The Delhi High Court Order in P. Chidambaram v. ED: Three Thoughts

This week saw the arrest of a former Union Minister, P. Chidambaram, in connection with allegations of corruption and money laundering in what has popularly been called the "INX Media" case. In this post, I'm not interested in the arrest itself — the pageantry of which has already attracted much discussion — but the initial order of the Delhi High Court on 20.08.2019 which dismissed Mr. Chidambaram's plea for Anticipatory Bail and set the ball rolling [more on anticipatory bail generally, here].

Please read the order when you can, and if you can't read it in full, then make sure to read Paragraph 21 onwards. This section of the order discusses three different sets of arguments / judicial choices that I want to bring into sharper focus through this post.

Custody and Cooperation

The High Court relied upon an old decision of the Supreme Court in CBI v. Anil Sharma [(1997) 7 SCC 187] to re-iterate that custodial interrogation should be granted when an accused, who has prior judicial protection from arrest, refuses to "cooperate" with the investigation and renders it a "mere ritual". This is good as an abstract principle: people should not be allowed to frustrate legal processes. But what about the specifics? 

The verb "cooperate" means to work jointly towards the same end. Taking this to its logical end in the setting of criminal investigations would entail a total negation of the right to silence, which is certainly not what any court could agree to. So, then, it is a question of how much cooperation is enough? In this case, the prosecution argued that the accused appeared for questioning but then gave "evasive" replies, and the Court agreed that this was frustrating the investigation. But it did so without shedding any light on what "evasive" meant, and thus left us in the dark about our spectrum. 

We need to figure out where should an accused person fall in the spectrum of total submission to police, and evading investigation, to satisfy the judicial conscience. Supplying this clarity will not only help future courts make better decisions while dealing with complex problems and give greater certainty to the law. Narrowly tailoring the need for arrest and custody also foster an interpretation of criminal procedure in line with the constitutional commitment to personal liberty.  

Gravity of Offences and Bail 

One of the reasons for rejecting Mr. Chidambaram's bail application was the gravity of offences that are alleged to have been committed by him. Factoring in the gravity of the alleged offence to decide whether or not the accused should be granted bail is today part of the judicial fabric on the law of bail in India, and I do not argue that courts should not consider the gravity of allegations. Rather, the problem is that while this argument might operate well in the realm of abstraction, it does not enjoy smooth sailing when we descend into the particulars [discussed from another angle, here]. 

Let's take an example. If it's a case of alleged murder, then well, it is very difficult to disagree about the basic allegation of someone having died. Some elements of the allegation are, therefore, beyond doubt even at the investigative stage. This logic also works in cases where, say, a public servant is caught taking a bribe red-handed. But this does not work when we infer criminality from neutral facts. To rely upon gravity in those situations is to basically invite the police to create good stories and level serious charges, with a view to ensure that bail is harder to get. 

To make judicial decision-making better, and limit the denial of personal liberty, perhaps courts could interrogate this distinction a bit more and put prosecutors and police officers to stricter scrutiny where the allegations are inferential before relying upon gravity as a ground to deny bail. Maybe this could help prevent cases from ending up in smoke as well, rather than arresting persons and asking them to make statements that will ultimately be inadmissible in court. Just a thought.

Prosecutorial Courts: Economic Offences and the White-Knight Syndrome

The High Court in Paragraph 21 indicates that one reason for dismissing the bail application was that it could not "permit the prosecution in this sensitive case to end up in smoke like it has happened in some other high profile cases." Once the political cheerleading subsides, we should take a long hard look at this claim. Leaving aside everything, it is extremely worrying, and possibly illegal, for a court to subject an individual to arrest and custodial remand because of past prosecutorial failures. Surely we can have better solutions than locking people up to fix lapses in how state agencies investigate and prosecute crimes. 

What is on display here is a trend of the court turning prosecutor, and it is something that has often been on display in the context of economic crimes in the past. The High Court is only following the trends that the Supreme Court has been setting since the 2-G Scam days, when it closely monitored a CBI investigation and found a deprivation of the habeas writ under Article 226 to be constitutional. This "White Knight" syndrome has been discussed on the blog at length, and Paragraph 21 of the High Court with its surface-level anguish about the problem of economic offenders is just the latest variant of that syndrome on display. It will be very interesting to see what the Supreme Court does when it hears the cases in the coming week.

Amendments to the Prevention of Corruption Act: Prosecuting Public Servants

The previous posts on this Blog discussed two new additions brought by the 2018 amendments to the Prevention of Corruption Act, 1988 [PC Act], namely a standalone offence punishing bribe givers, and a foundational change in how corporations can be prosecuted on corruption charges. In this post, I discuss changes made by the amendments that affect the traditional concern of Indian anticorruption legislation: prosecuting corrupt public servants.

The Existing Regime

Before moving on to the changes, it is worthwhile to spend a minute on the existing regime. The PC Act carried two main provisions to combat corruption: Sections 7 and 13. To avoid getting entangled in the technicalities, let's take a simpler version of how they worked, focusing only on the more important parts. There was Section 13(1)(e), which punished public servants caught in possession of assets disproportionate to their income. And then there was the muddling overlap between Sections 7 and 13(1)(d). The former targeted public servants accepting / obtaining anything beyond their salary (cash / property etc.) to do their job. Section 13(1)(d) only targeted them obtaining things, by corrupt means or abusing their position as a public official. The differences, then, were two: (i) according to several court decisions, Section 13(1)(d) needed a demand by public servants, and (ii) Section 13(1)(d) did not need the illegal transaction to revolve around performance of public functions. Totally different from this conundrum was the problem of Section 13(1)(d)(iii), which courts read as not requiring any demand or public function. It was seen as a strict liability offence, whose requirements were met as long as the public servant got any "valuable thing or pecuniary advantage" for another person without any public interest. 

2018 Amendments to Substantive Law: The Text

Very little of that existing regime has been left in place by the 2018 amendments. Section 13(1)(d)(iii) no longer exists. The rest of Section 13(1)(d) has been merged with Section 7 to form one composite offence. The new Section 13 only carries two offences - the erstwhile Sections 13(1)(c) and 13(1)(e). Since the bulk of changes are codified in the new Section 7, let's focus on that:

Section 7. Any public servant who, - 

(a) obtains or accepts or attempts to obtain from any person, an undue advantage, with the intention to perform or cause performance of any public duty improperly or dishonestly or to forbear or cause forbearance to perform such duty either by himself or by another public servant; or 

(b) [ditto], as a reward for the improper or dishonest performance of a public duty or for forbearing to perform such duty either by himself or by another public servant; or 

(c) performs or induces another perform to perform improperly or dishonestly a public duty or to forbear performance of such duty in anticipation of or in consequence of accepting an undue advantage from any person, 

shall be punishable, with imprisonment ... not less than three years but which may extend to seven years ... 

Explanation 1. - ... obtaining, accepting, or attempting to obtain an undue advantage shall itself constitute an offence even if the performance of a public duty by public servant, is not or has not been improper.

...

Explanation 2. - ... (i) the expressions "obtains" or "accepts" or "attempts to obtain" shall cover cases where a [public servant], obtains or accepts or attempts to obtain, any undue advantage for himself or for another person, by abusing his position as a public servant, or by using his personal influence over another public servant; or by any other corrupt or illegal means; ... 

I spoke earlier of overlaps between Sections 7 and 13(1)(d) in the PC Act. The legislature has chosen to resolve that issue by deleting half of Section 13(1)(d), and clubbing those parts with the scope of Section 7. This has been done through Explanation 2 to Section 7, which carries forward large chunks of the old Section 13(1)(d) PC Act. What, then, is the conduct prohibited by Section 7 after the amendments? It punishes three kinds of transactions between public servants and others involving an "undue advantage" changing hands / about to change hands:

• Section 7(a) requires that the exchange be accompanied by the public servant intending to perform / cause performance /forbear performance of a public duty either improperly or dishonestly, be it her duty or that of another public servant;      
• Section 7(b) requires that the exchange to be as reward for improper or dishonest performance / forbear performance of a public duty in the past by a public servant;
• Section 7(c) requires the improper or dishonest performance / forbearance of public duty, or inducing such conduct in another public servant, in anticipation or in consequence of accepting an undue advantage.

Substantive Amendments: Hits and Misses

The deletion of Section 13(1)(d)(iii) from the PC Act marks the end of a long saga of a fight between the bureaucracy and the government. Ever since 2010, when the Delhi High Court ruled that the offence did not require proof of any associated mental state, it became possible to prosecute public servants simply for making a bad decision. For instance, if an official in a Public Sector Bank grants a loan to X, who then defaults, technically the public servant obtained a valuable thing or pecuniary advantage for another person without any public interest. Although the Delhi High Court's decision incorporated safeguards against such a broad reading, the bureaucrats were not convinced, and had been lobbying for change. The 2018 amendments mark their victory.

Creating a broad corruption offence and reducing overlaps and resulting confusion between Sections 7 and 13(1)(d) is a good idea. But unfortunately, it suffers from poor execution, as the new Section 7 is still plagued by unnecessarily confusing text, as I illustrate below. 

• First, the confusion with 7(c). It targets two kinds of scenarios: (i) a public servant does her job dishonestly / improperly expecting to get an undue advantage for doing so, (ii) a public servant does her job dishonestly / improperly having accepted an undue advantage for doing so. Scenario (i) can easily be described as the public servant being rewarded for doing her job dishonestly / improperly - which is exactly what Section 7(b) targets. Scenario (ii) can be seen as a public servant intentionally accepting an undue advantage to do her job dishonestly / improperly - which is part of what Section 7(a) covers. Thus, arguably Section 7(c) is not really covering any extra ground. 
• Second, consider Explanation 1, which effectively says that the Section 7 offence is complete as long as a public servant gets an undue advantage, without a need for improper performance of duty. But we already knew this, since Section 7 uses the words improperly or dishonestly to describe the conduct of public servants. Why add an unnecessary explanation? 
• Lastly, consider Explanation 2(i), which makes explicit the links between the new Section 7 and the old Section 13(1)(d). Perhaps this is useful to make it clear to the police and courts that this offence also deals with what the old Section 13(1)(d) covered. But, this is simply not the case. Even though some language is carried forward, the old Section 13(1)(d) does not survive. I say this, because all that the old offence required was a public servant obtaining an undue advantage without any need to draw links between this transaction and the performance of a public duty. Basically, it criminalised a public servant extorting persons into giving bribes. But all three clauses in Section 7 hinge around the performance of a public duty, besides exchange of an undue advantage. Ultimately, Explanation 2(i) is unnecessary: since the means by which a public servant obtains the undue advantage are irrelevant for the offence, why talk about it?      

2018 Amendments to Procedural Law  

Section 19 of the PC Act creates a need for prior sanction to prosecute public servants on corruption charges; i.e., prior government approval before judicial proceedings can begin. This provision has a cousin in the general law on criminal procedure - Section 197 of the Criminal Procedure Code 1973 [Cr.P.C.]. There used to be two points of difference between these provisions. First, Section 19 PC Act only applied to active public servants, while Section 197 Cr.P.C. covered both active and retired public servants. Second, Section 19 PC Act applied in almost all cases under that law, while Section 197 Cr.P.C. applied to all kinds of cases, but only if the allegations concerned acts / omissions of the public servant in discharge / purported discharge of official duties [for a discussion of the judicial treatment of this test, see here]. The 2018 amendments to Section 19 PC Act have eliminated the first distinction; now sanction to prosecute cases under the PC Act will also apply to public servants employed "at the time of commission of the alleged offence". Section 19 PC Act will now also carry different rules on sanction in cases that are not instituted by law enforcement, giving public servants more opportunities to stop proceedings at the outset. While the amendments codify Supreme Court directions for a 3 month time-limit on sanction, there is no rule that failure to comply with that limit will result in sanction being deemed to have been granted.      

Far more significant than this expansion, though, is the insertion of Section 17-A into the PC Act. This provides that investigations regarding "any recommendation made or decision taken by [a] public servant in discharge of his official functions or duties" also need prior government sanction. Thus, police cannot even start corruption investigations without prior approval, a process that can take up to three months, although there is an exception for cases where a public servant is caught red-handed while obtaining / accepting an undue advantage [Provisos to Section 17-A]. Note, though, that while Section 17-A applies to PC Act offences, its structure is akin to Section 197 Cr.P.C. - prior sanction is needed only if allegations concern any recommendation / decision in discharge of official functions or duties. 

Section 17-A And Sanction: Old Wine in New Bottles

While prior sanction for investigations are not as common as prior sanction for prosecution, there is a legacy of laws protecting public servants against investigations too. The most famous being Section 6-A of the Delhi Special Police Establishment Act, 1946 [DSPE], which only shielded senior bureaucrats in cases pursued by the CBI, and was struck down as unconstitutional in 2014 primarily because of this selectivity in scope. In the years since, there have been selective attempts to revive that protection, most recently in the State of Rajasthan. Section 17-A marks a re-introduction of such protections at the federal level, this time without any rank-based logic. Though one suspects that it will be more common for this protections to be claimed in allegations against senior bureaucrats who occupy decision-making roles.

Are such protections for public servants legal? The Supreme Court considered the constitutionality of Section 197 Cr.P.C. in 1956, when one Matajog Dobey argued that this violated the equal protection clause of Article 14. Why, Dobey argued, should public servants not be taken to court like the rest of us? The Court disagreed, finding merit in the colonial logic that public servants needed this rule to protect them against vexatious litigation. As I mentioned above, the Supreme Court took up the issue of requiring prior sanctions for investigations in 2014 when it considered the legality of Section 6-A of the DSPE Act. But it did not rule that such protections from investigations were bad per se, and instead chose to tackle the arbitrariness of only protecting certain kinds of public servants and not the entire set. That is where the law stands today: public servants are certainly in a different class, but the extent of their privileges remains unsettled.

While discussing amendments passed by the State of Rajasthan in 2017 here, which introduced very similar rules for that state, I suggested that this temerity of the Supreme Court might render it difficult for any court to now turn around and say that requiring prior sanction for investigation, when applied to all public servants, is unconstitutional. In that post, I also described how, rather than condemn the idea of sanction outright, the judiciary used the "official duties" language in Section 197 Cr.P.C. to regulate what kinds of conduct could require prior sanction (An entire monograph can be dedicated to the unprincipled way in which it has done this). Since 1997, when the judiciary went beyond mere regulation to hold an earlier avatar of Section 6-A of the DSPE was unconstitutional, there has been a constant tussle between judiciary and executive. Courts would nullify protections from investigations, only for governments to reinstate it in new ways. Section 17-A appears to be the central government's response to the judicial nullification of Section 6-A of the DSPE Act. I suspect that the cyclical trend will send the ball back to the judiciary, as the legality of Section 17-A will certainly be challenged before the Supreme Court. Once and for all, the Court can then set the record straight and tell us what it thinks about laws shielding public servants from investigations, putting them truly in a class of their own above the rest of us plebeians.  

Conclusions and Next Post

As this post discussed, not only do the 2018 amendments to the PC Act introduce brand new areas to the law, they also make substantial changes to the core concern of Indian anticorruption legislation: the prosecution of corrupt public servants. By streamlining the substantive offences, the amendments have taken a step in the right direction. Sadly, these progressive steps suffer from familiar flaws in terms of poor legal drafting. But equally important, if not more, are the changes brought about to the law on requiring prior sanctions to prosecute public servants for corruption. Not only have existing shields against prosecutions been fortified, but an entirely new protection against investigations has been introduced. This provision cements just how big a shift has been made from the old regime: not only did is Section 13(1)(d)(iii) deleted from the PC Act, but conduct which was earlier a basis for prosecution is now the subject of additional protections through the amendments. Perhaps because of this, it is difficult to avoid a sense that the PC Act will now carry lesser bite while going after public servants. In the next and final post of this series, I will look at the addition of a forfeiture regime to the PC Act, an area where more bite has seemingly been added to the law. 

The Rajasthan Ordinance, and Seeking Sanction to Prosecute and Investigate Public Servants in India

In September 2017, the Rajasthan government issued an ordinance that sought to (i) make it necessary for investigating authorities to first get sanction from the government before pursuing allegations against a public servant, giving the government up to six months to consider, and (ii) bar any person from disclosing any details about the concerned official until this permission had been granted. The Government has since moved a bill in the legislature to make the law permanent, while the ordinance itself has been challenged before the Rajasthan High Court which is yet to decide the case. News media has seen few supporters barring a Junior Law Minister in the Union government supposedly considers the ordinance 'perfect and balanced'. Most others are challenging it for stifling investigations and illegally curbing the constitutionally protected freedom of speech.  

Are there any merits to, if not all, then some parts, of the Ordinance? Might we see more such ordinances across states in the near future if Rajasthan's version passes judicial muster? I have been thinking about these questions, and here, I try and understand them through this post. Understanding needs context, which is often absent from discussions of sanction in India. This post begins with a brief historical introduction to the 'sanction to prosecute', flagging the recent constitutional problems surrounding the concept. I then try and suggest that the Rajasthan ordinance is the logical aftermath of the judicial treatment of sanction. This means, unfortunately, that this is a rather long post. I hope it isn't long and pointless.

The Imperial Lineage of Sanction to Prosecute

Most legal systems recognise the right of an individual to pursue legal remedies when her rights are violated. If you beat me up, I have the right to pursue a case in court against you. In India, this can happen by either approaching the police who might take the case to court after investigation, or by going to court yourself. Now, it is easy to imagine the possibility of this (or any) right being abused - I might bring a false case to harass my opponent. We address this through preventing or punishing such conduct. The idea of seeking permissions to bring lawsuits fits in the former, which is basically what seeking 'sanction to prosecute' is. An administrative superior acts as a filter to ensure frivolous cases are not brought in court against public officials. The Criminal Procedure Code 1973 [Cr.P.C.] carries this filter in Section 197, which requires prior sanction to 'prosecute' (this is important) public servants (both serving and retired ones) only when allegations concern things they did actually in the course of duty, or purporting to be so.      

But why public officials, you might ask. An educated guess is India's colonial context informed this decision to protect those associated with government. The colonial regime introduced sanction in its first comprehensive criminal procedure code of 1861 [Section 167, at page 186 of the link], and kept it in the 1872 Code [Section 466, at page 509]. The modern version of this which I referred to above came in the 1898 Code [also Section 197, at page 141]. Broad protections shielded those working for the government who, to put it mildly, did not hesitate to step beyond the bounds of law while discharging their duties. A harsh terrain mandated harsh methods, and to allow prosecutions would stifle the governance project (opening for potential historical research examining if native and British persons were treated differently when it came to granting sanction!). Though speculative, I think this idea fits better than the arguments floated in London to defend similar restrictions to prosecute (the link is for debates in 1934, but the law remained the same even before). English law focused more on the nature of the offence rather than the offender - sedition, corruption and other potentially sensitive allegations could only be pursued with the Attorney General's consent, while the Indian version focused on the identity of the defendant and covered every person under the pay of the government. 

Over time it seems this justification changes, as seen from debates in the House on the Government of India Act 1935, which gave constitutional bases to protections for public servants from suits and prosecutions [Sections 270-71, at page 105. Fascinating, showing the crown was concerned about soon-to-be-elected local governments possibly changing the law on this front]. The legislature spent more time discussing civil suits, but the debates are useful for the criminal prosecution issue nonetheless. Mr. Thorp (column 54) spoke of how it was 'introducing a dangerous principle'  to India and could hurt genuine cases, while the Duchess of Atholl (column 55) spoke of apprehensions that the clause 'falls short of what civil servants feel to be necessary'. This largely mirrors the divide that we see today. Bureaucrats consider it necessary to have these protections to perform their duties while aggrieved persons consider them as impediments of entitlement. 

Independent India and the Opportunity Doctrine 

What became of the requirement of sanction in independent India? Well, it was quickly subjected to a constitutional challenge. In Matajog Dobey [AIR 1956 SC 44] the petitioner argued that Section 197 violated the equal protection clause by giving public servants protections from legal proceedings that others did not have. The Court swatted this aside by holding that public officials 'have to be protected from harassment in the discharge of official duties' while ordinary citizens did not. The vast category of public servants under the pay of the government - both union and state - was thus recognised as a class separate from all others, a distinction that has not been displaced. 

This did not mean the judiciary was not concerned with the debates that I highlighted above. In fact, the concern was palpable. High Courts before independence, and later the Supreme Court too, were acutely aware of the tightrope being tread - read the requirement too narrowly and you render the protection illusory, but read it to cover everything a public servant does and you make accountability a mirage. The judicial device created to navigate this problem was what I will call the 'Opportunity Doctrine' - if public office merely gave an opportunity to commit crime, then there was no need to get sanction. But where the alleged criminal acts were inseparable from the office and were 'integrally connected' to official duty, sanction was a must. So, if a public official misuses the privileges of office (goes on a joyride with government sponsored fuel) then prosecuting that offence should not require sanction. But if a municipal authority colludes with one real-estate developer to allot land at cheap rates, then we may need prior sanction to prosecute.          

The malleability of the Opportunity Doctrine should not go unnoticed - beyond the obvious cases it left a huge middle ground to be navigated with little more than gut instinct. For instance - what about the bank official who pilfers funds for his own use? Did his job merely grant an opportunity, or was it integral to the crime? The judicial grappling with sanction had a significant impact on the text itself. For starters, the test ignored that Section 197 never required an integral connection with duty: it's needs were met even if the acts were purportedly in discharge of duty. Since sanction was a tool to filter cases at the outset, it naturally required this broad scope. Considering whether sanction was needed in post-conviction review (appeals) by courts slowly dislocated it from its preventive roots. After all, how willing would a judge be to reverse a conviction arrived at after a lengthy trial on the technicality of there being no sanction to prosecute an official? This version undoubtedly tapers over the cracks but it would be difficult to argue that the broad shifts are not as I suggest.  

The Intra-Branch Dialogue and Sanctions to Investigate 

Thus we see how courts assumed control of the sanction to prosecute after having refused to strike it down as unconstitutional. Did this happen in a vacuum? Or did the legislature and executive - consisting several public servants protected by sanction - react? They did, and pretty quickly. In 1969 the government passed directions to the Central Bureau of Investigation that prevented it from starting any investigations against high-ranking public servants before getting permission. This was the 'Single Directive'. The thinking is clear - courts are applying a hindsight test which does not filter well, so lets go further back in time and filter at the institution of criminal cases. While doing this, the government impliedly admitted that the sanction protections are too broad to justify the rationale of their protecting public decision-making. Of course decision-makers must be treated differently from the ordinary rank-and-file bureaucrats, and so the latter would not be granted these protections.    

The Supreme Court did not agree that the public servants could be segregated like this. When the Supreme Court held this arrangement illegal, the government responded by re-introducing it almost immediately. When the Court slapped on the government's knuckles it retreated and withdrew the proposed change. But in 2003, it went ahead and amended the law to give it firm footing. While India's major political parties often don't look eye to eye, these moves were made both by the Congress and BJP led governments, showing a fairly clear indication of legislative will. What happens next? This statutory provision [Section 6-A of the Delhi Special Police Establishment Act 1946] was also struck down as invalid by the Court in 2014. On both occasions when the court struck down this protection, it did not overturn the Matajog decision to find sanction requirements were bad for creating an invidious classification between persons. Instead, the Court held that protecting only a class of bureaucrats was bad. How do you read this? Is the Court saying sanction should be limited to instituting prosecutions as done in the CrPC? Or is it saying that some public servants are not more equal than others, but all public servants are more equal than the rest of us. The second is a fair reading, and it was something the Court had agreed to in MK Aiyappa while handling sanction requirements under the Prevention of Corruption Act 1988 (a blistering commentary on the case can be read here). If the court reads the law this way, does it come as a surprise that others, such as the Rajasthan and Maharashtra governments, are doing the same? 

Past, Present, but what of the Future?

Maybe it is just me, but I can't help but notice patterns in how the law on sanctions to prosecute has been developing over time. There is a constant back and forth between the court and government - the court restricts its scope, the government expands it again. All of this was happening within the bounds of the constitution until the Supreme Court upped the ante and held the Single Directive to be unconstitutional in 1998. The government had been running the initiative for nearly thirty years to ensure lax sanction rules did not affect decision-makers, and the Court decided it didn't matter in the language which it could use - the Constitution. Was it inopportune? Perhaps. If the Court had a problem with having a sanction requirement then it should have said it outright. If it didn't, then there were better methods of dealing with the situation than refusing to acknowledge the few merits in the Single Directive scheme and starting a power tussle with the government. Today, because of how the Court avoided the forest for the trees, I think it will be hard for the Rajasthan High Court to hold that needing permission to start an investigation against public servants is unconstitutional. That might just convince the remaining BJP led states to pass similar laws, eventually bringing us back to the Supreme Court. Might the Court finally reconsider its position on all public servants being a separate class from the public?  

Prosecuting Public Officials for their Mistakes

(This post first appeared on the Global Anticorruption Blog and has been cross-posted with permission)

In July 2011, Yingluck Shinawatra became Prime Minister of Thailand after her party (founded by her brother, former Prime Minister Thaksin Shinawatra) won a decisive electoral victory. One of her principal campaign promises was to establish a program to purchase rice from farmers at above-market prices then store the rice to reduce supply. The hope was that doing so would increase world prices—because of Thailand’s position as the leading global rice exporter—ultimately allowing the government to sell at a profit. Shortly after the election, Yingluck’s government implemented this program, and it worked well for a few months—until other global players increased their supply of rice, causing Thailand to lose billions of dollars in the process. This economic debacle was entirely predictable—and indeed was predicted by many experts. And the program itself was beset by allegations of fraud and corruption in its implementation.

But should the failure of the rice-buying program be the basis of a criminal charge of corruption and a prison sentence against Yingluck herself, in the absence of evidence that she was directly involved in any embezzlement, bribery, or other more conventional forms of graft? Section 157 of Thailand’s Penal Code allows for just such a prosecution, as this section makes it a crime for a public official to either dishonestly or “wrongfully discharge or omit to discharge a duty so as to expose any person to injury.” And last month, the Thai Supreme Court found Yingluck (out of power since she was deposed by a military coup in 2014) guilty and sentenced her to five years in prison. She fled the country before the verdict.

Thailand is not alone in adopting anticorruption laws that criminalize not only dishonest conduct (bribery, embezzlement, conflict of interest, etc.), but also negligence or incompetence. When India updated its anticorruption law in 1988, it added a new provision that makes it a criminal offense for a public official to “obtain for any person any valuable thing or pecuniary advantage without any public interest.” This broad offense was interpreted by a state High Court to not require any proof of dishonesty or criminal intent, and the Central Bureau of Investigation (India’s premier anticorruption agency) has routinely employed the provision in grand corruption cases to avoid the problem of having to prove corrupt intent. In perhaps the most high-profile such prosecution, the agency went after an ex-Prime Minister, Dr. Manmohan Singh. Dr. Singh was the Minister of Coal at a time when the Government decided to liberalize allocation of coal-blocks and to sell mining rights to private parties. In 2014, the Comptroller and Auditor General’s office reported the policy had caused losses worth billions of dollars because the rights had been sold for too little, through a process that was too ad hoc to be considered legal. Dr. Singh was subsequently charged under India’s broad law, though his trial has currently been stayed while his challenge to the constitutionality the law is pending before India’s Supreme Court. (There are clearly concerns in other quarters about the breadth of this statute: In 2016 a Select Committee of the Upper House of India’s Parliament submitted a report that suggested India eliminate this offense. Parliament hasn’t yet acted on this recommendation, but there are signs that it has some support.)

Is it appropriate to enact broad anticorruption laws that allow government officials to be convicted for dereliction of duty, acting in a manner contrary to the public interest, and the like? Anticorruption activists and prosecutors may find such statutes appealing: It is easier to secure convictions of elected officials who are suspected of corruption, but where it is too difficult to prove the specific intent necessary for traditional corruption offenses. But in fact these broad laws are likely to do more harm than good, and countries like Thailand and India would be better off without them. There are three main reasons for this:

• First, criminal prosecutions carry immense expressive value and signal to society that certain acts ought to be condemned. The message sent to society, when a court convicts a senior official for a policy failure absent any showing of dishonesty, is not likely to be that the government will not tolerate corruption, but rather that prosecutors and judges have broad power to jail leaders that they don’t like. This is only worsened by the inherently subjective nature of the crime in question. These prosecutions also blur the lines between genuinely dishonest conduct and policy mistakes, undermining the special condemnation that ought to be reserved for the former. On balance, even if prosecutions for dereliction of duty might enable prosecutors to convict leaders suspected of actual but unprovable graft, in the long term such prosecutions will only worsen the respect for rule of law in societies troubled by corruption in governance.
• Second, and connected to the first point, such broad offenses raise the very real risk of politically motivated prosecutions. In countries where voters are angry about corruption, politicians often stress increased anticorruption prosecutions to show their commitment to reform. What better way to show such commitment then by attacking the alleged corruption of the previous regime? And this is much easier to do when the prosecutors (influenced by the new government) need not actually prove dishonesty, but need only find some alleged failure to fulfill a duty, or some act not in the “public interest.” Not only are partisan witch-hunts contrary to the rule of law, they also don’t always make for sound cases, and can ultimately dilute both the strength of using the courts as an anticorruption force and the faith of the public in the integrity of the institutions of justice.
• Third, broad anticorruption laws that effectively criminalize negligence are likely to have an undesirable chilling effect on decision-making by public officials. When elected officials take bold moves they already run a risk of alienating their electorate and losing a re-election. Add to that the specter of eventual criminal liability once they’re out of office, and it officials are likely to become too timid to try anything even slightly bold or controversial. This fear of risk trickles down to any official tasked with implementing government policy.

To be sure, elected officials owe a duty to the citizenry to act in the public interest. If they fail to do so, and the failure can be proven to be due to dishonesty or greed, then more narrowly-drawn laws against bribery, embezzlement, and conflict of interest would apply. For serious errors that are made in good faith – or even in those cases where there’s suspicion of wrongdoing but it can’t be proved – there’s an alternative remedy already in place: elections. The political process is of course imperfect. Many Thais were likely frustrated that Yingluck didn’t seem to pay a serious political cost for the failure of the rice-buying scheme, and may have been relieved both by the coup that removed her from power and by her eventual conviction for dereliction of duty. But in the long term, the democratic process offers a better safeguard than allowing for politicians to be sent to jail for mistakes.