Jason Jones, Section 6 and the Constitutional Future of Trinidad and Tobago

 

The Jason Jones appeal is about much more than the criminalisation of private, consensual sexual activity between adults of the same sex.

It exposes a deeper constitutional problem:

Should laws inherited from a colonial and morally different era remain protected from modern constitutional rights simply because they are old?

The Judicial Committee of the Privy Council heard the appeal on 8 July 2026. Judgment is awaited.[1] The immediate dispute concerns sections 13 and 16 of the Sexual Offences Act 1986.[2] The more important systems question concerns section 6 of the Constitution.

My conclusion is straightforward.

Section 6(2) does not have to remain an indefinite constitutional life-support machine for outdated laws. It can be narrowed by the courts. It can be rewritten or repealed by Parliament. Ultimately, Parliament can rewrite the Constitution itself, just as Parliament did in 1976.

The real obstacle is not legal power. It is political will.

1. Jason Jones and the problem with section 6(2)

Jason Jones challenged sections 13 and 16 of the Sexual Offences Act 1986. The provisions criminalise conduct which, when it takes place privately between consenting same-sex adults, directly engages constitutional rights to equality, protection of the law, privacy and family life, and freedom of thought and expression.[3]

In 2018, Rampersad J held that the provisions were unconstitutional and granted constitutional relief.[4] In 2025, the Court of Appeal, by a majority, allowed the Attorney General’s appeal in part.[5]

The difficulty was section 6.

Section 6 is a savings law provision. It protects certain laws which existed before the 1976 Constitution from being invalidated for inconsistency with the fundamental rights in sections 4 and 5.

Section 6(2) goes further. Where a later enactment “repeals and re-enacts with modifications” an existing law, and the later law infringes rights more severely than the old law, the Constitution may require the old provisions to be substituted for the additional infringement.

The result in the Court of Appeal demonstrates the problem vividly.

The Court reduced the maximum punishment for buggery from 25 years to the old five-year penalty and reinstated the former colonial offence of gross indecency between men in place of parts of section 16.[6]

In simple terms:

The modern law created a constitutional problem, so the legal system reached backwards and revived the older law.

That is the central difficulty in the case.

The Attorney General argues that the basic offences existed before the Constitution and that the 1986 Act merely re-enacted them with modifications. The protected historical core therefore survives.

Jones, represented by Anand Ramlogan SC and his legal team, argues that this is legally wrong.

The 1986 legislation expressly described its purpose as to “repeal and replace” the old sexual offences laws. Parliament undertook a comprehensive reconsideration of sexual offences. The parliamentary debates expressly referred to updating the law to reflect contemporary “moral and social thinking”.[7]

The 1986 Act changed:

• the structure of the offences;
• the categories of persons affected;
• definitions;
• penalties;
• exemptions;
• age provisions; and
• the relationship between different forms of sexual conduct.

That looks much more like legislative reform than the re-enactment of an old law with limited modifications.

There is also an important textual argument.

Section 6(3) defines “alters” broadly. It includes:

• repealing and re-enacting with modifications;
• making different provisions in place of an old law; and
• modifying the law.[8]

But section 6(2) uses the narrower expression “repeals and re-enacts with modifications”.

The distinction must mean something.

All re-enactments with modifications may be alterations. But not every alteration is a re-enactment with modifications.

If Parliament creates different provisions in place of an old law, it should not automatically inherit the old law’s constitutional immunity merely because the legislation concerns similar subject matter.

That is where the long-term importance of the case lies.

Constitutional rights are generally interpreted generously and in the light of contemporary conditions.[9] The Privy Council has, however, held that the meaning of an existing-law savings clause does not itself evolve under the “living tree” principle.[10]

That makes a direct judicial attack on section 6 itself difficult.

But it does not require the courts to interpret section 6 expansively.

The better rule is this:

A savings clause may protect a historical legislative decision. It should not give hereditary constitutional immunity to every later Parliament which legislates on the same subject.

Constitutional immunity should not be hereditary.

2. How section 6(2) can be removed or whittled down with legal force

There are two serious routes.

The first is judicial interpretation.

The second is constitutional amendment.

The judicial route

The courts could interpret section 6(2) strictly and narrowly.

The principle should be:

Once Parliament genuinely reconsiders an area of law, repeals the old regime and creates a new legislative scheme, the new law must satisfy the modern Constitution.

The protection would operate in one direction only:

Old law
↓
Temporarily protected
↓
Parliament genuinely reconsiders and replaces it
↓
Constitutional immunity ends
↓
The new law must satisfy modern constitutional rights

This would create a constitutional one-way ratchet.

Once legislation leaves the savings regime, it cannot return.

That approach would not abolish section 6. It would preserve its historical function while preventing constitutional immunity from passing indefinitely from one generation of legislation to another.

There is respectable authority for treating savings clauses narrowly and refusing to extend them beyond their precise language.[11]

The effect would be gradual but significant. As Parliament modernised legislation, the stock of protected colonial law would naturally shrink.

The parliamentary route

The cleaner and more decisive solution is formal constitutional amendment.

Section 54(1) expressly provides that Parliament may alter any provision of the Constitution.[12]

Section 54(6) defines alteration broadly. It includes:

• repeal, with or without re-enactment;
• making different provisions in place of an existing provision;
• modification; and
• suspension.

Section 6 falls within sections 4 to 14. A Bill altering it therefore requires the support, at the final vote, of not less than two-thirds of all members of each House.[13]

Parliament could therefore legally:

1. repeal section 6(2);
2. rewrite the whole savings law regime;
3. impose an expiry date on saved-law protection;
4. make all saved laws subject to modern constitutional rights review;
5. require a comprehensive parliamentary review of every remaining saved law; or
6. preserve temporary protection only where immediate invalidation would cause genuine legal disorder.

A reform provision could state:

No law shall be immune from review for consistency with the fundamental rights and freedoms guaranteed by this Constitution merely because that law, or an earlier law concerning the same subject matter, was in force before the commencement of this Constitution.

That would deal with the problem directly.

There would, however, need to be transitional arrangements.

A badly designed repeal could create uncertainty in areas well beyond sexual offences. Parliament could therefore allow a fixed review period, preserve final judgments and completed proceedings, and require all remaining saved laws to be examined within a defined period.

The choice is not between permanent constitutional immunity and overnight legal chaos.

A modern legal system is capable of managing transition.

3. Why Parliament can rewrite the Constitution for modern life

This brings me to the irony which I have commented on for years.

The Constitution is itself an Act of Parliament.

The governing instrument is the Constitution of the Republic of Trinidad and Tobago Act 1976.[14]

The 1976 Parliament used the amendment machinery in the former Constitution. The Act itself records that the required special majorities had been obtained. It then repealed the former Constitution, revoked the 1962 constitutional Order in Council and brought the new Constitution into force as the supreme law of the State.[15]

That is not theory.

It already happened.

In 1976, Parliament had sufficient constitutional power to:

• end the former constitutional settlement;
• establish the Republic;
• replace the former Constitution;
• create the office of President; and
• enact a new supreme law.

The present Constitution retains the same basic principle.

Section 54 says Parliament may alter any constitutional provision. Changes to section 6 require the two-thirds majority described above. Changes to section 54 itself and other specially entrenched provisions require the higher threshold of three-quarters of all members of the House of Representatives and two-thirds of all members of the Senate.[16]

The Constitution therefore distinguishes between ordinary legislative power and constituent power.

An ordinary parliamentary majority cannot simply ignore the Constitution.

But Parliament acting with the constitutionally required supermajorities can exercise a much deeper power: the power to alter the constitutional settlement itself.

That is the key point.

The Constitution is supreme, but it is not immutable.

It was written by human beings responding to the political, legal and social conditions of their time. It contains procedures by which later generations may reconsider that settlement.

The supermajorities exist for good reason. Fundamental constitutional change should require broad political agreement. A government with a narrow temporary majority should not be able to redesign the State at will.

But difficulty is not impossibility.

The real barrier is political.

It is easier for governments to leave outdated laws in place and force individual citizens to spend years litigating them than to build the coalition required for constitutional reform.

That is the deeper lesson from Jason Jones.

The immediate question is whether sections 13 and 16 of the Sexual Offences Act survive.

The larger question is whether section 6 should continue allowing the social and moral judgments of an earlier colonial era to control the rights of citizens indefinitely.

The systems question is larger still:

If parts of the constitutional machinery no longer serve modern society properly, why not use the constitutional power which already exists to redesign that machinery?

Trinidad and Tobago did exactly that in 1976.

It can do it again.

A Constitution should provide a durable framework within which a living society can function. It should protect rights, democratic government and legal certainty.

It should not become a legal freezer in which the prejudices of the past are preserved indefinitely simply because they are old.

Footnotes

[1] The Attorney General of Trinidad and Tobago and others v Jason Jones JCPC/2025/0095, hearing 8 July 2026.

[2] Sexual Offences Act 1986 (Trinidad and Tobago), ss 13 and 16.

[3] Constitution of the Republic of Trinidad and Tobago 1976, ss 4(b), 4(c), 4(i), 5, 6 and 13.

[4] Jason Jones v Attorney General of Trinidad and Tobago CV 2017-00720 (High Court of Trinidad and Tobago, 12 April 2018); order of 20 September 2018.

[5] Attorney General of Trinidad and Tobago v Jason Jones CA Civ P 337/2018 (Court of Appeal of Trinidad and Tobago, 25 March 2025).

[6] ibid, order of 25 March 2025.

[7] Sexual Offences Act 1986, long title; Trinidad and Tobago, House of Representatives Debates, 21 February 1986, 933–34.

[8] Constitution of the Republic of Trinidad and Tobago 1976, s 6(3).

[9] Minister of Home Affairs v Fisher [1980] AC 319 (PC) 328–29; Boyce v The Queen [2004] UKPC 32, [2005] 1 AC 400 [28].

[10] Chandler v State (No 2) [2022] UKPC 19, [2023] AC 285 [96]–[98].

[11] R v Hughes [2002] UKPC 12, [2002] 2 AC 259 [35]; Watson v The Queen [2004] UKPC 34, [2005] 1 AC 472 [46]–[47]; Miguel v State [2011] UKPC 14, [2012] AC 361 [53]–[62]; Suraj v Attorney General of Trinidad and Tobago [2022] UKPC 26, [2023] AC 337 [110]–[112].

[12] Constitution of the Republic of Trinidad and Tobago 1976, s 54(1).

[13] ibid ss 54(2)(a), 54(6).

[14] Constitution of the Republic of Trinidad and Tobago Act 1976, Act No 4 of 1976.

[15] ibid preamble, ss 3 and 22; Constitution of Trinidad and Tobago 1962, s 38.

[16] Constitution of the Republic of Trinidad and Tobago 1976, s 54(3).

The Real Issue Isn’t “Cuffing Down”—It’s Power, Bullying and Context

The national debate over whether the Prime Minister’s remark—“I’ll cuff you down”—was inappropriate is being distorted by selective outrage and a complete refusal to consider context.

Let us start with the facts. Kamla Persad-Bissessar is a 72-year-old woman. Colm Imbert is a physically able, seasoned political operator with a long and publicly recorded reputation for aggressive parliamentary behaviour. To pretend these two individuals meet each other as equal physical threats is intellectually dishonest.

Was her comment the height of parliamentary decorum? Of course not. But focusing solely on her words while ignoring Imbert’s provoking conduct—jabbing his finger, taunting “why not?”, and escalating what was already a hostile exchange—amounts to erasing the underlying power dynamic. The instigator suddenly becomes the victim, and the person reacting becomes the offender.

It is also remarkable that the PNM Women’s League, normally quick to invoke women’s empowerment, chose to defend the male aggressor rather than acknowledge that pointing in someone’s face, especially at close range, is itself a threatening gesture. Their statement reframes intimidation as innocence and self-defence as violence. That is not feminism; it is political convenience.

None of this excuses deteriorating parliamentary standards. But if we are serious about civility, then we must condemn the entire chain of conduct—not only the final remark spoken by the older woman, but also the behaviour of the man who provoked her and has a track record of berating colleagues publicly.

The integrity of parliamentary debate cannot be restored by chastising only the weaker party in the exchange. Civility is not maintained by punishing the reaction while ignoring the provocation.

If the country wants higher standards from its leaders, then it must demand them consistently—not only when the person raising her voice is a 72-year-old woman standing up to a known bully.

The Cult of Complaint: Daly, LATT, and Bisram vs the Constitution

 

There are moments in public life when the law works exactly as written—swiftly, cleanly, and without scandal—and yet commentators still feel cheated of their outrage.
The appointment of Chief Justice Ronnie Boodoosingh is one such moment.

Faced with a sudden vacancy created by Chief Justice Ivor Archie’s retirement, Acting President Wade Mark followed the Constitution to the letter.
He consulted the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition, exercised the discretion vested in his office by section 102 of the Constitution, and appointed the most respected jurist on the Court of Appeal.
The Judiciary avoided paralysis.
The Republic moved on.
And yet—like a Greek chorus of professional dissent—Martin Daly SC, the Law Association of Trinidad and Tobago (LATT), and Dr Vishnu Bisram have all rushed to announce that something must be wrong precisely because nothing went wrong.

Daly: nostalgia dressed as critique

Mr Daly, once a formidable constitutional voice, now mistakes efficiency for impropriety.
He concedes that Justice Boodoosingh is worthy, then insists the process was “botched” because it happened quickly.
But the Constitution imposes no timetable.
“Consultation” means exactly what it says—an exchange of views, not a seminar series.
The Privy Council in Re Application by the President of Trinidad and Tobago (1988) 39 WIR 409 confirmed that consultation requires listening, not obedience.
To invent new steps is to rewrite the Constitution by op-ed.

Daly’s lament about who attended the swearing-in ceremony—ministers, defence chiefs, perhaps a stray trumpet—reveals more about his appetite for theatre than about constitutional law.
The Judiciary’s independence does not evaporate because a soldier saluted at the ceremony.
Daly calls this “disturbing.”
Most citizens would call it orderly.

LATT: principle without precision

Not to be outdone, the Law Association produced a statement long on adjectives and short on law.
It declared it “cannot conclude that a reasonable process of consultation was done,” which is a polite way of saying “we have no evidence of wrongdoing, but we’re suspicious anyway.”
The Association then announced that the President must present names, reasons, and ample time for reflection.
Nowhere does the Constitution say any such thing.
These are administrative-law notions dressed up as constitutional duties.
The President’s obligation is procedural, not deliberative: to consult the two political leaders and then decide.
Confidentiality is not conspiracy; it is constitutional prudence.

The LATT’s attempt to expand the meaning of consultation beyond recognition does not safeguard transparency—it undermines executive certainty.
The country cannot afford a system where every constitutional act requires a town-hall meeting and a press release.

Bisram: agreement followed by protest

Enter Dr Vishnu Bisram, whose letter manages the impressive feat of disproving itself.
After conducting his own “consultations” with lawyers, judges, MPs, and civil society, he reports that Justice Boodoosingh was the overwhelming choice of the legal fraternity and the public.
He calls him apolitical, scholarly, hardworking, and “an excellent jurist.”
Then—without pause—he demands constitutional reform because the process that produced this near-perfect outcome was allegedly insufficiently transparent.

This is reasoning worthy of farce: we got exactly the right result, therefore the process must change.
Dr Bisram’s proposal to involve “civil society” in judicial appointments sounds noble until one asks which civil society and by what metric.
Judges are not elected; their legitimacy derives from independence, not applause.
To invite lobbying into the process would politicise the bench beyond repair.

The law versus the performance

What unites Daly, the LATT, and Bisram is not principle but performance—the conviction that every constitutional act must be wrapped in spectacle to be legitimate.
They confuse transparency with theatrics and consultation with consensus.
But the Constitution of Trinidad and Tobago is built on deliberate separation of functions: the President appoints; the Prime Minister and Opposition Leader are consulted; the Judiciary remains independent.
No amount of editorial hand-wringing alters that structure.

The truth is disarmingly simple.
Justice Ronnie Boodoosingh was the most qualified and broadly respected candidate.
He was appointed swiftly, lawfully, and with sufficient consultation under the Constitution.
Those who insist otherwise are not defending democracy; they are demanding drama.

If every lawful act must now be padded with delay, debate, and “civil-society engagement,” we will soon have governance by perpetual symposium.
The Republic does not need that.
It needs public officers who read the Constitution before rewriting it in the press.

The Judiciary has a new Chief Justice, and the Constitution was followed.
The rest is a chorus of self-importance—off-key, off-text, and out of time.

Who is Paying Roger Alexander’s Legal Bills?

The recent clash between Homeland Security Minister Roger Alexander and prison supervisor Garth Guada raises a question bigger than the personal reputations of either man: who is footing the bill for Alexander’s high-powered legal defence?

The backdrop

Alexander’s legal team, led by Senior Counsel Anand Ramlogan, has denied allegations that he improperly met with gang leaders while serving as a police officer. They have also rejected claims that his actions were motivated by vendettas or bias. These are serious allegations, but they mostly concern Alexander’s conduct before he entered politics, while he was still in the Trinidad and Tobago Police Service.

Why this matters

When a sitting minister hires some of the most expensive lawyers in the country, the public has a right to ask: is this coming out of his pocket, his political party’s pocket, or ours?

• If he is paying personally – fair enough. A minister, like anyone else, has the right to defend his reputation.

• If his political party or donors are paying – that raises questions of political influence, but at least taxpayers are not carrying the cost.

• If the State is paying – that is deeply problematic. Taxpayer money should never be used to defend allegations of personal misconduct that occurred before someone entered government.

The principle at stake

Public funds can be used to defend ministers only if:

1. The allegations arise directly from the lawful exercise of official ministerial duties;

2. The defence is necessary to protect the integrity of the office itself; and

3. The alleged acts were within the scope of authority.

That is clearly not the case here. Meetings with gang figures, alleged misuse of police intelligence, or personal vendettas are not “ministerial duties.”

A risk of abuse

If it turns out that Alexander’s legal bills are being covered by the government, that would amount to an improper use of public money. It would:

• Divert funds from public service to defend private reputation;

• Create a conflict of interest, since Alexander is now part of the government that would be funding him;

• Undermine accountability, shielding ministers from the consequences of their personal actions.

The public deserves clarity

The question is simple: Who is paying? Until Alexander or the government answers, suspicion will remain. If taxpayers are footing the bill, the matter goes beyond politics—it becomes an issue of legality, accountability, and the misuse of public funds.

Conclusion

Alexander is entitled to a legal defence. What he is not entitled to is a taxpayer-funded shield for personal actions taken before he became a minister. The public deserves transparency. Anything less is an abuse of trust.

Medical Negligence in T&T – Let’s Get the Law Right Before We Reform It

 

In the wake of the tragic death of young Jasher, emotions are understandably running high. The calls for reform of Trinidad and Tobago’s healthcare system are urgent and sincere. But if we are to achieve lasting change, our public conversation must be grounded in correct legal principles. Unfortunately, too many public statements – even by lawyers – muddle the law on medical negligence, vicarious liability, and accountability.

First, the Bolam test is not “the” standard for all medical negligence issues (cited by Pavitra Ramharack, head of chambers at Pavitra Ramharack Attorneys at Law in the Trinidad Guardian). Established in the 1957 English case Bolam v Friern Hospital Management Committee, it applies to clinical judgment and technique – diagnosis, treatment, and similar professional decisions – but it is not absolute. The Bolitho decision in 1997 refined Bolam, making clear that even if a body of medical opinion supports a doctor’s conduct, the court must be satisfied that opinion is logically defensible. In short, Bolam is not a blank cheque for the medical profession.

Second, when it comes to patient consent and risk disclosure, the United Kingdom Supreme Court in Montgomery v Lanarkshire Health Board (2015) replaced Bolam with a patient-centred test. A doctor must take reasonable care to ensure the patient is aware of any material risks and reasonable alternatives. Whether Trinidad and Tobago’s appellate courts have expressly adopted Montgomery is still to be determined, but it is wrong to write as though Bolam governs consent everywhere.

Third, the notion that “public sector doctors are protected by contracts” and therefore cannot be sued is legally incorrect. The Regional Health Authorities (RHAs) are statutory corporations and are routinely sued for medical negligence. They are vicariously liable for their staff. In some cases, doctors and other clinicians are named as individual defendants alongside the RHA. There is no legal blanket immunity simply because someone works for the public health service.

Fourth, the suggestion that healthcare workers should bear “some contributory negligence” for adverse outcomes misuses the term. In law, “contributory negligence” refers to the claimant’s own fault, which can reduce damages. The proper mechanism for sharing liability between defendants is “contribution” under the relevant statutes. Whether a clinician personally pays any damages depends on contribution orders and indemnity arrangements, not on a layperson’s redefinition of contributory negligence.

Fifth, public sector negligence claims already follow the principle of suing the body with primary liability – usually the RHA – and the courts have repeatedly confirmed this. What we lack is not a legal pathway for accountability, but an operational culture that enforces high standards across both public and private healthcare.

Finally, while it is tempting to speculate that “a few extra minutes” with a patient would have changed the outcome, in court such statements are meaningless without expert evidence. To succeed in a medical negligence case, one must prove breach of duty – judged by Bolam/Bolitho or Montgomery – and causation linking that breach to the harm. This requires admissible, qualified expert opinion, not post-hoc assumptions.

Public accountability in healthcare is achieved by naming and suing the correct defendants, holding professionals to the correct legal standard, and reforming systems to address repeated failures. Misstating the law does not help the cause of justice for Jasher or for the next potential victim.

If reform is truly the goal, it should be based on accurate understanding:

• Clinical judgment is assessed under Bolam/Bolitho.
• Consent and risk disclosure (in England and Wales) are assessed under Montgomery; T&T’s position is not definitively settled.
• RHAs are suable and vicariously liable; doctors can also be named.
• Apportionment between defendants is by contribution, not contributory negligence.
• Evidence, not speculation, wins negligence claims.

Getting the law right is the first step toward getting healthcare right. Reform based on flawed legal premises will fail. Reform based on precision and truth can save lives.

Citations

• Bolam v Friern Hospital Management Committee [1957] 1 WLR 582
• Bolitho v City and Hackney HA [1998] AC 232
• Montgomery v Lanarkshire Health Board [2015] UKSC 11
• NWRHA v Cheryl Miller (TT 2021 CA 33)
• Bevon Dollard v North Central RHA (TT 2019 HC 288)
• Kellman v Dowes & NCRHA
• State Liability and Proceedings Act (T&T)
• Singh-Weekes v South-West RHA [2025] UKPC 10