Source: http://www.singaporelawreview.com/juris-illuminae-entries/category/Vol+10+%282018%2F19%29
Timestamp: 2019-10-19 00:30:31
Document Index: 249360575

Matched Legal Cases: ['art 6', 'art 9', 'art 6', 'art 14', 'art 13', 'art 14', 'art 13', 'art 23', 'art 58', 'art 35', 'art 83', 'art 3', 'art 4', 'arts 8', 'art 8', 'Art 9', 'art 4', 'art 3', 'art 6', 'art 6', 'art 6', 'art 6', 'arts 6', 'art 9', 'art 9', 'art 9', 'art 5', 'art 5', 'arts 13', 'arts 13', 'art 14', 'art 23', 'art 5', 'art 25', 'arts 5', 'art 25', 'arts 24', 'art 5', 'art 5', 'art 24', 'arts 24', 'art 32', 'art 7', 'art 30', 'art 58', 'art 83', 'art 35', 'art 35', 'art 33', 'art 33', 'art 34', 'art 34', 'art 2', 'art 2', 'art 2', 'art 2', 'art 2', 'art 2', 'art 3', 'art 4', 'art 5', 'art 6', 'art 2', 'art 9', 'art 2', 'art 2', 'art 2', 'art 2', 'art 2', 'art 2', 'arty29', 'art 2', 'art 9', 'art 9', 'EWCA ', 'EWCA ', 'EWCA ']

Vol 10 (2018/19) — Juris Illuminae Entries — The Singapore Law Review
Vol 10 (2018/19)
The European Union's GDPR - A View from Singapore
The European Union’s gdpr – a view from singapore
This article was written in July 2018, two months after the GDPR came into force. At the time of publication, the GDPR has not seen any further amendments.
ong kye jing
The European Union’s [EU] long-awaited General Data Protection Regulation[1] [GDPR] finally came into effect on 25 May 2018. The product of a decade-long legislative endeavour,[2] the GDPR promised a much–needed update to the EU’s Data Protection Directive [DPD],[3] the latter having been introduced when less than 1% of EU citizens were Internet users.[4]
The GDPR has gotten off to an exciting start. Complaints were filed within an hour of it coming into force,[5] as were billion-dollar lawsuits within the first 24 hours.[6] Consumers were subjected to a flurry of emails as businesses scrambled to secure fresh consent.[7] This anxiety is understandable: the GDPR empowers supervisory authorities to impose fines as high as EUR 20,000,000 or 4% of an organisation’s total worldwide annual turnover, whichever is higher.[8] Prior to this, maximum penalties had only amounted to EUR 3,000,000 in France and EUR 300,000 in Germany.[9]
An equally significant change is the GDPR’s theoretically–universal territorial reach. Applying the principle of lex loci solutionis, data controllers that (i) offer goods or services to individuals in the EU, or (ii) monitor their behaviour within the EU, could face obligations under the GDPR despite not being physically or legally established in the EU.[10] Processors (or data intermediaries) that handle such data may also face obligations, albeit of a more limited nature.
In other words, several Singapore–based organisations will now face dual obligations under both the GDPR and Singapore’s Personal Data Protection Act[11] [PDPA]. This article attempts to briefly but critically compare the approaches taken under each regime, with a focus on controllers’ obligations. Broadly, it will explore the themes of consent, purpose limitation and notification, and accountability.
Under the PDPA, controllers cannot collect, use or disclose personal data[12] without the data subject’s consent.[13] Under the GDPR, consent retains its privileged position. In fact, the GDPR goes further to stipulate that consent must be a “freely given, specific, informed and unambiguous indication of a data subject’s wishes”.[14] Each element deserves some scrutiny.
To an extent, the second and third requirements – of “specific” and “informed” consent” – are nothing new vis-à-vis the PDPA. Consent must be “specific” in that the controller’s exact purpose(s) for data processing must be explicitly delineated and sufficiently granular. And for consent to be “informed”, consent requests need to be communicated in clear and plain language, separately from other matters, and together with other relevant information like the controller’s identity, the data subject’s right to withdraw consent, and the possible risks of data transfers.[15]
One notable difference with the GDPR is that consent must also be “freely given”. Building upon the procedural ingredients above, this injects a substantive element to the test for consent. Data subjects must have a “genuine [and] free choice” and be able to “refuse or withdraw consent without detriment”.[16] A statutory presumption against freely–given consent will likely apply where (i) parties experience clear power imbalances, like in employment relationships, or (ii) separate consent cannot be given for different data processing operations.[17] Accordingly, controllers should (i) identify an alternative basis for processing where an imbalance exists, and (ii) seek standalone consent for each class of processing operations.
Finally, consent must amount to an unambiguous indication of the data subject’s interests. This requires a clear statement or affirmative act from the data subject;[18] silence, inactivity, and pre–ticked boxes do not suffice.[19] One might query whether such an exclusionary rule against apparent omissions unduly places form over substance. In this regard, the PDPA’s discretionary position towards opt–out clauses is perhaps preferable. Singapore’s Personal Data Protection Commission [PDPC] recognises, for example, that a data subject who leaves a clause stating “tick here if you do not wish your personal data to be provided” unticked, but who otherwise meticulously fills out and submits the remainder of an application form, could reasonably be said to have consented.[20]
Two further observations should be made:
First, the theme of fairness which underlies these requirements appears to feature even more prominently in the GDPR’s recitals. In particular, rec 42 stipulates that a declaration of consent “should not contain unfair terms”,[21] in line with Council Directive 93/13/EEC[22] on unfair terms in consumer contracts. Unfortunately, it is unclear how much weight ought to be placed on rec 42. Recitals are not substantive provisions in their own right, but mainly serve to explain the basis for legislation. Moreover, the GDPR does not expound on the manner and extent to which these provisions, which apply predominantly to the sale of goods, are to be transposed to data protection. Any attempt at directly transplanting these considerations into Singapore might entail an even further leap, given that European consumer protection standards and the law on unfair terms in Singapore might not be doctrinally compatible.[23] In short, rec 42’s practical significance remains to be seen.
Second, unlike the PDPA, the GDPR rejects the notion that consent can be deemed. Therefore, even if an individual voluntarily provides her personal data, for purposes she was aware of, and in circumstances where providing such data is reasonable, this alone would not constitute valid consent under the GDPR.[24] A controller seeking to legitimise such data processing should instead rely on another basis for processing.[25]
Apart from explicit consent, a controller can justify the collection, use or disclosure of data using one of five other bases enumerated under art 6 of the GDPR.[26] These have been adapted from the DPD, although EU Member States are now further empowered to introduce additional bases.[27] This is comparable to relying on one of the exceptions to the Consent Obligation under the PDPA.[28]
Most GDPR bases and PDPA exceptions are founded on necessity, and some are even virtually identical. For example, under both regimes, processing that is necessary in the national or public interest is generally lawful,[29] as is processing necessary to protect the data subject’s “vital interests” (GDPR),[30] or “life, health or safety [in an emergency]” (PDPA).[31]
Two bases that are unique to the GDPR are of greater interest: (i) processing necessary for contractual performance, and (ii) processing necessary for the controller’s or a third party’s legitimate interests (balanced against the data subject’s reasonable expectations).[32] On their face, they appear to provide generous exceptions to the obligation to obtain consent. Notably, the EU legislator accepts that even processing for direct marketing purposes might qualify.[33] It is submitted that these bases could, possibly inadvertently, operate to mop up the PDPA’s ‘deemed consent’ cases. Using an example from the PDPC,[34] under the PDPA, a data subject who provides her credit card details in exchange for facial treatment could be deemed to have consented to data collection. While consent cannot be deemed under the GDPR, such processing could instead be justified under the banner of being necessary for contractual performance. Either way, lawful processing becomes possible.
However, the GDPR’s ambit is narrower in one critical way: the fact that personal data is publicly available is not in itself a ground for lawful processing. Under the PDPA, data generally available to the public – including that reasonably observable in public spaces – can be processed with few restrictions.[35] The GDPR departs from this in two ways. First, the personal data must be manifestly made public by the data subject.[36] Second, even where data is manifestly made public, the effect this has is not to legitimise data processing, but only to lift the blanket prohibition on the processing of special categories of data under art 9 of the GDPR.[37] In such circumstances, an additional lawful basis must still be established under art 6. While this second difference could be seen as unnecessarily technical and onerous on controllers,[38] the first is to be celebrated. The requirement is ostensibly borne out of a respect for data subjects’ rights; the act of volunteering one’s information is a normatively significant exercise of one’s autonomy. The mere fact that data is publicly available is not. In fact, where data has been made public against the data subject’s wishes, this could well constitute the very antithesis to the data subject’s interests.[39]
Will Singapore follow the EU’s lead? As it stands under the PDPA, organisations can lawfully use and disclose personal data so long as that data was publicly available for at least an instant in time, even if the individual never intended it for public access and removed it from the public sphere at the earliest opportunity. However, insofar as the PDPA remains an instrument that strives to balance data subjects’ rights with organisations’ interests;[40] Europe’s data subject-friendly approach is unlikely to gain traction in Singapore. This stems from the PDPC’s recognition that, were it otherwise, organisations would have to incessantly verify the data’s continued public availability, which would be “excessively burdensome”.[41]
purpose limitatIOn and notification
Under the GDPR, a controller must – regardless of its specific basis for processing personal data – (i) ensure that processing occurs in a manner compatible with its declared purposes (purpose limitation), and (ii) inform data subjects of these purposes (purpose notification).[42] This is common ground under both regimes, except that the notification obligation does not apply under the PDPA where consent is deemed or where an exception from the Schedule applies.[43] Where consent is required, however, the PDPC has routinely stressed that the ‘neighbouring obligations’ of purpose limitation and notification must be met.[44]
Where purpose limitation is concerned, the GDPR mandates that personal data may only be collected for “specified, explicit and legitimate purposes”.[45] Like the PDPA,[46] vague or generic purposes like “improving user experience”, “IT-security purposes” and “future research” are unlikely to pass muster.[47] Under both regimes, a flexible and fact-sensitive approach will probably be taken to determine whether a purpose is legitimate (or objectively appropriate under the PDPA[48]), based on parties’ reasonable expectations, societal attitudes, etc.[49]
As to the notification obligation, the GDPR sets out relatively more demanding requirements.[50] Controllers are to provide wide-ranging information on their organisations, the data collected (if not already known), the purpose and bases for processing, and any intended data transfers or recipients,[51] along with storage periods, data subjects’ rights, the existence of automated decision-making, and where applicable, the data source.[52]
The GDPR counterbalances these demands by providing for exceptions to the notification obligation. However, these exceptions are not consistently available. Whereas art 14(5) of the GDPR sets out four exceptions (in cases where the data originates from a third-party source), only one exception applies under art 13 (cases where the data originates from the data subject).[53] It is doubtful whether these differences, if deliberate, are justified. As an example, circumstances constituting “disproportionate effort” in an art 14 context are likely to be no less disproportionate or demanding on the controller in an art 13 case.[54] Considerations of fairness and coherence support extending the exception’s application to both contexts. One could make the case that it should be the judge who then determines whether the particular factual matrix crosses the threshold of disproportionality. That being said, EU Member States are empowered to introduce further exceptions pursuant to art 23 of the GDPR, which could leave the final list of exceptions looking quite different.[55]
Relative to its predecessor, the GDPR is decidedly better grounded in the principles of governance and demonstrable accountability.[56] Controllers and processors are expected to take proactive, ex ante measures to ensure the lawfulness and integrity of all data processed, as early as when determining the means of processing (i.e. Privacy by Design).[57] Another enshrined principle, Privacy by Default, requires controllers to ensure that, by default, only data necessary for their processing purposes are processed.[58] This expectation of data minimisation applies to both the amount of, and access to, data, and the extent and period of their processing retention.[59] Unlike the PDPA, which permits the collection of most data relevant to a controller’s purposes, only data that is “adequate, relevant and limited” to these purposes can be collected under the GDPR.[60] Be that as it may, organisations unaffected by the GDPR might still benefit from adopting data minimisation practices, seeing as this might lower the risk of a data breach – a violation under both regimes.[61]
This emphasis on safeguards stems, in part, from a recognition of the consent model’s deficiencies. The consent model regards the data subject’s consent as the key touchstone of data protection. It presumes, at its heart, the existence of the informed and interested data subject – an idealised construct.[62] In reality, whereas meaningful consent is predicated on carefully-considered choices, the saturation of consent requests and privacy policies today only serve to desensitise data subjects, weakening their ability to respond to such requests.[63] The rise of distributed networks, cloud computing, and the Internet of things has only worsened this predicament by making transactions less discrete and more opaque. Determinations of when and how, or even by whom, our data is processed are thus increasingly difficult to make.[64] An accountability-centric model seeks to resolve these problems by orienting the organisation’s interactions – and obligations – to the regulator, rather than the disinterested or overwhelmed data subject.
In Singapore, the PDPC has always had this second string to its bow, in the form of the Protection Obligation. Organisations are to protect any data they possess or control using “reasonable security arrangements”.[65] Likewise, the GDPR instructs controllers and processors to implement “appropriate technical and organisational measures” to ensure the confidentiality, availability and security of data.[66] Both regimes also contain provisions on data accuracy[67] and limitations on data storage and retention periods.[68]
Both “reasonable” (PDPA) and “appropriate” (GDPR), in this context, likely involve similar evaluations. Reasonableness in the context of the PDPA considers the nature, form, volume, sensitivity and accessibility of information held, and the potential impact of any unauthorised access, modification or disposal.[69] Indicators like industry practice and software currency are relevant,[70] as are risk levels.[71] Appropriateness in the context of the GDPR considers “the nature, scope, context and purposes of processing as well as the risks … for the rights and freedoms of natural persons”.[72] Indicators like adherence to approved codes of conduct and certification under approved mechanisms help demonstrate compliance.[73] What is distinct is that appropriateness also factors in the cost of implementing safeguards,[74] tailoring the assessment to the particular organisation’s means. It has been suggested that the PDPA lacks such a consideration.[75]
Another difference is that compliance must be demonstrable under the GDPR. From obtaining consent[76] to performing internal assessments, organisations are required to document and maintain a record of processing activities,[77] presentable to a supervisory authority on request. While penalties for non-compliance do not appear to include administrative fines, authorities can enforce the obligation using its investigative powers under art 58 of the GDPR,[78] or account for it during sentencing.[79]
The GDPR also elevates the status of Data Protection Impact Assessments [DPIA] from a recommended practice[80] to a mandatory step in some circumstances. Where processing is “likely to result in a high risk”, such as where it involves, inter alia, evaluations using automated processing, large-scale processing of special data, or large-scale monitoring of public spaces, controllers are to first perform an assessment of the processing’s potential impact on data protection.[81] Where such a risk cannot be mitigated, consultations with the supervisory authority should be arranged.[82] One point of interest is art 35(9) of the GDPR, which requires the controller to “seek the views of data subjects … on the intended processing” where appropriate.[83] It is unclear how much weight these opinions will have on supervisory authorities’ directions on the scope and permissibility of processing.
Finally, the GDPR mandates the reporting of personal data breaches. Where the integrity of confidentiality of data has been compromised,[84] controllers are bound to notify the relevant supervisory authority of the breach without undue delay.[85] Where the breach is likely to pose a high risk to data subjects, they must too be notified.[86] The PDPA is currently on a convergence path to adopt similar obligations, the PDPC having announced its intention to do so in February 2018.[87]
While the fundamental tenet of consent is here to stay, the GDPR’s broader embrace of accountability is both unmistakable and welcome. In this connection, there is much to be said on the GDPR’s treatment of issues like automated decision making and the right to be forgotten. These are exciting developments in a fast-moving area of the law. The impact they will have on future PDPA amendments is certainly a space to watch.
[1] EC, Regulation (EU) 2016/679 of the European Parliament and of the Council of 27 April 2016 on the protection of natural persons with regard to the processing of personal data and on the free movement of such data, and repealing Directive 95/46/EC (General Data Protection Regulation), [2016] OJ, L119/1 [GDPR].
[2] Paul de Hert & Vagelis Papakonstantinou, “The new General Data Protection Regulation: Still a sound system for the protection of individuals?” (2016) 32 CLSR 179 at 180.
[3] EC, Directive 95/46/EC of the European Parliament and of the Council of 24 October 1995 on the protection of individuals with regard to the processing of personal data and on the free movement of such data, [1995] OJ, L 281/31.
[4] EC, Press Release, IP/12/46, “Commission proposes a comprehensive reform of data protection rules to increase users’ control of their data and to cut costs for businesses” (25 January 2012), online: Press Release Database <http://europa.eu/rapid/press-release_IP-12-46_en.htm> For a survey on the development of EU data protection laws, see generally Bart van der Sloot, “Do data protection rules protect the individual and should they? An assessment of the proposed General Data Protection Regulation” (2014) 4(4) IDPL 307.
[5] Jeewon Kim Serrato et al, “One week into GDPR – what you need to know” (4 June 2018), Data Protection Report (blog), online: <https://www.dataprotectionreport.com/2018/06/one-week-into-gdpr-what-you-need-to-know/>.
[6] David Hart QC, “$8 billion lawsuits started on GDPR day” (31 May 2018), UK Human Rights Blog (blog), online: <https://ukhumanrightsblog.com/2018/05/31/8-billion-lawsuits-started-on-gdpr-day/>.
[7] Alex Hern, “Most GDPR emails unnecessary and illegal, say experts”, The Guardian (21 May 2018), online: <https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2018/may/21/gdpr-emails-mostly-unnecessary-and-in-some-cases-illegal-say-experts>.
[8] GDPR, art 83(6).
[9] As highlighted in Paul Voigt & Axel von dem Bussche, The EU General Data Protection Regulation (GDPR): A Practical Guide (Cham, SUI: Springer International, 2017) [GDPR Practical Guide] at 209, n 45, citing the relevant French and German statutes.
[10] GDPR, art 3. See also EC, European Data Protection Board [EDPB], “Guidelines 3/2018 on the territorial scope of the GDPR (Article 3)” (16 November 2018), online: <https://edpb.europa.eu/sites/edpb/files/consultation/edpb_guidelines_3_2018_territorial_scope_en.pdf>.
[11] Personal Data Protection Act 2012 (No 26 of 2012, Sing) [PDPA].
[12] Similarly defined under both PDPA, s 2 and GDPR, art 4, but note in particular GDPR, arts 8–9. Where personal data is obtained from a child below 16–years–old in relation to information society services, art 8 of GDPR, carves out special rules. Art 9 of GDPR, identifies special categories of personal data that are regarded as more sensitive and as requiring greater protection. The absence of similar protections for the personal data of children in Singapore has been regarded as a “significant gap”: see Simon Chesterman, “From Privacy to Data Protection” in Simon Chesterman, ed, Data Protection Law in Singapore: Privacy and Sovereignty in an Interconnected World, 2nd ed (Singapore: Academy Publishing, 2018) 13 [Chesterman] at paras 2.63–2.67.
[13] PDPA, s 13.
[14] GDPR, art 4(11). Under certain circumstances, such as where special categories of personal data are concerned, an even higher standard of “explicit consent” is required: see EU Article 29 Data Protection Working Party, “Guidelines on consent under Regulation 2016/679” (WP259 rev.01) (10 April 2018) [WP29 Guidelines on Consent] at 18.
[15] WP29 Guidelines on Consent at 11–18.
[16] GDPR, rec 42.
[17] GDPR, rec 43. See also Lukas Feiler, Nikolaus Forgó̤ & Michaela Weigl, The EU General Data Protection Regulation (GDPR): a commentary (Woking, Surrey: Globe Law and Business, 2018) at 88; WP29 Guidelines on Consent at 10.
[18] WP Guidelines on Consent at 15.
[19] GDPR, rec 32.
[20] Personal Data Protection Commission Singapore, “Advisory Guidelines on Key Concepts in the Personal Data Protection Act” (27 July 2017) [PDPA Key Concepts] at para 12.10. See also Re YesTuition Agency [2016] SGPDPC 5 generally for a relatively liberal approach to opt–out clauses (there, the PDPC did not object to the existence of a broadly–worded, opt–out clause).
[22] EC, Directive 93/13/EEC of 5 April 1993 on unfair terms in consumer contracts, [1993] L 95/29 [Directive 93/13/EEC].
[23] Compare the breadth of the definition and illustrations of “unfair terms” in Directive 93/13/EEC, art 3 and Annex, with Singapore’s Unfair Contract Terms Act (Cap 396, 1994 Rev Ed Sing), ss 2–4.
[24] PDPA, s 15(1). See also PDPA Key Concepts at para 12.28.
[25] In fact, organisations are already being advised to bypass the consent requirement altogether by considering alternative bases: GDPR Practical Guide at section 4.2.1.
[26] GDPR, art 6(1)(b)–(f).
[27] GDPR, art 6(2) and rec 40.
[28] PDPA, Second, Third and Fourth Schedules, on collecting, using and disclosing personal data respectively.
[29] GDPR, art 6(1)(e) (“necessary for the performance of a task carried out in the public interest …”); PDPA, paras 1(d) of the Second Schedule, 1(d) of the Third Schedule and 1(e) of the Fourth Schedule (“necessary in the national interest”).
[30] GDPR, art 6(1)(d).
[31] PDPA, paras 1(b) of the Second, Third and Fourth Schedule.
[32] GDPR, arts 6(1)(b) and 6(1)(f). See also EU Article 29 Data Protection Working Party, “Opinion 06/2014 on the notion of legitimate interests of the data controller under Article 7 of Directive 95/46/EC” (WP217) (9 April 2014) for specific examples.
[33] GDPR, rec 47.
[34] PDPA Key Concepts at para 12.23.
[35] PDPA, s 2(1); PDPA Key Concepts at paras 12.57-12.59. See, for example, Re SG Vehicles Asia Pte Ltd [2018] PDP Digest 361.
[36] GDPR, art 9(2)(e).
[37] On ‘special categories of data’, see GDPR, art 9(1). These categories include data relating to racial or ethnic origin, political opinions, health data, data concerning one’s sexual orientation, etc. By contrast, the PDPA does not adopt a bright red line approach. Instead, examples of sensitive data that warrant a higher standard of protection are explored in the PDPC’s decisions and advisory guidelines. See, for a summary of these, Re Aviva Ltd [2017] SGPDPC 14 at [17]-[18].
[38] There has been suggestion that this would be unnecessary, e.g. Maria Roberta Perugini, “ Personal data made public by the ‘data subject’ and the use of information published on social networks: early observations of GDPR art 9, para 2, letter e” (23 January 2017), Lexology (blog), online: <https://www.lexology.com/library/detail.aspx?g=ce9e10b9-de43-4771-9f7b-f52963f7a7b4>.
[39] Cf. PDPA Key Concepts at para 12.63. The PDPC’s advisory could be construed as evincing some unease with the exception for publicly-available data. The examples raised at para 12.63 all recommend that organisations collecting personal data in public spaces should, as good practice, put members of the public on notice that their personal data may be collected.
[40] Chesterman at para 2.49.
[41] PDPA Key Concepts at paras 12.60-12.61. See also Re My Digital Lock Pte Ltd [2018] SGPDPC 3.
[42] GDPR, art 5(1)(b); Re AIA Singapore Private Limited [2016] SGPDPC 10 at [18].
[43] PDPA, ss 18 and 20.
[44] Re Jump Rope (Singapore) [2016] SGPDPC 21 at [10]. See also Re AIA Singapore Private Limited [2016] SGPDPC 10 at [18].
[45] GDPR, art 5(1)(b).
[46] PDPA Key Concepts at para 14.16.
[47] EU Article 29 Data Protection Working Party, “Opinion 03/2013 on purpose limitation” (WP203) (2 April 2013) [WP Opinion on purpose limitation] at 16 and 52.
[48] PDPA, s 18; see also Re AIA Singapore Private Limited [2016] SGPDPC 10 at [19]-[20] for an application of this requirement.
[49] WP Opinion on purpose limitation at 19–20.
[50] Cf. PDPA, s 20.
[51] GDPR, arts 13(1), and 14(1).
[52] GDPR, arts 13(2) and 14(2).
[53] EU Article 29 Data Protection Working Party, “Guidelines on transparency under Regulation 2016/679” (WP260) (11 April 2018) at paras 56–57.
[54] GDPR, art 14(5).
[55] GDPR, art 23.
[56] GDPR, art 5(2).
[57] GDPR, art 25(1).
[58] GDPR, arts 5(1)(c), 5(1)(e) and 25(2).
[59] GDPR, art 25(2).
[60] GDPR, art (5).
[61] Hannah YeeFen Lim, Data Protection in the Practical Context: Strategies and Techniques (Singapore: Academy, 2017) at para 5.25.
[62] Policy and Research Group of the Office of the Privacy Commissioner of Canada, “Consent and Privacy: A discussion paper exploring potential enhancements to consent under the Personal Information Protection and Electronic Documents Act” [OPC discussion paper] at 9. See also Gabriela Zanfir, “Forgetting About Consent. Why The Focus Should Be On “Suitable Safeguards” in Data Protection Law” in Serge Gutwirth, Ronald Leenes & Paul de Hert, eds, Reloading Data Protection: Multidisciplinary Insights and Contemporary Challenges (Dordrecht: Springer, 2014) 237.
[63] Bart W Schermer, Bart Custers & Simone van der Hof, “The crisis of consent: how stronger legal protection may lead to weaker consent in data protection” (2014) 16 Ethics and Information Technology 171 at 176-179.
[64] OPC discussion paper at 6.
[65] PDPA, s 24.
[66] GDPR, arts 24(1) and 32(1).
[67] PDPA, s 24; GDPR, art 5(1)(d).
[68] PDPA, s 25; GDPR art 5(1)(e).
[69] PDPA Key Concepts at paras 17.2 & 17.4.
[70] Re K box Entertainment Group Pte Ltd and another [2016] SGPDPC 1 at [26] and [29].
[71] Re Metro Pte Ltd [2016] SGPDPC 7 at [15].
[72] GDPR, art 24(1).
[73] GDPR, arts 24(3) and 32(3).
[74] GDPR, art 32(1).
[75] Foo Ee Yeong Daniel, “Suggestions on the relevance of the Organization’s Size to Section 11 of Singapore’s Personal Data Protection Act” at section II, online: (2017/2018) 9 Juris Illuminae <http://www.singaporelawreview.com/juris-illuminae-entries/2018/suggestions-on-the-relevance-of-the-organizations-size-to-section-11-of-singapores-personal-data-protection-act>.
[76] GDPR, art 7(1) and rec 42.
[77] GDPR, art 30.
[78] GDPR, art 58(1).
[79] GDPR, art 83(2)(f).
[80] PDPA Key Concepts at para 17.4.
[81] GDPR, art 35. See also EU Article 29 Data Protection Working Party, “Guidelines on Data Protection Impact Assessment (DPIA) and determining whether processing is ‘likely to result in a high risk’ for the purposes of Regulation 2016/679” (WP248 rev.01) (4 October 2017) at 8-12 on other situations where a DPIA may be warranted.
[82] GDPR, rec 84.
[83] GDPR, art 35(9).
[84] Though not when they are only made temporarily unavailable, e.g. in the event of a power outage.
[85] GDPR, art 33(1). A processor which becomes aware of such a breach is to inform its controller instead: GDPR, art 33(2).
[86] GDPR, art 34(1), though see exceptions under GDPR, art 34(3).
[87] Personal Data Protection Commission Singapore, “Response to Feedback on the Public Consultation on Approaches to Managing Personal Data in the Digital Economy” (1 February 2018) at 10–15 (Part III: Mandatory Data Breach Notification). In any case, prompt notification of breaches is already an encouraged practice, and could amount to a mitigating factor in some cases, e.g. in Re Credit Counselling Singapore [2017] SGPDPC 18 at [37].
Tagged: Ong Kye Jing
By Agnes Lo, Bryont Chin, Darren Ang, Leon Tay & Louis Lai*
Case law reflects a persistent concern about the partiality and bias of experts but also a recognition that this will persist as long as litigation remains adversarial. Ideally, under Order 40A Rule 2(2) of the Rules of Court2 [ROC], experts should bear an exclusive duty to the Court; however, this is usually not the case in practice. A “market-place” mentality continues to prevail: parties select experts because the latter’s views are “already known and, consequently, would advance the party’s case.”3 Both the courts and commentators like Professor Pinsler have acknowledged that the source of this paradigm is the adversarial model, since parties assume that their “remuneration of the expert justifies a measure of loyalty that will somehow manifest to his advantage in the determination of the case before or at trial”.4 Therefore, as long as the adversarial model continues to be adopted, parties will continue to pay, retain, and offer the experts future engagements—all of which incentivise experts to provide opinion evidence slanted in favour of the clients who engage them.5
Apart from issues with the expert opinions themselves, there are also notable concerns with the judicial treatment of medical expert opinions as reflected in empirical studies. These suggest that there are systemic issues with judges’ ability to assess the reliability and credibility of a medical expert’s opinion and the proper weight to be accorded to admitted evidence.
A. Lack of clarity on the assessment of reliability and credibility of medical expert opinions
At its core, the court’s assessment of the reliability and credibility of a medical expert’s opinion is a discretionary exercise. It is naturally opaque and applied circumstantially, and may hence appear uncertain. This means that the other stakeholders involved—lawyers, clients, and the medical experts themselves—may not fully understand the standard expected of them. Jurs, for instance, observes that legal professionals tend to over-estimate the value of personality and credentials, whereas judges place a greater emphasis on partiality and bias, tentativeness, and the technicality of the opinions proffered.14 Clarity in this area is much needed;15 consensus and better articulation of the relevant considerations would assist greatly.
B. Assessment of weight to be accorded to admitted medical expert opinions
Beyond a lack of clarity on a systemic approach to assess reliability and credibility of medical expert opinions, there is a concern that the current approach may mean that factors which might appear to be unrelated or insignificant may be taken into account in the assessment of weight to be accorded to admitted expert opinions. For instance, “impressions of the analyst’s demeanour and credibility, like the ability to survive cross-examination, will not in most cases provide rational means of assessing the probative value of an opinion.”16 The English courts, for example, have been criticised for assessing expert opinion evidence on this basis, which has led to factually unsustainable acquittals.17
Studies suggest that this concern may not be unfounded because of the way medically-untrained judges and jurors assess the value of medical expert opinions. For instance, jurors focus on consensus supporting the expert opinion, whether the opinion is applicable in the case at hand,18 and how experts communicate their opinions.19 However, these indicators may not necessarily go towards the veracity of an opinion.20 Where earlier studies have suggested that this may be due to a lack of education in the expert’s field,21 it is understandable why some doctors feel that laypersons like jurors “should not decide medical malpractice cases because of the arcane issues involved in the practice of medicine.”22
Local jurisprudence has only engaged these concerns in the abstract. Ronald Wong posits that the law’s insistence on the finality of an opinion for it to be accepted as evidence conflicts with the scientific method, which relies not on finality, but rather social acceptance to establish a theory as valid.23 This mirrors the observation in Levett and Korvera’s review that “individuals often are unable to evaluate statistics or methodology properly… [such that] it is reasonable to assume that jurors may be unsuccessful in independently detecting flaws in research presented by an expert in court.”24 Nonetheless, Wong has argued that it is still preferable for a judge to continue to adjudicate on the issue, and if the expert evidence is insufficiently reliable, a judge ought to make his findings of fact on the burden of proof.25 Wong’s argument—defended on grounds of a public interest in resolving disputes—contrasts with Professor Hor’s view that judges lack any institutional capacity to determine the veracity of expert opinion.26
Since judges must still decide cases involving expert opinions, the question of institutional competence remains a live issue to be managed. This is especially the case if adjudication may lead to imperfect reliance on wrong or inaccurate expert opinions as suggested by the studies above.
Concerns over unreliable expert opinions have been the subject of statutory reform. The government has astutely institutionalised a court-appointed panel of psychiatrists testifying in criminal cases under the new s 270 of the Criminal Procedure Code27 [CPC] which has not yet come into force.28 This places the control over the admission and use of psychiatrists’ opinions in the hands of a Selection Committee instituted for these purposes.
Therefore, the fundamental question remains as to whether the amendments will indeed improve the reliability of psychiatric evidence and be a viable option across other classes of medical experts as well; or, alternatively, whether it would entrench a preferred doctrine of psychiatric testimony.29 If the latter is the case, then the amendments may exacerbate the issue of expert witness bias. Psychiatrists have questioned why they were the only class of expert that required supervision, while the Criminal Bar expressed that it would be preferable if the selection process also included defence counsel as a member of the Selection Committee.30
Beyond the concerns regarding the partiality of experts, there are also practical complications of note. Amendments have been made to the Supreme Court Practice Directions to require medical expert opinion reports to be submitted in the pre-writ exchange of information for medical negligence cases, but this may mean that experts will not have sufficient factual evidence to support their opinions.31 These remain with broader concerns that judges may lack the institutional capacity to accurately assess medical expert opinions, or that they may demand a different standard from non-medical expert witnesses. While there are extra-legal methods employed to cope with these such as a training course for medical experts to raise the quality of medical opinions and reports, the impact of these courses on the judiciary’s assessment of the medical opinions and reports presented to them, has not yet been observed.
The discussion above has traced a number of difficulties in the use of medical experts’ opinions, as well as the use of experts in general. The judicial approach to assessing the probative value and reliability of opinions is plagued with difficulties stemming from intractable concerns that medical experts tend to be partial towards the party that hired them, and that such experts often lack sufficient facts to properly develop an opinion. Although there are both existing procedural laws and external support to safeguard the reliability of medical expert opinions, these are often watered down by parties’ adversarial mentalities. Where there is little incentive to cooperate, parties do not actively rely on the same measures such as concurrent expert evidence or discussion. Other issues, such as fear among medical professionals of proffering testimony against their fellow doctors, or the institutional competence of the Court to adjudicate on the same, have hardly been the subject of discussion by the legal community in Singapore.
This is unfortunate as expert opinions are the lifeblood of many disputes. Even before a case commences, expert opinions are important in managing client expectations, where the expert’s assessment indicates the client’s likelihood of success.32 Medical experts are of special significance in the field given that they are relevant in many legal disputes and, in fact, comprise the bulk of experts sought.
Meeting the concerns above would require lawyers, judges, and medical experts alike to come to a clear consensus on their roles and competencies in adjudication. Coping with the difficulties of an adversarial model will also require a change in mindset and culture: lawyers and courts must emphasise to medical experts that in testifying, they are helping society as a whole. In this regard, the authors posit that empirical studies will be helpful in assessing the gravity of each issue, and the effectiveness of measures to cope with them. In this regard, this article will be followed by a further submission, “The Evaluation of Medical Expert Opinions in Litigation: An Empirical Study”,33 which seeks to provide more clarity on the factors that judges in Singapore apply in evaluating medical expert opinion evidence, and their relative significance in different scenarios.
[9] See Joseph Sheares, “Writing the Expert Report and Testifying in Court (Part 2)”, SMA News (February 2015) at 23, online: <https://www.sma.org.sg/UploadedImg/files/Publications%20 %20SMA%20News/4702/Professionalism.pdf>.
[14] Andrew W Jurs, “Expert Prevalence, Persuasion, and Price: What Trial Participants Really Think About Experts” (2016) 91 Ind LJ 353 at 371-372, 377-378 and 389.
[15] See e.g. the Ministry’s comments in proposing amendments to s 270 of the CPC, which it expressed to be for the purpose of ensuring that evidence given by psychiatrists is “competently arrived at and objective”: Siau Ming En, “Proposed psychiatric panel must be large enough for smoother defence: Lawyers”, Today (28 July 2017), online: <https://www.todayonline.com/singapore/proposed-psychiatric-panel-must-be-large-enough-smoother-defence-lawyers>.
[28] Clause 78 of the Criminal Justice Reform Bill (Bill 14 of 2018), which introduces s 270 of the CPC.
[31] See Appendix J of the Supreme Court Practice Directions (Amendment No. 3 of 2017). The relevant amendments to the Practice Directions are available online at <http://www.supremecourt.gov.sg/docs/default-source/default-document-library/pd-amd-no-3-of-2017.pdf?Status=Temp&sfvrsn=0.9324472121860925>.
[33] Lo et al., “The Evaluation of Medical Expert Opinions in Litigation: An Empirical Study” (2018–2019) 36 Sing L. Rev. 247.
Torn Fealty to the Courts and Science: Conundrums over Medical Expert Opinions (I/II)
By Agnes Lo, Bryont Chin, Leon Tay & Louis Lai
I. THE CONUNDRUMS OF THE MEDICAL EXPERT WITNESS AND COUNSEL
The Singapore courts are well-accustomed to hearing technically complex disputes, and disputes involving medical issues may present the most complex of these cases. Where judges and counsel are unable to divine the implications of facts and evidence at hand, they inevitably turn to expert witnesses. Expert witnesses assist in interpreting the facts, opining on what these facts mean, and provide specialized knowledge and information so very crucial for a judgment to be made.
Expert witnesses have become necessary ever since complexity in technical matters increased beyond a layman’s untrained capacity. It was understood that when the machines inevitably got involved in disputes, judges had to call on experts to advise them. However, judges do not blindly defer to the authority of the expert. Care is necessarily taken to differentiate between different opinions proffered by each expert, and not every testimony is given equal weight or admitted without any questions. A clear example where the judge departs from the views of an expert is where the expert witness is biased. Another possible difficulty is in finding an objective approach to evaluate competing expert opinions. In such situations, whose opinion is to be preferred and given more weight? Is a professor’s academic opinion more reliable than that of an experienced practitioner lacking in qualifications? These questions continue to plague the courts today.
In a two-part series, this article sets out a preliminary examination of the main factors considered by the court in assessing the proper weight to be given to expert testimony. Medical experts are given foremost consideration as they feature prominently among the expert witnesses appearing before the courts. In a following article, we will also examine inconsistencies and incoherence in the courts’ use of expert evidence, and discuss recommendations for future use of expert evidence.
A. The use of medical experts in court
Medical expert opinions are widely admitted in criminal and civil trials. In criminal cases, these opinions are necessary to determine the psychological or physiological state of the accused persons, from which the judge can establish the legal elements of the offence. When deciding on sentencing, expert opinion also informs the judge of facts from which he can find exacerbating or mitigating factors. In civil matters, liability of the accused and damages to be awarded often depends heavily on the assessment of a medical expert. After all, judges are hardly able to decide what an appropriate sum for medical expenses should be, or how much income would have been lost as a result of an injury. Of course, medical expert opinions are most often adduced in physical injury cases,1 and when trespassing into the realm of medical expertise, judges are loath to substitute their own views for those of the proper experts in the field. In this regard, judges thus place a greater weight on the testimony of a defendant doctor’s own peers, since they—having the most similar qualifications and experience—would be most able to give advice.
B. The present litmus tests for the admissibility and reliability of opinions of medical experts
Prior to the introduction of the adversarial criminal system in the 18th century, there was no legal procedure to define experts qua expert witnesses;2 experts would usually be summoned as jurors or witnesses. Evidentiary rules and objections were subsequently developed to standardise the types of evidence and how they can be presented before the court. While the rule against opinion being admissible as evidence emerged alongside the prohibitive rule against hearsay, experts’ opinions are an exception to this otherwise strict rule. This exception was necessary in the adversarial system for experts to provide opinions as witnesses without having observed the facts.
The present legal framework for the admission and giving weight to expert evidence bears two stages of analysis. Judges as finders of fact must contend with the question of whether the expert’s opinion is admissible as evidence, and if so, whether the expert’s opinion is of sufficient weight to be relied upon to establish a fact in issue. The former is governed largely by Section 47 of the Evidence Act and interpretive cases, while the latter is largely a matter expounded upon by case law.
Section 47 of the Evidence Act essentially requires counsel to establish three points to admit expert opinions as evidence:
(a) The pleaded point must be one of “scientific, technical or other specialised knowledge”.3 The ambit of such knowledge and whether a particular field would fall within it seems to be open to discussion, and local courts have yet to pronounce on the specific test. There have been suggestions for reference to tests in foreign jurisprudence, such as the more lenient test in Frye v United States4 (“Frye”); or a more stringent inquiry under Daubert v Merrell Dow Pharmaceuticals.5
(b) The individual giving the opinion must be an expert, who must have obtained the knowledge applied in his opinion “based on training, study or experience”.6 A judicial determination of whether this is made out is discretionary, and often turns on the qualifications, experience, and credibility of the expert in question.7
(c) In the round, the Court must be “likely to derive assistance” from the opinion when making its determinations of fact. This is a lower threshold than that under the same provision before the 2012 Amendments to the Evidence Act.
Once admitted, the court generally gives weight to the expert opinion unless it is later found to be “obviously lacking in defensibility”.8 In cases where only one expert opinion is adduced or where the experts are in agreement, there are few obstacles that may lead to the courts giving it less weight. This is contrasted to cases where competing expert opinions are adduced in court: in such cases, a brief survey of cases involving medical experts affirms that a multi-factorial approach is taken. Some of the factors are examined below.
1. Expert’s qualifications and experiences
The most prominent factor is the expert’s qualifications. “Qualifications”, as explained by the Court of Appeal, refers not to an expert’s “professional titles” but instead refers more generally to the expert’s “knowledge and familiarity”.9 While it is generally true that actual experience lends more weight to an expert testimony than mere paper qualifications, the High Court has qualified this by stating in obiter that this was “not an inevitable rule of thumb”.10
The relevance of practical experience to the subject matter of the case is considered down to a micro-level: the court has differentiated between experts with clinical experience in cancer diagnosis and experts with clinical experience in cancer treatment,11 and between experts in the treatment of drug addicts and experts in recognizing signs of drug addiction.12
Other factors that affect the weight given to an expert testimony are his experience doing research relevant to the case at hand,13 and his experience practising in the Singapore context.14 That a medical expert witness has experience treating one of the parties involved also lends authority to his testimony, since he would be more familiar with that party’s condition(s); however, his familiarity and personal relationship with the party raises clear possibilities of bias that must be dealt with.15
2. Impartiality of expert witness
The testimony of even the most qualified expert will not pass muster if it is tainted by bias. Hired guns fighting for the parties that called (and paid) them can hardly be relied on to provide accurate testimony. The influence of bias is great in practice due to monetary incentives being available, the priming of experts to be a part of the legal team, and the lack of safeguards against errant experts trying to manipulate facts to support a biased opinion.16
Although expert witnesses are appointed by parties themselves, their ultimate duty is always to the court.17 They cannot become mercenaries for hire, bending the facts for the highest bidder. Expert witness bias is especially dangerous because, by definition, expert witnesses have specialised expertise that the judge does not; an errant expert could easily mislead the judge and dictate the outcome. Therefore, judges must remain alive to the dangers of expert witness bias. Given the high stakes, judges impose only a low threshold to disqualify a biased expert testimony, such that even “perceived partiality or inclination” on the expert’s part can suffice to disqualify him for bias.18
3. Alignment with factual evidence
The words of even the most illustrious expert have no weight if it does not comport with the facts. Although disagreement in expert opinions is so common as to be almost inevitable, expert opinions must remain based on the facts established by the court. Expert testimonies that contradict the facts often prove fatal to that side’s case.19 When faced with insufficient evidence or evidence that contradicts the point their side wants to prove, it would be better for the experts to concede “where they ha[ve] to”20 than have the credibility of their entire report doubted by the court.
Factual evidence can also be used as a weapon to knock down opposing experts’ testimonies. In Hii Chii Kok v Ooi Peng Jin London Lucien and another,21 since the plaintiff’s expert could not provide “objective clinical data to support his assertions”, the court strongly preferred the defendant’s experts, whose testimonies “convincingly” countered the plaintiff’s expert’s testimony “point-by-point”.
Finally, expert testimonies should be precise and specific. Sweeping generalisations and conjecture are frowned upon, even more so when they are unsupported by evidence22 or are in relation to matters outside the expert’s field of expertise.23
4. Internal consistency of testimony
Inconsistency in an expert’s testimony casts a long shadow over his credibility. The degree of internal consistency has been described as one of the “paramount” considerations that courts will consider when assessing such reports.24 Given that experts are meant to guide the court, accepting the evidence of a muddled and confused expert that would does little to assist the court would be inimical. Therefore, courts readily reject inconsistent expert reports or grant them less weight even if admitted. An example would be in Chua Thong Jiang Andrew v Yue Wai Mun and another25 where the expert’s quality was harshly criticized because of various self-contradictions in his oral testimony plus ambiguities and conflations in his expert report. The court issued a scathing dismissal of his report, describing it as an “illogical and unconvincing” explanation that was “completely off the mark”.
On the other hand, courts appreciate experts maintaining a high degree of internal consistency in their testimony. In Public Prosecutor v Tengku Jonaris Badlishah bin Tengku Abdul Hamid Thani,26 the court considered the prosecution’s expert’s testimony positively, describing the expert’s opinion as “consistent, impressive and able to stand up to objectivity”. It should be noted, however, that a dogmatic expert who refuses to change his view even in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary is not necessarily preferable to a reasonable expert who concedes in such situations. Experts need not defend their point to the death for fear of sounding inconsistent: courts understand and appreciate an expert changing his view to consider and account for shortcomings in his side’s case. In Khek Ching Ching v SBS Transit Ltd,27 the court noted that under “withering” cross-examination, the plaintiff’s expert had conceded that he was unable to confirm with complete certainty the causation of the plaintiff’s injury. Because he had continued to maintain his position while still conceded where he had to, the court commended him as a “generally good” expert witness that had testified “professionally”, and noted that he had been “of assistance to the court”.
5. Expert’s methodology
Although courts are loath to put themselves into the expert’s shoes, an expert report derived using objectively flawed methodology will still be dismissed. It should be noted that an expert’s level of qualification is a separate and distinct factor from the quality of his methodology (although one would hope that the former would lead to the latter). Ong Pang Siew v Public Prosecutor28 is the main case where this factor has been relevant. In that case, where the accused pleaded the defence of diminished responsibility, the court harshly criticized the prosecution witness for his poor investigative methodology29 when writing his report. The defence witness’ “undoubtedly more comprehensive” methodology meant that his report turned the tide, and led the court to allow the appeal.
6. Expert pushing his/her own case theory
While it is natural for experts to form case theories from prolonged exposure to a case, it is prudent for experts to remain objective in their testimonies and not venture into interpreting facts. Once experts accept the responsibility of testifying, they must resist this temptation and stay impartial to the facts. However, this is easier said than done.
In Eu Lim Hoklai v Public Prosecutor,30 the Court of Appeal explicitly pointed out the Prosecution witness’ “over-enthusiastic allegiance” to her own case theory, and how, in her “absolute certainty” that it was correct, she had overlooked its “inherent improbabilities” and “uncertainty in the evidence”.31 The failure of the Prosecution’s “most important” witness in this important regard defeated the Prosecution’s case.32 Advocacy must ultimately be left to the lawyers, and the experts should keep within their own field.
As explained in the introduction, the exception of admitting expert witness testimony was necessitated by the increasing complexity of legal disputes. In the years since, as the sight of experts in courtrooms became commonplace, rules in this area appeared and grew. Today, much of the law on the admissibility of expert’s opinion is governed largely by Section 47 of the Evidence Act and interpretative cases, while the weight to be accorded to admitted evidence is a matter expounded on by case law.
Judges rely on experts to guide them through specialised fields of expertise, to assist them to reach justice, fairness, and truth. Thus, when searching for expert guidance, judges are just like the rest of us: they look for persons with impartiality, experience, clarity, and intellectual honesty. Such paragons of virtue may be hard to find, but there is hardly an alternative. The second part of this series will examine the trade-offs and such issues in greater depth.
[1] This has been established in a number of American studies. See Andrew W Jurs, “Expert Prevalence, Persuasion, and Price: What Trial Participants Really Think about Experts” (2016) 91 Ind LJ 353, which records that physicians make up the majority of experts at 37.5%; and Champagne et al, “An Empirical Examination of the Use of Expert Witnesses in American Courts” (1991) 31:4 Jurimetrics J 375, which observed that most experts were physicians (48%), and experts were mainly used in physical injury cases, and Samuel R Gross, “Don’t Try: Civil Jury Verdicts in a System Geared to Settlement” (1996) 44 UCLA L Rev 1, which observed that medical experts make up the majority of experts.
[2] Tal Golan, “The History of Scientific Expert Testimony in the English Courtroom” (1999) 12:1 Science in Context 7 at 9.
[3] Evidence Act (Cap 97, 2012 Rev Ed Sing, s 47(1).
[4] 293 F 1013 (DC Cir 1923).
[5] 509 US 579 (1993).
[6] Supra note 3 at s 47(2).
[7] Fok Chia Siong v Public Prosecutor [1999] SGCA 5 and Wong Swee Chin v PP [1981] 1 MLJ 212.
[8] Saeng-Un Udom v Public Prosecutor [2001] 2 SLR(R) 1; [2001] SGCA 38 at [26].
[9] Muhammad Jefrry v Public Prosecutor [1996] 2 SLR(R) 738; [1996] SGCA 44 [Jefrry] at [107].
[10] Sakthivel Punithavathi v Public Prosecutor [2007] 2 SLR(R) 983; [2007] SGHC 54 [Sakthivel Punithavathi] at [75].
[11] Noor Azlin Bte Abdul Rahman v Changi General Hospital Pte Ltd and others [2018] SGHC 35 (“Noor Azlin”) at [63].
[12] Jefrry, supra note 9 at [90]-[91].
[13] Supra note 11 at [23].
[15] Tan Teck Boon v Lee Gim Siong and others [2011] SGHC 76 at [7]; AOD, a minor suing by the litigation representative v AOE [2014] SGHCR 21 at [63].
[16] Jeffery D Pinsler, “Expert’s Duty to be truthful in light of the Rules of Court” (2004) 16 SAcLJ 407.
[17] Rules of Court (Cap 322, R 5, 2014 Rev Ed Sing), O 40A, r 2.
[18] Public Prosecutor v Thangaraju Sarukesi [2007] SGMC 7 at [71].
[19] See generally Sheila Leow Seu Moi v Public Prosecutor [2001] SGDC 376 [Sheila Leow]; Yeo Henry (executor and trustee of the estate of Ng Lay Hua, deceased) v Yeo Charles and others [2016] SGHC 220 at [63]-[67], [89], and [91]; Eu Lim Hoklai v Public Prosecutor [2011] 3 SLR 167; [2011] SGCA 16 [Eu Lim Hoklai] at [58], and Public Prosecutor v Tong Lai Chun [2003] SGMC 7 at [183].
[20] Khek Ching Ching v SBS Transit Ltd [2010] SGDC 220 at [95].
[21] [2016] SGHC 21.
[22] Sheila Leow, supra note 22 at [118]-[119].
[23] Eu Lim Hoklai, supra note 22 at [58].
[24] Sakthivel Punithavathi, supra note 10 at [75].
[25] [2015] SGHC 119.
[26] [1998] SGHC 401.
[27] [2010] SGDC 220.
[28] [2011] 1 SLR 606; [2010] SGCA 37.
[29] Firstly, the witness had failed to interview people who had recently contacted the accused person (thus breaching the diagnostic guidelines in the DSM-IV-TR, a reputed psychiatric manual). Secondly, he had also failed to investigate what the court considered to be relevant considerations, viz. the accused person’s changing jobs three times in the 18 months before committing the crime and his diabetes, which increased the risk of depression. Thirdly, he had interviewed the accused person in Mandarin even though he knew that the latter was more comfortable in Hokkien. The court thus condemned his methodology as an “unsatisfactory” one that “fell short of the requisite standard prescribed under the DSM-IV-TR”, especially since he, being the prosecution witness, would have much more available resources. Because of this, his testimony was held to be “less convincing” than that of the defence witness, who not only interviewed the accused in Hokkien, but also interviewed the accused person’s family members and the persons close to him.
[30] Eu Lim Hoklai, supra note 22.
[31] Eu Lim Hoklai, supra note 22 at [56]-[57].
[32] Eu Lim Hoklai, supra note 22 at [52] and [59].
Tagged: Agnes Lo, Bryont Chin, Leon Tay, Lai Wei Kang Louis
A New Kind of Criminal Law for "Bad Hombres": The Organised Crime Act 2015
Benjamin Low Junjie
More than three years have elapsed since the Organised Crime Bill was passed by Parliament1 and entered into law as the Organised Crime Act 20152 [OCA]. Surprisingly, scant attention has been devoted to the substantive contents of the statute.3 One might be forgiven for thinking that this is partly due to the fact that the OCA has not been extensively employed by the State, thereby precluding any opportunities for a serious scrutiny of the Act’s provisions by the Courts and academics. However, a cursory glance at the OCA reveals several areas of concern that do warrant greater attention and analysis on the basis that they have the potential to adversely affect established principles of criminal liability and punishment, while also constituting an evolutionary approach in Singapore’s longstanding crime-control policy.
This article is an attempt to provide a considered discussion on the various offences and penalties that the OCA creates, as well as the numerous powers it confers on the Public Prosecutor and other law enforcement agencies to better address the threat of organised crime. My analysis will also draw upon the comparative experiences of other common law countries that have already enacted similar legislation in combating organised crime, such as the United Kingdom and Australia, in order to help formulate a possible approach towards the OCA that the courts and law enforcement agencies may wish to consider.
II. THE ORGANISED CRIME ACT
The OCA as a whole comprises ten parts and over eighty sections in total. Part 2 of the Act creates several new offences collectively referred to as ‘Organised Crime Offences’. These offences are meant to cover a whole spectrum of activities that organised criminal groups engage in, such as:
• Membership of a locally-linked organised criminal group;4
• The recruitment of members of an organised criminal group;5
• The instructing of the commission of an offence at the direction of or in furtherance of the purpose of an organised criminal group; 6
• Procuring the expenditure or application of property (as well as the actual expenditure or application of property itself) to support, aid or promote the commission of a Part 2 offence or any other offence under any written law; 7
• Permitting an organised criminal group to use any premise; 8
• Receiving, retaining, concealing and any other dealing with the property of an organised criminal group; 9 and
• Facilitating the commission of a Part 2 offence or any serious offence10 at the direction of or in furtherance of the purpose of an organised criminal group.11
The Part 2 offences are also noteworthy in that they directly target persons who, though not necessarily members of organised criminal groups themselves, nevertheless may have provided some form of material or financial assistance to organised criminal groups.12
In addition to the Part 2 offences, the OCA also grants several new legal powers which law-enforcement agencies may have recourse to.
Part 3 provides for the creation of Organised Crime Prevention Orders (‘OCPO’). 13 Part 4 creates Financial Reporting Orders (‘FRO’)14 while Part 5 prescribes mechanisms and procedures for the enforcement of OCPOs and FROs as well as avenues for appeals against such orders.15
Part 6 establishes Disqualification Orders which may be made against persons who have been convicted of having committed Part 2 offences or serious offences or who have contravened an OCPO or FRO that was made against them upon their conviction for an offence.16
Part 9 establishes a civil confiscation regime that is patterned on the Corruption, Drug Trafficking and Other Serious Crimes (Confiscation of Benefits) Act17 [CDSA] but which allows for confiscation orders to be made against persons who have not been charged or convicted of any offence or who have been acquitted.18 The remaining Parts of the Act deal with matters pertaining to the powers of investigation by certain government bodies, the protection of informants and other ancillary matters and do not require any great deal of exposition here. Suffice to say, it is the OCPO provisions and the civil confiscation regime which I intend to deal with in further detail.
III. ORGANISED CRIME PREVENTION ORDERS
A. Prevention Orders: A Targeted Approach Towards Organised Crime
In addition to expanding the scope of inchoate liability under the Part 2 offences, the OCA provides for the use of OCPOs against persons who are proven to have been “involved in a Part 2 offence or a serious offence associated with an organised criminal group”19 whether inside or outside Singapore. S 15(1) OCA prescribes two conditions that must be met before a court can impose an OCPO. The court must firstly be satisfied, on a balance of probabilities, that the affected person must have been “involved” in a Part 2 offence or a serious offence; and secondly, the court must have “reasonable grounds to believe that the order would protect the public by preventing, restricting or disrupting an involvement by the person in any Part 2 offence, or any serious offence …”. The standard of proof is that of the civil standard of the balance of probabilities, as opposed to the criminal standard of proof, beyond reasonable doubt.
Involvement in a Part 2 offence or a serious offence is made out through three possible scenarios as prescribed in s 14 OCA. Firstly, the person who is to be subjected to an OCPO must have actually committed the Part 2 or serious offence;20 secondly, the person must have facilitated21 the commission of the aforementioned offences22 or lastly, in the alternative, the person’s conduct must be likely to have facilitated the commissioning of the abovementioned offences23. Thus, a person need not necessarily have committed the actual offence itself as long as his conduct renders the commissioning of the offence a possibility, in order to be liable for the imposition of an OCPO against him.
S 16 OCA lists the possible types of prohibitions, restrictions or requirements that may be imposed on a person who may either be an individual24 or a body corporate25 under an OCPO. Such prohibitions, restrictions and requirements may affect, but are not necessarily limited to, a person’s financial, property or business dealings or holdings,26 working arrangements,27 means of communication,28 agreements to which the person may be a party29 as well as the use of any premises or item by the person.30 These provisions are virtually identical to similar legislation in the United Kingdom31 and New South Wales32, albeit referred to as ‘Serious Crime Prevention Orders’ (‘SCPO’). One can see that, depending on the nature of the serious offence and the extent of the person’s involvement, it is possible for the State to tailor each particular OCPO to suit the particular mischief at hand, thereby granting law-enforcement agencies great flexibility and latitude in dealing with persons involved in organised criminality.
The use of OCPOs is noteworthy in that they constitute an increasing willingness on the State’s part to resort to preventive measures outside the traditional criminal justice model of prosecuting persons who have already committed the substantive offence and have caused a certain type of harm to another person. This pattern of seeking to criminalise preparatory acts before the substantive offence itself can be committed has been termed by commentators as constituting “the preventive turn in criminal law”.33 The fact that the OCA also allows for the imposition of OCPOs against persons who have already been convicted by the courts for having committed either a Part 2 or serious offence only reinforces the increased emphasis on prevention as a guiding principle in terms of criminal punishment.
B. Legal Limits on the Use of OCPOs
Since OCPOs may be made in the absence of any conviction for any offence, there is a greater need to ensure that such legal powers are properly regulated given their propensity to adversely impact the constitutional freedoms and liberties that Singaporeans are entitled to, as well as to alleviate the possibility of state authorities increasingly resorting to the use of OCPOs over the more difficult task securing criminal convictions of suspected organised criminals as a form of ersatz prosecution. What then are the legal principles or tests that a court may have recourse to in determining whether the issuance of an OCPO would indeed “protect the public”?
Presently, no local case law has involved the making of an OCPO against a person under the OCA. However, given that our provisions concerning OCPOs are virtually in pari materia with the UK and New South Wales legislations, it is posited that the existing body of case law in these jurisdictions, while not binding, may provide useful sources of guidance for our courts in determining when an OCPO may be issued. The leading case in the United Kingdom is R v Hancox34 [Hancox] where the Court of Appeal held that an SCPO could only be issued if the court “has reasonable grounds to believe that an order would protect the public by preventing, restricting or disrupting involvement by the defendant in serious crime”,35 that is to say, the court must be satisfied that “There must be a real, or significant, risk (not a bare possibility) that the defendant will commit further serious offences …”36 to justify the imposition of the prevention order.
The Court further elaborated by holding that:
“[S]uch orders can be made only for the purpose for which the power was given by statute. And they must be proportionate…it is not enough that the order may have some public benefit in preventing, restricting or disrupting involvement by the defendant in serious crime; the interference which it will create with the defendant’s freedom of action must be justified by the benefit; the provisions of the order must be commensurate with the risk.”37
The test in Hancox has been repeatedly affirmed and cited by subsequent English decisions with approval38 and its importation into Singapore would arguably pose no great conceptual difficulty. However, one ought to bear in mind that Hancox expressly endorsed the test of proportionality where a prevention order is concerned, no doubt due to the need to ensure conformity between English law and the European Convention on Human Rights.39 It goes without saying that the applicability of proportionality as a legal doctrine was expressly rejected by the High Court in Chee Siok Chin v Minister for Home Affairs [Chee Siok Chin].40 Any adoption of the Hancox test would require some modification to accommodate the law in Chee Siok Chin.41
Ultimately though, regardless of whether the Singapore courts opt to adopt the Hancox test or devise their own principles, it is posited that any legal solution formulated by the courts when dealing with the implementation of OCPOs ought to be structured as restrictively as possible, given the broad ambit and scope of such orders and the potentiality for misuse and abuse by the state authorities.
IV. THE CIVIL CONFISCATION REGIME
The final significant weapon in the OCA’s inventory is the provision of a civil confiscation regime designed to provide for “the confiscation of benefits from organised crime activities”42 under Part 9 of the Act. The regime allows for the Public Prosecutor to apply to the High Court for three types of orders: (i) restraining orders;43 (ii) charging orders44 and (iii) confiscation orders,45 where the subject of the order has carried out organised crime activity within a statutory period of 7 years46 and, in the case of the confiscation order, has derived benefits from such activity47.
The structure of the civil confiscation process is heavily patterned on the existing regime in the CDSA albeit with a slight twist: proceedings under Part 9 for any of the three orders are civil proceedings that follow the civil standard of proof,48 much like proceedings for OCPOs. This lowering of the burden of proof on the Public Prosecutor in civil confiscation proceedings is amplified by the statutory presumption that any property or interest in property held by the subject which is “disproportionate to the subject’s known sources of income”49 is presumed to be a benefit from an organised crime activity, which the subject bears the burden of disproving.50
The civil nature of such confiscation proceedings is buttressed by a statutory proviso that any of the three orders can be made in the absence of any criminal proceedings for the impugned organised criminal activity.51 Even more disconcertingly, where criminal proceedings have been instituted against the subject, an order under the civil confiscation regime can still be made even if the criminal proceedings have resulted in an acquittal of the subject.52 Nor is the civil confiscation order affected by the making of a confiscation order under the CDSA in relation to the same person and organised crime activity,53 raising the spectre of a possible ‘double jeopardy’54 under both civil and criminal confiscation proceedings.
The OCA is a considerable supplement to Singapore’s already-sizeable arsenal of legal tools that have already been used in the struggle against organised crime. However, unlike previous legislation which has typically been concerned with combating organised criminal activity within the traditional framework of the criminal justice system, the OCA adopts the novel approach of utilising the civil process to tackle organised crime. This obviates the need to navigate the more onerous realm of criminal procedure, and allows for the full powers and resources of the State to be brought to bear upon individuals suspected of having breached the criminal law, but who have otherwise evaded prosecution.
Furthermore, such measures arguably mark a reformulation in the State’s policing style whereby the traditional reactive means of enforcement after the commission of an offence is increasingly displaced by a more proactive policing which seeks to preclude and even deter participation in organised criminal enterprises by denying criminals the necessary capital to develop and maintain illicit markets, as well as by preventing certain types of behaviour and forms of association that border on criminality.
The end result is a new kind of a criminal law whose focus is not so much identifying and apportioning criminal liability on an individual case-by-case basis as targeting and neutralising certain social threats to public welfare. Suspected organised criminals are the ‘social danger’ in question that must be contained and regulated through robust but civil measures under the OCA’s framework in order to best guarantee the effective protection of people and State. Of course, no one disputes the serious threat to public order that organised crime poses but it remains to be seen whether the OCA is the most appropriate and effective solution for addressing the problem of organised criminality.
[1] The Bill received its Second and Third Readings and was subsequently passed by Parliament with no amendments on 17 August 2015, before obtaining Presidential assent on 21 August 2015.
[2] No 26 of 2015, Sing.
[3] At the date of the writing of this publication, the author could find no academic article or commentary piece dealing with the Organised Crime Act 2015. A reference to the most recent edition of one of the foremost criminal law textbooks in the country revealed only a cursory mention of the statute in a footnote: see Stanley Yeo, Neil Morgan & Chan Wing Cheong, Criminal Law in Malaysia and Singapore, 3rd ed (Singapore: LexisNexis, 2018) at 1045.
[4] Supra note 2 at s 5. See also Public Prosecutor v Lai Yen San [2019] SGDC 39 at [6].
[5] Ibid at s 6.
[6] Ibid at s 7.
[7] Ibid at ss 8–9.
[8] Ibid at s 10.
[9] Ibid at s 11.
[10] ‘Serious offence’ refers to any offence specified in the Schedule to the OCA, which in itself consists of offences contained in the Penal Code (Cap 224, 2008 Rev Ed Sing) and a whole plethora of other criminal law statutes.
[11] Supra note 2 at s 12.
[12] Parliamentary Debates Singapore: Official Report, vol 93 at 31 (17 August 2015) (Second Minister for Home Affairs Mr S Iswaran). Although not expressly mentioned by the Minister in the Parliamentary debates, it is arguably reasonable to infer that persons who have provided material or financial assistance to organised criminal groups can include financial institutions and owners of real property. It would surely undermine the purpose of having such provisions in the OCA if they could not be taken to apply to the two aforementioned categories of entities.
[13] Supra note 2 at ss 14–20.
[14] Ibid at ss 21–23.
[15] Ibid at ss 24–38.
[16] Ibid at s 39.
[17] Cap 65A, 2000 Rev Ed Sing.
[18] Supra note 2 at ss 51 and 53.
[19] Ibid at s 15.
[20] Ibid at s 14(3)(a).
[21] Insofar as the author is aware, the term ‘facilitate’ is not actually defined in the OCA or any other statute but see s 2(2) OCA which attempts to provide some form of statutory guidance as to the prerequisite degree of physical conduct that is required for a person to have facilitated the commission of an offence.
[22] Supra note 2 at s 14(3)(b).
[23] Ibid at s 14(3)(c). The same three factual conditions apply for offences committed by an offender who is outside Singapore.
[24] Ibid at s 16(2).
[25] Ibid at s 16(3).
[26] Ibid at s 16(2)(a).
[27] Ibid at s 16(2)(b).
[28] Ibid at s 16(2)(c).
[29] Ibid at s 16(3)(b).
[30] Ibid at s 16(2)(e).
[31] Serious Crimes Act 2007 (UK), c 27, s 1.
[32] Crimes (Serious Crime Prevention Orders) Act 2016 (NSW), s 5.
[33] Heidi Mork Lomell, “Punishing the Uncommitted Crime: Prevention, Pre-emption, Precaution and the Transformation of Criminal Law” in Barbara Hudson & Synnove Ugelvik, eds, Justice and Security in the 21st Century: Risk, Rights and the Rule of Law (Abingdon, UK: Routledge, 2012) 83 at 86. See also Andrew Ashworth & Lucia Zedner, “Prevention and Criminalization: Justification and Limits” (2012) 15:4 New Crim L Rev 542.
[34] [2010] EWCA Crim 102.
[35] Ibid at para 9.
[37] Ibid at para 10.
[38] See R v Mangham [2012] EWCA Crim 973 and R v Strong [2017] EWCA Crim 999; see also David Ormerod et al, Blackstone’s Criminal Practice 2017, 27th ed (Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 2016) at 2062–2064.
[39] Council of Europe, European Convention for the Protection of Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms, as amended by Protocols Nos. 11 and 14, 4 November 1950, Eur TS 5.
[40] [2006] 1 SLR(R) 582 (HC) at [87].
[41] In the alternative, the Singapore courts could choose to overrule Chee Siok Chin and introduce the doctrine of proportionality into Singapore law but any such decision would have to be founded on very cogent grounds so as to justify the adoption of proportionality in lieu of the existing judicial test of Wednesbury unreasonableness. One such argument could be that proportionality functions as a secondary question on the part of the Court that focuses on the legitimacy of the executive or administrative action itself, that is to say, whether the impugned actions were made in accordance with fair procedures and not whether they are ‘right’. In doing so, this obviates the problem of merits review that Rajah J (as His Honour then was) pointed out in Chee Siok Chin at [87]. See also Alan D P Brady, Proportionality and Deference under the UK Human Rights Act: An Institutionally Sensitive Approach, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012) at 11–13.
[42] Supra note 2 at s 45(1).
[43] Ibid at s 57.
[44] Ibid at s 58.
[45] Ibid at s 61.
[46] Ibid at s 46(1).
[47] Ibid at s 61(2)(b).
[48] Ibid at s 50.
[49] Ibid at s 61(3).
[51] Ibid at s 51.
[52] Ibid at s 53.
[53] Ibid at s 55.
[54] By ‘double jeopardy’, I refer particularly to the principle of autrefois convict as enshrined in Article 11(2) of the Constitution of the Republic of Singapore (1999 Rev Ed). Although confiscation proceedings under the OCA are expressly treated as civil proceedings and that statute expressly states that OCA confiscation proceedings are not affected by the criminal proceedings under the CDSA, one could argue that it is possible for a person to be subject to concurrent confiscation order proceedings under both Acts for the same set of facts or offences, which could in turn lead to the imposition of two types of penalties that are in substance, similar to one another, thereby triggering Article 11(2). However, it is very unlikely that the Singapore courts will accept such an argument on the basis of existing case law that adopts a strict definition of the principle of autrefois convict. See Lim Keng Chia v Public Prosecutor [1998] 1 SLR(R) 1 (HC) at [7]–[14] and Gunalan s/o Govindarajoo v Public Prosecutor [2000] 2 SLR(R) 578 (HC) at [19]–[21].