neither legislative intent (as claimed in Sandiford), nor the avoidance of error (as commentators tend to assume); it is the value of participation. Third, and as a result, the flexibility rule ought to apply to policies governing the use of prerogative and other non-statutory powers (again contra Sandiford), as well as to policies governing the use of statutory powers.

One of HLA Hart's main contributions to jurisprudence is his theory of social rules. Hart said, essentially, that a social rule exists if the members of a society act in some way and have a certain attitude. Most legal philosophers think that Hart's account of this attitude is too general, however, and that his theory is overinclusive as a result. In this article, I draw on recent work in the philosophy of action to propose a more precise account of the relevant attitude, and a revised version of Hart's theory. I claim that a social rule exists if the members of a society act in some way and ‘accept’ they ought to act this way, independent of their beliefs about the matter. One of the implications of this idea is that the attitude that underlies a social rule is closely analogous to a presumption or fiction about what ought to be done.

The British constitution is famously unentrenched: a law is not more difficult to alter or override simply because it is a law of the constitution. That may be about to change. In the largely overlooked 2012 case of H v Lord Advocate, the Supreme Court repeatedly said that the Scotland Act 1998 cannot be impliedly repealed due to its ‘fundamental constitutional’ status. These remarks were obiter dicta, but they reflect the considered view of the Supreme Court, and as such strongly suggest the path the law will take. Courts in the future are likely to treat constitutional statutes, like the Scotland Act, as susceptible to express repeal, but exempt from implied repeal. That would make constitutional statutes 'quasi-entrenched'. In this article we argue that, as a judicial innovation, the quasi-entrenchment of constitutional statutes lacks a sound legal basis. Parliament can make its intention to repeal a constitutional statute clear without making it express, and judges cannot, on their own initiative, ignore Parliament's clear decision to repeal even a constitutional statute. We conclude by identifying three types of situations in which constitutional statutes should be recognised as having been impliedly repealed.