Canadian Lawyer

30 M a y 2 0 1 4 w w w . C A N A D I A N L a w y e r m a g . c o m I t was just last autumn that a team of lawyers led by Alan Young persuaded the Supreme Court of Canada to strike down the country's prostitution law. But the seeds of the litigation were sown 25 years earlier, in the chill, pre-dawn hours of a Toronto morning. Young, a student at the law office of legendary criminal lawyer Alan Gold, had fielded an urgent call from a client who operated a dingy brothel near the city's down- town bus depot. The joint was being raided, and the nervous client wanted help. Young arrived to find police methodically arresting unsuspecting hookers and johns as they entered the establishment. The air was thick with profanity and fear. Women berated the officers; johns shuffled in apprehension at what awaited them. One question kept playing through Young's mind: If this was a crime, where was the victim? "It was sad and pathetic," he recalls. "I couldn't see the public interest behind the raid. It was just hurt- ing people and wasting court and police time." The message Young took away would dictate the shape of his nascent career: The state has no business interfering with consen- sual, pleasure-seeking acts. "I hap- pen to think that people should be allowed to make their own heaven and hell," Young says. "I needed to start challenging these laws." Before long, he was challeng- ing laws that targeted gambling, obscenity, and pot smoking. Some cases broke new ground; others flopped. It would take more than two decades for the stars to finally align for a determined run at prohibitions that govern solicitation, pimping, and keeping a brothel. The case of Bedford v. Canada (Attorney General) repre- sented a landmark in Charter of Rights and Freedoms jurispru- dence. It also forged a national profile for Young — a compulsive critic of established power and an unlikely lawyer who detests his own kind. The surprising thing about Young was that, at 57, he was still in law at all. Growing up in a lower middle-class Toronto home in the Jewish enclave near Bathurst and Wilson streets, his orientation was toward fine art, poetry, and writing. When he was 10, land develop- ers took a keen interest in a land investment his father had north of the city. Suddenly, the Young clan was wealthy. "I was never com- fortable being affluent," Young confesses. "I suffered from white, liberal guilt." He would spend his adolescence as a dope-smoking, anti-capitalist peacenik with a pronounced dislike of authority. Young's sister suffered severely from psychiatric problems. It put inordinate pressure on Alan, her only sibling, to succeed. After dropping out of university programs in physics and fine arts, he took a desperate lunge at law in hopes of appeasing his crestfallen parents. "I actually hated them for over a decade because I'd become a lawyer," says Young. "In reality, I was weak. I should have just stood up for myself and said I wanted to write." He may not have liked it, but Young emerged from University of Toronto law school as a top student and clerked for former Supreme Court of Canada chief justice Bora Laskin. Then, he worked at Gold's firm but didn't much care for the practice of law. He set off for Harvard law school to obtain his LLM in hopes it would result in a teaching position, which it did. In 1986, he was hired by Osgoode Hall Law School. Around the same time, Young married a flamboyant, ex-Israeli military officer. However, at the time his life ought to have been at its most exciting, Young found himself bored and unchallenged again. Casting about for a stimulating sideline, he worked with the crime victims movement, dabbled in appellate work, and co-found- ed an Innocence Project branch at Osgoode. Simultaneously, Young cultivated a role as a go-to person for journalists seeking a colour- ful, insightful comment. He wrote regular columns in the Toronto Star and Now Magazine, covering everything from abusive polic- ing and racial profiling to sen- tencing policies. His personal politics were best summed up in the title of his 2003 book Justice Defiled: Perverts, Potheads, Serial Killers and Lawyers. Accessible, profane, and enter- taining, it described lawyers as bottom-feeders who escalate conflict rather than resolving it. Young anticipated the book would hasten his exit from law. "I called it my professional sui- cide note. I really hated the pro- fession." However, note enough people bought it to create much of a stir. A rueful Young stored 400 copies in his basement, where they still gather mildew. Young, convinced many of his fel- low law professors viewed him as a "media slut," was not keen to return to Osgoode. However, he and his wife, Rikki, had split up at around the time his book was published. Young soon remarried. He and his new wife, Laura, had a son together. Osgoode became a necessary source of income. There was truth to Young's fear that some faculty members and students dismissed him as a publicity-seeker with a somewhat sophomoric world view. However, others perceived him as inspir- ing, witty, and penetrating. "There is a feeling around the law school that he is this quirky guy," says Kendra Stanyon, a student who helped with the Bedford challenge. "But if you were lucky, you got into his first-year criminal law class. He is a very compelling speaker who had fascinating ideas and perspectives." Young considers four criteria before adopting any constitutional challenge. First, pick a winnable battle and select the right forum. Second, good facts genuinely do drive the law. Third, rest the litiga- tion on an evolving, malleable doctrine the judiciary is attempting to flesh out. Lastly, wait patiently for the emergence of a social cli- mate favourable to your cause. Chris Wattie/reuters Dominatrix Terri-Jean Bedford was one of three sex workers who challenged Canada's prostitution laws — and won.

• Cover