𝗠𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗔𝗟 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗟𝗧𝗛 𝗜𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗟𝗘𝗚𝗔𝗟 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗙𝗘𝗦𝗦𝗜𝗢𝗡

The legal profession is quick to espouse pride in a great many number of things, though slow in disavowing its shames—none more so than the 𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙡 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙩𝙝 of its members.

#auslaw

Some weeks ago, a scathing judgment of the Federal Court started doing the rounds—its focus was Andrew J of the Family Court, whom it held in no uncertain terms to have engaged in judicial bullying and abuse of power—an incontrovertible finding based on the facts.

However, just as those who appeared before him deserved better from Andrew J, he deserved better of us. Sadly, he is now missing—the worst is presumed.

To me, and no doubt to many others, this is a deeply personal issue, and it’s a tragedy that hits hard.

Our failures in mental health are systemic—from university, through clerkships, admissions, graduate roles, law firms, the Bar, and to the Bench—and though they seem complex, common sense and humility ought guide us to a radical reformation of our profession.

Turning first to university, there are far too many unnecessary pressures that students face, and far too little support afforded them from the university.

There’s the obvious dog eat dog competitiveness. The promulgation of the idea that if you’re not a paralegal at a big firm by your second year, or haven’t scored a summer clerkship, or don’t have a distinction average, that you’re not cut out for a life in the law.

Imagine fighting for these things while working 25+ hrs retail p/w just to pay rent and afford those $200 textbooks, believing every minute not spent studying is throwing your $100k degree down the drain because without a D grade you’re unemployable.

How’s your mental health?

It’s here too that they begin to drum into us the idea that to be a lawyer is beyond repute—of gods and kings—and that our profession is of such unquestionable integrity that even the smallest indiscretion—past, present, or future—could result in excommunication.

When you complete your degree, in order to join the profession, you must then ‘declare’ yourself ‘fit and proper’ as per a broad and vague set of admission rules. For some, it’s simply a matter of ticking a box. For others, it can be incredibly difficult.

I expected, of course, that I’d be required to divulge certain things such as my criminal antecedents—spurred by certain trauma, I lived a past life of drugs, theft, and recklessness. But here I was a decade later with a law degree in hand.

What I didn’t expect I’d have to explain was how, and why, midway through my law degree I was admitted to St Vincent’s hospital after a suicide attempt, and whether or not it meant that I was ‘fit and proper’ according to the rules of admission.

After submitting my application an ominous response came some weeks later—my admission was to be ‘determined by the Board.’ More weeks followed—not a word or peep—just my internal pending doom that everything I’d been through would amount to nothing.

When my admission was approved, I should’ve felt relief, but I felt disappointed—there was no support, no empathy, nothing.

Was I wrong for being mad at having to explain why my mental health didn’t preclude me from being ‘fit and proper’?

Was I wrong for expecting support?

Well documented in our profession, particularly in the corporate realm, is a problematic history in respect of mental health—oft stemming from the pressures we face to perform and overwork, as well as cultures of bullying, dominance, and harassment.

Following a spate of employee suicides, corporate firms begun to take a proactive approach to mental health, arguably succeeding when it came to the offering of services and support, but still somewhat struggling when it comes to workplace culture and pressure.

The benefit in the corporate realm is that there are structures that govern the workplace as seperate to those that govern who is and is not ‘fit and proper’ to practice law—for example, HR departments, and legislation governing employment & discrimination.

Turning to the Bar and Bench, such alternatives outside of our own conduct rules don’t really exist, and if they do, they’re rarely enforced.

Thus, bereft of corporate and societal headwinds, our ‘profession’ doesn’t really meld with contemporary ideas of ‘professionalism.’

Courtrooms are fiefdoms, and Judges kings—the deference we rightly owe our rule of law is mistaken as one owed to the man or woman at the Bench—when in reality, a courtroom is a workplace, a Judge a superior, and a learned friend a colleague.

The standard of deference and respect to which we all should be held is one of equal professionalism. And in such occasions where it’s not afforded, there should be fair, independent, and accessible processes of resolution available.

Take the Andrew J matter. Without a doubt his behaviour was beyond the pale. In any other workplace you’d say ‘get stuffed,’ walk out, and file a HR complaint. But here, tongues are bitten until such time that an appeals Court lets rip—an overall costly and damaging outcome.

There is an almost god like complex that pervades—holier than thou—fear and favour that leads to a culture of silence where the human becomes lost amongst power and pomp.

Andrew J was human, prone to all those things that make us human—could our profession not do better?

Could our profession have done more to protect Ashleigh Petrie—the young clerk and fiancé of a magistrate who died by suicide?

Could our profession have done more to protect the victims of Heydon J, and to hold to account those who aided and abetted him?

Whilst our profession ought be proud of its traditions and honour, it shouldn’t let them blind us from an abidance professionalism.

We need a contemporary process for dealing with these issues that protects our privacy, dignity, and safety, and restores faith in our profession.

We need new rules to govern these processes, as well as more services and support to ensure safe workspaces.

Any new rules should acknowledge that we’re all human—we make mistakes—that none of us are gods or kings, and that we’re all owed equal professional deference.