The Ministry of Justice in London. Photograph: Getty Images
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How the Ministry of Justice’s proposal for the tendering of criminal legal aid is misconceived and illiberal

This is a flawed proposal which will have highly damaging effects.

The government has a contradictory approach to the legal profession.

On one hand, there appear no limits to its extravagance when the legal work is for particular issues hotly favoured by ministers. For example, the Home Secretary used taxpayers money to fund three QCs on successive hopeless appeals in the Qatada case. And the Chancellor of the Exchequer has, without any apparent public procurement exercise, hired City law firm Slaughter and May to provide advice on a business finance project  Remarkably, it appears the Treasury is even paying Slaughter and May for tax law advice on this particular project, even though there are over 120 tax lawyers already employed by HMRC.

In respect of the legal rights of the citizen, however, the government’s approach is very different. Not only is the government seeking to reduce the amount it spends on ensuring defendants in criminal matters have access to legal advice and representation, it is not even thinking its proposals through.

Take, for example, the Ministry of Justice’s current “consultation” on a scheme of “competitive tendering” for criminal legal aid.  To a large extent, the consultation is a sham, as ministers have already blithely decided that they are in favour of such a scheme in principle and, regardless of the consultation, that “competitive tendering” will be introduced within months. However, the government says that it wishes to consult on the proposed “model” for the scheme, which is just as well as the proposed model is about as misconceived as it could be.

The starting point is that government spends just over £1 billion every year on criminal legal aid. This provides for “litigation services” ranging from advising at the police station to preparing for trial. The budget also covers representation of the defendants in the (lower) Magistrates’ Courts and the Crown Court (for more serious offences). As it stands, there are some 1,400 “providers” of litigation services: mainly High Street solicitors.

There is pressure to cut the spend on criminal legal aid. The government’s proposal for “competitive tendering” for criminal legal aid is part of a group of proposals which are supposed to save £220 million a year over the next five years. This figure is, of course, plucked out of the air. No calculations have been published to justify the figure, even though there is a public interest in understanding how the savings will come about. There certainly has been no published explanation as to how the envisaged “competitive tendering” will actually lead to any concrete savings. The supposed benefit is simply asserted.

There is similar lack of thought in the proposal itself. A sensible procurement exercise sources the market for what is available and seeks suppliers accordingly. Any other approach can mean wishful thinking and unrealistic expectations. But the Ministry of Justice has said it cannot deal with 1,400 mainly small and medium sized service providers. This is deemed “inefficient”. So the government wants to create an entirely different supplier base for these services, one which does not even exist.  This is not an example of a Tory-led government wanting to “buck the market”; it is a government which wants to bulldoze an entire market square, in the hope that something more agreeable will suddenly appear in its place.

The 1,400 current providers of litigation services for defendants in criminal cases will be cut by one thousand. This means that a thousand solicitors’ firms on High Streets throughout England and Wales will suddenly cease being able to act for defendants in criminal cases. Some of these firms may be able to join with other firms so as to carry on; but there is little doubt that most of them will close. And this is quite deliberate: the consultation paper reveals a government quite brazenly open in its intended attack on a whole sector of small and medium sized enterprises (SMEs).

One would perhaps not expect a Tory-led government, or a minister like Chris Grayling, to be so crushing of SMEs on this scale. But it is also an assault on localism and choice. High Street solicitors have unmatched experience in dealing with local criminal matters: they know the courts, the local probation services, the local barristers, and the local police. All this will be deliberately lost. 

The government is also proposing to remove the right of defendants to choose a defence solicitor from those providing legal aid. This is, of course, contrary to the reforms promoted by other social welfare departments, such as Health and Education, where the “client” is supposed to have “more choice”. The Ministry of Justice instead believes that the provision of legal services will somehow be more competitive by removing the ability of end users to choose their service provider.

Some may say that the destruction of SMEs, the abandonment of localism, and the removal of choice would all be worth it, if there could be a better system of criminal legal aid; these would be prices worth paying for better criminal justice. Unfortunately, however, the proposals do not even make sense on their terms. Here, there are four important points of concern about the proposal for “competitive tendering” for criminal legal aid.

First, the proposed scheme is flatly contrary to good procurement practice. What usually should happen is that the government “sources” the market, so to see what the market can provide. It then goes to the market with an offer which suppliers can meet. Here, the Ministry of Justice fully knows that there are few potential providers currently in place to realistically bid for the envisaged bulk contracts. Given this exercise is being done at speed, and to be completed within months, the government must also be aware that it is unlikely that suppliers will be able to combine in time so as to make realistic bids. In essence, therefore, the government does not actually know whether there will be sufficient suppliers in place for there to be any genuine competition for the contracts. This is not “competitive tendering”; this is uncompetitive tendering.

Second, the proposed scheme will have no criteria as to quality of services. The basis of the procurement exercise will not even be “best value” in any general sense. The procurements will be on price alone. Again, this goes against good procurement practice. Price-only procurements are appropriate for bulk buying of goods such as envelopes, but they are not appropriate for the purchase of complex services where the provider will be expected to undertake a range of different tasks over time. The government is wrongly treating the purchase of legal services as if it were the purchase of legal stationery.

Third, there is nothing in place if the scheme does not actually work. Grayling, an ambitious minister, wants to introduce this entire scheme at a stroke; a “big bang” approach. There will be no pilots and testing. It will either have to work or it will not. Wiser heads such as the current Tory Attorney-General Dominc Grieve are ignored. Grieve warned in opposition of a milder version of the current proposal:

‘We really should be concerned about the lasting damage that could be done if we’ve got this wrong. It could permanently damage the provision of criminal legal aid.’

It seems Grayling knows better. He wants to at speed destroy the current supplier base so to replace it with one which does not yet exist, regardless of any risk of permanently damaging the provision and quality of legal aid. 

But the fourth point of concern is perhaps the most serious of all. Any procurement exercise of this nature should have clear and detailed provisions for contract management. It is not enough to “let” the contracts and appoint suppliers. That is only step two of such an exercise, and certainly not the final step. Complex service contracts have to be actively managed; suppliers have to be monitored; and outcomes have to be assessed. Unless there is proper contract management of a public services contract, they are mere cash-cows by which taxpayers’ money is re-allocated to the capital funders of the successful providers.

There is nothing – nothing whatsoever – in the consultation paper on how these lucrative three to five year contracts will be managed once awarded. Given the enormity of the change being inflicted, this is at best irresponsible. Large providers which have bid only on price will have no on-going incentive to provide any services of a certain standard. And by the time the contracts will up for renewal, they will be cosy incumbents with no surviving competitors.

There are real questions to be asked about how best to spend a £1 billion annual budget. But the proposed scheme of competitive tendering is irrelevant. There is no reason to believe it will reduce costs and every reason to believe it will reduce the quality of services. In its rejection of choice and localism, and its attack on SMEs, one cannot even give it credit as a weapon of Tory ideology. It is merely an all-round stupid proposal which will have highly damaging effects.

Our criminal justice system really deserves better than this.

 

David Allen Green is legal correspondent of the New Statesman and a solicitor. He was from 2003 to 2005 a legal adviser on procurement and commercial matters at HM Treasury’s Office of Government Commerce. 

He is author of the Jack of Kent blog.

 

David Allen Green is legal correspondent of the New Statesman and author of the Jack of Kent blog.

His legal journalism has included popularising the Simon Singh libel case and discrediting the Julian Assange myths about his extradition case.  His uncovering of the Nightjack email hack by the Times was described as "masterly analysis" by Lord Justice Leveson.

David is also a solicitor and was successful in the "Twitterjoketrial" appeal at the High Court.

(Nothing on this blog constitutes legal advice.)

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad