Deprivation aside, what is liberty?

Liberty is important, not least for the new safeguards that take its name. But what, in that context, does the word mean? The Deprivation of Liberty Safeguards (DoLS) are intended to protect incapable people admitted to hospitals or registered care homes. As the title suggests, they say that permission will be required before such people can be deprived of liberty. Given the importance of the notion, you might imagine that ‘deprivation of liberty’ is carefully explained. It isn’t: the DoLS use the term but don’t define it, and the accompanying code of practice says little that is original. In fact, the code simply restates the existing law, which might be where the problems begin.

Strasbourg
The DoLS seek to remedy defects identified by the European Court of Human Rights (ECtHR) in the Bournewood case. Those were defects in the common law, which the court said was too vague and too lacking in procedural safeguards to give many incapable people the protection demanded by the ECHR (HL v United Kingdom [2004] 40 EHRR 761).

The defects would only be apparent where Article 5 of the Convention was engaged; where, in other words, someone was deprived of liberty. The ECtHR said, “the starting-point must be the concrete situation of the individual concerned”, and that in deciding whether a particular intervention deprives someone of liberty, “account must be taken of a whole range of factors arising in a particular case[,] such as the type, duration, effects and manner of implementation of the [intervention] in question”. Crucially, the court said the distinction between deprivation of liberty, which will engage Article 5, and a mere restriction upon liberty, which will not, “is merely one of degree or intensity and not one of nature or substance” (HL v United Kingdom, above, paragraph 89). These words have proved extremely resonant.

The scale theory
The DoLS code draws heavily upon Bournewood. Noting the comments of the ECtHR on the crucial distinction, the code says: “It may therefore be helpful to envisage a scale, which moves from ‘restraint’ or ‘restriction’ to ‘deprivation of liberty’. Where an individual is on the scale will depend on the concrete circumstances of the individual and may change over time” (Department of Health, 2008, Deprivation of Liberty Safeguards: Code of Practice, paragraph 2.2).

There are, however, several problems with the ‘scale’ theory of deprivation of liberty. The first concerns its range: rather than with ‘restriction of liberty’, which surely comes some way along, shouldn’t the scale begin with ‘liberty’ itself? Logically, of course, there must be a number of points on the scale, each one representing a particular intervention in a patient’s life, from those that represent only a slight diminution of liberty to those that approach deprivation of liberty. But the number of possible interventions is not fixed; new ones might be made from-time-to-time, and any of them might be modified in numberless ways. The second problem, therefore, is that we can never know precisely how to populate our scale. Imagining, as it seems we must, that the poles represent complete liberty and its deprivation, where on that scale are the various interventions to be placed, and, crucially, where in relation to each other? Is putting someone in a low chair closer to deprivation of liberty than to liberty, for example, and how does it stand in relation to shepherding someone away from an open door?

The third problem relates to something else said by the code: when deciding whether someone is deprived of liberty, we might ask “Does the cumulative effect of all the restrictions … amount to a deprivation of liberty, even if individually they would not?” (ibid, paragraph 2.6). This begs an obvious question: if all we have is the scale, on which single interventions are placed side-by-side, how are we to take account of the aggregate of two or more of them? How, in fact, are we to aggregate them at all, and even if we succeed in doing so, where precisely are we to place the aggregated intervention? Is shepherding someone away from an open door closer to deprivation of liberty than putting him in a low chair and reducing the length of his visits from friends? How will the scale help us decide?

Finally, of course, there is the problem inherent in the very notion of a scale: all it does is display subtle progressions between two points, so it cannot help us with the DoLS. The knowledge that the use of ‘baffle locks’ tends rather more to the right-hand end than to the left is worthless. When what we most require is a ‘yes/no’ answer, the scale is deliberately designed to yield no such thing.

There is an alternative solution; one that is becoming common where the DoLS are used (or at least considered): to take the factors that suggest someone is being deprived of liberty and weigh them in the balance against interventions that are assumed to suggest the contrary. In that way, for example, the conclusion might be reached that a person placed in a low chair is not deprived of liberty today because he will see his friends tomorrow. Yet, though it might seem seductive, this act of balancing is also problematic, for it betrays a fundamental misunderstanding of the nature of liberty itself.

Liberty as an absolute
Among philosophers, there is surprising agreement about what liberty means. Even those who have very different views about its implications and, indeed, its derivation seem to accept that it is an absolute. For Thomas Hobbes, for example, “Liberty, or freedom, signifies the absence of opposition […] a free man is he that in those things which by his strength and wit he is able to do is not hindered to do what he has a will to” (Leviathan, 1651, chapter 21).

Generally, John Stuart Mill’s views were different from those of Thomas Hobbes. That the two men shared a common view of the fundamentals of liberty, however, is clear from Mill’s description of his ‘harm principle’: “[T]he only purpose for which power can be rightfully exercised over any member of a civilized community, against his will, is to prevent harm to others. His own good, either physical or moral, is not a sufficient warrant” (John Stuart Mill, On Liberty, 1859, chapter 1). And, a century later, Isaiah Berlin wrote, “I am normally said to be free to the degree to which no man or body of men interferes with my activity … If I am prevented by others from doing what I could otherwise do, I am to that degree unfree; and if this area is contracted by other men beyond a certain minimum, I can be described as being coerced, or, it may be, enslaved … By being free in this sense I mean not being interfered with by others” (Two Concepts of Liberty, 1958).

This notion, that we enjoy full liberty until, and only to the extent that, it is taken from us, is acknowledged in prison law. It would be surprising, therefore, if it did not obtain in the case of hospital and care home residents - the elderly or the profoundly learning disabled who might be expected to form the majority of DoLS patients.

Implications
The implications of this analysis are significant, not least when hospital and care home managers, those that advise them and even judges have to decide whether someone is being deprived of liberty. It seems clear that interventions said to increase liberty cannot do so; at best, they simply ameliorate the diminution of liberty. This means that it is incorrect to say of a man that the possibility he will see his friends tomorrow prevents his being deprived of liberty today, even though he is currently sitting in a low chair out of which he cannot rise. The balancing exercise described above is of no assistance whatsoever.

If liberty is absolute, all that need concern us for the purposes of the DoLS (and for other purposes besides) are these diminutions of liberty, and the only question is whether, singly or in combination with others, they are so significant as to amount to deprivation of liberty. (That much larger question is beyond the scope of this article.) Furthermore, the purpose of such diminutions is irrelevant, as is the context in which they occur. (So, for example, a person is as likely to be deprived of liberty in a high dependency unit as on a learning disability ward, something the DoLS, and many of those who should apply them, seem reluctant to acknowledge.)

Recourse to Thomas Hobbes and Isaiah Berlin might help answer a further problem raised in connection with the DoLS: what if a man has never been able to make use of his liberty? Do those caring for him have the additional, positive obligation to help him do so? Hobbes suggests not: “[W]hen the impediment of motion is in the constitution of the thing itself, we do not say it wants Liberty, but the power to move; as when a stone lies still or a man is fastened to his bed by sickness” (op cit). And for Berlin, “Coercion is not … a term that covers every form of inability. If I say that I am unable to jump more than ten feet in the air, or cannot read because I am blind, or cannot understand the darker pages of Hegel, it would be eccentric to say that I am to that degree enslaved or coerced” (op cit).

The Deprivation of Liberty Safeguards are being used far less than even the government expected. That might be because they are complex, or even because, less than 12 months in, they are still unfamiliar. But it might equally reflect widespread ignorance about what it means to be deprived of liberty. That would hardly be surprising, for there is widespread ignorance about what liberty itself means. The Code of Practice only serves to compound the problem. It advances a ‘scale’ theory that is both logically and logistically flawed, and in so doing, it misrepresents the problem it purports to have solved. The philosophical lessons of the last four centuries are clear enough: liberty cannot be weighed in the balance. It is something we have and might lose, not something we can only hope to achieve.

(This post first appeared as an article in the Solicitors Journal)

Welfare concerns are not sufficient for the police

Although it may be possible under PACE to enter premises so as to protect people or property, that won’t be so where a constable’s only concern is welfare. That is the lesson of a recent case, in which a man who spat at one constable and head-butted another was found not to have assaulted them in the execution of their duty. (Syed v DPP, Divisional Court, 13 January 2010)

The relevant provision is section 17(1)(e) of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984, which says that a constable may enter premises for the purpose, amongst other things, “of saving life and limb or preventing serious damage to property”. Last year, the Divisional Court said this power would cover protecting someone from themselves, as well as from someone else, but that in ‘life and limb’ cases, it can only be used where a constable reasonably believes serious bodily injury is imminent. (Baker v CPS [2009] EWHC (Admin) 299)

Here, the situation was not sufficiently serious to justify the use of PACE. Two constables had attended Mr Syed’s house following reports of a disturbance. He claimed to have been arguing with his brother, but became evasive when questioned further. The constables told Mr Syed that under section 17, they could enter his house if they were in fear for the welfare of anyone there. Mr Syed did not accept that this was so, and he reacted in the way that led to the charge.

The magistrates convicted Mr Syed, but the Divisional Court took a different view. It said section 17(1)(e) was clear: there would be a right of entry without warrant only where something serious had occurred or was in prospect. Here, there was no sign that anyone on the premises had been injured (or any property damaged) and Mr Syed’s explanation had not been contradicted. The threshold applied by the constables – concern for welfare – was too low. When entering the premises, therefore, they had not been acting in execution of their duty, and whilst Mr Syed might have acted improperly, his conviction could not be allowed to stand.

Though colourful, these circumstances might not be typical. Certainly, the section 17 power is sometimes invoked in the case of people with mental disorder, where a warrant has not been obtained under section 135 of the Mental Health Act and, because all concerned are on private premises, section 136 will not permit an arrest. Tempting though it may be in such circumstances for constables to ‘smell gas’, they should ensure before invoking PACE that what they wish to guard against really is serious harm.

MCA advocacy: the second year

The Department of Health has just reported on the second year of Independent Mental Capacity Act (IMCA) activity.

There have been increases across the board, with women more likely than men to have an IMCA, and those over 80 years-of-age the likeliest of all. Because of some schoolboy errors, however, the report’s conclusions about adult protection work are too pessimistic.

The largest rises were in the use of IMCAs in care reviews and with serious medical treatment, where the first year’s figures had been troublingly low. Decisions about a change in accommodation were also more likely to involve IMCAs, but overall, the Department doesn’t think that the service is reaching all the people it needs to.

When it comes to adult protection work, where the new report is equally downbeat, the picture is a little more complicated. This is for two reasons:

* The report mis-states the rate of increase in IMCA referrals. There were 681 in 2007/08 and 960 in 2008/09, a rise of 41 per cent (not the 29 per cent claimed).
* And the report has an exaggerated view of the powers of local authorities. It says an IMCA may be appointed even where there is only an allegation of abuse. In fact, that step can be taken only where adult protection proceedings have already been commenced or are at least in prospect. (That state-of-affairs was the subject of adverse comment last autumn, following research into the use of IMCAs in adult protection proceedings.)

These reservations notwithstanding, the latest figures are troubling. They show, for example, that while Cornwall made 50 adult protection referrals to IMCAs in 2008/09, and Devon made 43 and Birmingham 33, only 20 local authorities made more than ten referrals, and ten local authorities made no referrals at all.

Welcome ...

… to this blog, which, as the subtitle suggests, is about the point where law meets life.

You can find a brief description of the purpose of the blog here, and an explanation for its title here.

When I began the blog, I said that my posts would be infrequent. In fact, they now number almost 50, and they deal with subjects such as the Mental Health Act, the Mental Capacity Act, the Deprivation of Liberty Safeguards and inquests.

Initially, I saw the blog as a way of publicising the book whose title it shares, and along the way, I have also used it – somewhat shamelessly – to plug other publications, including my book on the nearest relative.

In the last eighteen months, however, I have also written about many other things as well, from vulnerable adults and fertility law to treating children, withholding mail and imprisoning transsexuals. And I have also discussed the medieval Ship of Fools (as imagined by Foucault) and tried to argue that coroners are just like professional wrestlers. You can find those posts, and many others, right here.

This is my only presence in cyberspace. I’m not on facebook, bebo or skype and – mercifully, I think – you won’t catch me tweeting (although I have just returned from a long walk, am now drinking a very nice cup of coffee and shall shortly be reading some PG Wodehouse).

If you would like to comment on this blog or its posts, please write to me at tendency@btinternet.com

Oh, and Happy New Year!

David

When you got nothing ...

www.houdinitribute.com

... You got nothing to lose. So sang Bob Dylan, but is that always the case?

Is it possible that someone in detention retains a measure of freedom, even after his liberty has been taken away? A recent decision of the Court of Appeal suggests that he does, at least if he is a prisoner (Iqbal v Prison Officers Association, 2009).

But hasn’t the court already told us that in the case of mental health patients, the reverse is true?

Mr Iqbal is serving a 15-year prison sentence. In August 2007, when he was at HMP Wealstun, there was a one-day strike by prison officers. All prisoners were locked in their cells by order of the governor and as a result, Mr Iqbal lost the five hours he would have spent at work or in the gym. He claimed that he had been falsely imprisoned by the prison officers, but he lost his case in the Court of Appeal.

The governor could not be liable to Mr Iqbal, because the Prison Act 1952 says that a prisoner may be lawfully confined by the governor. If a prisoner enjoys no ‘residual liberty’, that would, of course, have been a further reason for rejecting Mr Iqbal’s claim, but it did not figure here.

The Court of Appeal felt that there was such a thing as residual liberty. One of judges said, “even if [he is] lawfully within a prison by order of a court, a prisoner enjoys the liberty not to be further restrained by unauthorised action whether by fellow inmates or prison officers”.

But that idea seems inconsistent with the decision in the Munjaz case, which, of course, concerned a patient detained in a high secure hospital under the Mental Health Act 1983 (MHA). He was placed in seclusion for days on end and claimed that he had seen a doctor too infrequently (Munjaz v Mersey Care NHS Trust, 2003). The case turned upon the MHA Code of Practice and whether its requirements were fully met, but the Court of Appeal and the House of Lords also found that for detained patients, residual liberty – or what was called “prison within a prison” – did not exist.

Iqbal clearly has resonance in mental health cases, for under the MHA, the managers of a hospital enjoy powers similar to those endowed upon the governor of a prison: a valid detention application enables a patient to be detained, but also to be re-taken if he absconds, treated against his will and, following Munjaz, placed in seclusion (MHA, section 6(3)). In most cases, that authority will cover the hospital managers and those that do their bidding, but it won’t apply in other circumstances.

The cases of Iqbal and Munjaz are different, not least because the first was about a prisoner and the second about a patient, and also because they were decided according to substantially different authorities. Yet each concerned a man who said he retained some freedom, even after his liberty was lawfully taken away. It may be, therefore, that in entertaining the notion of residual liberty, the Court of Appeal has placed itself at odds not only with its earlier self, but also with the House of Lords.

And yet, the decision in this case goes to the heart of mental health care: it implies that in the right circumstances, a detained patient may challenge the decision to seclude him. No such challenge will lie against the principal detainers, of course: like the Prison Act in Iqbal, the Mental Health Act makes sure of that. But a claim might succeed where one patient locks another in a cupboard, or even where a formal decision to seclude a detained patient is inconsistent with established hospital policy.

(Bob Dylan, Like a Rolling Stone, copyright ©1965; renewed 1993 Special Rider Music)

Does the coroner owe you money?

It is becoming less common for coroners to make a charge for the documents they provide in connection with an inquest. Some do still charge - for copy post mortem reports, for example, and witness statements - and where they do, it’s usually under regulations introduced in 2002. But those regulations don’t just help coroners.

It is usually The Coroners' Records (Fees for Copies) Rules 2002 that coroners invoke when they send out their invoices. Rule 3 says, "The fee payable to coroners or other persons for furnishing photocopies of inquisitions, depositions or other documents in their custody relating to an inquest shall be £1.10 for each page" (emphasis added). Clearly, a coroner can charge for whatever he provides that relates to an inquest, but the reference to ‘other persons’, and to documents ‘other’ than inquisitions and depositions, suggests that this cuts both ways.

It is now common for NHS trusts, social services authorities and the like to be required to provide documents to the coroner. Usually, of course, that is done without demur and, crucially, without charge. Where, however, the coroner declines to reciprocate, or where he gives far less than he receives, public bodies might have something to gain by issuing invoices of their own.

Clearly, a coroner has ways of seeking documents that have been withheld. He might, for example, issue a summons for their production. It is sometimes possible, however, to have such a summons set aside, and the more so if the reason documents haven’t yet been provided is simply because the coroner hasn’t sent his cheque.

Because of the 2002 regulations, there would appear to be nothing to prevent an invoice being issued for copy documents that have already been disclosed to a coroner. If those documents represent five years-worth of medical records, say, the financial gain could be considerable. There might also be deterioration in relationships, of course, and that too will have to be taken into account. But there might also be a change in attitude: faced with the prospect of having to pay for everything they receive, some coroners might be a little more careful about what they demand.

Some mental health claims will now be easier to defend, and correspondingly harder to bring

Where he says he is the victim of acts performed under the Mental Health Act, anyone wanting to claim damages will now face a more difficult task. That is the result of an interlocutory decision in Johnston v The Chief Constable of Merseyside Police [2009] EWHC 2969 (QB), which concerned a proposed claim by a man who had been apprehended by the police.

In January 2006, Mr Johnston, who has a history of mental health problems, was at a property on Merseyside. An occupier of the property became concerned about his behaviour and summoned an ambulance. In accordance with usual practice, the police attended as well. Mr Johnston acknowledged that he had needed medical help, but said he had not wanted the police to be called.

On the basis of the witness statements and other evidence, there is a profound conflict between the parties as to what happened next. It appears to be common ground, however, that Mr Johnston was sprayed with CS gas and sustained severe blistering to the skin on his face, left ear and chest. He was detained, put in handcuffs and taken to hospital, but he was not subsequently charged with any criminal offence.

Mr Johnston alleges that these acts amounted to false imprisonment and assault. The Chief Constable, however, claims they were covered by section 136 of the Mental Health Act 1983 (MHA), which applies where someone who appears to be suffering from mental disorder is found in a public place, and permits a constable to take that person to a place of safety. Under section 139(2), no claim concerning the use of MHA powers may proceed without the permission of the High Court. The Chief Constable argued that Mr Johnston should be denied such permission.

The leading authority on permission claims of this kind is still Winch v Jones [1986] 1 QB 296, in which Sir John Donaldson, MR said, “The issue is whether, on material evidence immediately available to the court, […] [the claim] deserves the fuller investigation which will be possible if [it] is allowed to proceed.” Subsequently, the House of Lords said that by this test, “the threshold for obtaining leave under section 139(2) has been set at a very unexacting level […] an applicant with an arguable case will be granted leave.” (Seal v Chief Constable of South Wales Police [2007] UKHL 31, per Lord Bingham at [20])

For the Chief Constable, it was argued that, 25 years on, the Winch v Jones test should be tightened. It was noted that the Civil Procedure Rules now provide, amongst other things, that summary judgment may be given where a claimant “has no real prospect” of success (rule 24.2(a)(i)).

Notwithstanding the changes wrought by the CPR, the judge, Mr Justice Coulson said “it would be wrong to modify in any significant way” the Winch v Jones test. (See [12]) He went on, however, to permit himself one modification, noting that it would be “absurd” for a court to grant permission under section 139 where, had it asked itself the “CPR Part 24 question”, it would have concluded that the proposed claim had no real prospect of success. (See [13]) For that reason, the judge said the CPR question should indeed be asked upon any claim under the MHA. (See [14])

In fact, Coulson J concluded that the Mr Johnston’s proposed claim did have a real prospect of success, and he therefore granted the necessary permission under section 139. (The proceedings also included a limitation point, which, again, was decided in the claimant’s favour.)

It isn’t every potential defendant whose position will be strengthened by this decision. For esoteric, historical reasons, no permission has ever been required for proceedings concerning the acts or omissions of the Secretary of State or the NHS under the MHA. (MHA, section 139(4)) Where a claim relates to the use of section 136, however, or to the initial decision to detain a patient in hospital, this case will make a difference.

The Winch v Jones test for permission under section 139 has not been displaced. In fact, it is now considerably tighter, with a potential claimant having to show that his case is not merely arguable, but that it has a real chance of success. That is a palpable change, whose effect might well be to forestall claims that would otherwise have proceeded all the way to trial. And plainly, therefore, the change is a good deal more ‘significant’ than the judge was prepared to allow in Mr Johnson’s case.