Chapter 7 of Justice Todd L. Archibald’s book “Litigation and Administrative Advocacy: The Art and Science of Persuasion” is one of those quiet but essential chapters that operates almost like a reset button. Co-authored with Brett Hughes, titled “Looking Into an Advocacy Mirror: The Parallels Between Tribunals and Courts”, the chapter doesn’t announce itself with drama or flourish. It simply walks the reader through the overlooked reality that much of what we call “advocacy” in Canada happens outside of the courtroom, in administrative tribunals that dispense an enormous volume of justice every single year. And yet, for reasons tied more to habit than logic, too many lawyers still treat tribunal hearings as something adjacent to “real” advocacy rather than central to it.
Archibald and Hughes take aim at that misconception immediately. They frame the chapter with the clear message that tribunals were designed as alternatives to courts, but not replacements in terms of seriousness or need for skill. They were meant to be more accessible, more expeditious, less procedurally clogged, but with no diminution in fairness or quality. When you remember that millions of Canadians encounter the justice system through these bodies, the idea that tribunal advocacy can be treated casually collapses under its own weight.
One of the enduring strengths of this entire book, and especially this chapter, is the continuing thread of the “reliable narrator,” a metaphor that Archibald has consistently woven into earlier chapters. That idea takes on a different texture in tribunal practice. Without the ritual and architecture of the courtroom like the robes, the dock and the elevated bench, the advocate’s personal reliability becomes even more visible, even more central. There is no procedural scaffolding to lean on. Counsel must build their own credibility brick by brick, with preparation, restraint, honesty about the weak points, and a disciplined presentation of the case. Where courts supply structure, tribunals require the advocate to create it.
The chapter’s discussion of what makes a reliable narrator is one of its richest sections. It starts from the practical perspective that preparation, plain language, comfort with the subject matter, the ability to speak plainly without condescension, and the steady awareness that the advocate is, in effect, “stage-managing” the hearing. Not in the theatrical sense, but in the sense of guiding the decision-maker through the story in a way that makes sense. The authors even draw on literary theory, invoking Nick Carraway from The Great Gatsby. It’s a thoughtful comparison. Carraway is reliable not because he is omniscient but because he is reflective and aware of his own limitations. In many ways, tribunal counsel must adopt the same humility. You cannot bully a tribunal into accepting your framing. You earn that acceptance by guiding, not pressuring.
From there the chapter moves into an equally important idea: know your tribunal. This is something seasoned litigators know instinctively in court. Judges differ, court cultures differ, regional practices differ, but the lesson becomes even sharper in administrative law. Every tribunal has its own operational norms, expectations, and informal rules that shape how hearings actually unfold. A professional discipline panel has a completely different rhythm from WSIAT. A property assessment review board has a different personality than a regulatory licensing tribunal. And many adjudicators come from outside the legal profession entirely. Merit, efficiency, domain expertise, and practical realities often matter more than formal legal argument. The chapter urges counsel to learn the particular administrative ecosystem, including the enabling statute, the institutional purpose, the culture, and even the individual adjudicator’s background, before stepping into the room.
This portion feels deeply grounded in reality. Anyone who has handled tribunal matters knows that the most avoidable missteps come from treating all tribunals like miniature courts. From my appearances before the Financial Services Commission (FSCO) on many accident benefits disputes over my years of practice, I learned that lesson the hard way. They aren’t courts, but similar animal of a different stripe and temperament. And counsel who behave as if they are often find their advocacy falling flat.
One of the chapter’s major contributions is its treatment of theme-centred advocacy. Again, this is a core principle of courtroom work to find the theme, refine it, return to it, But tribunals bring a different set of challenges. Hearings can be disjointed. They may stretch over non-consecutive days. The adjudicator may be reviewing dozens of files at once. The evidentiary record may be informal or patchy. Against those realities, the advocate’s theme becomes the gravitational centre that holds the case together. The authors give the familiar “four Ps” (protagonist, problem, plot, premise) but their point is not formulaic. It is quite simple. The decision-maker must understand what this case is about, not just what evidence it contains.
And they don’t shy away from the hard truth. You cannot build a theme by ignoring bad facts. Tribunal members are sophisticated enough to see through that. Good advocacy synthesizes the weak points into the narrative rather than pretending they don’t exist. This is one of the recurring virtues I have found in Archibald’s writing. Confront the bad stuff that is not helpful to your case head on. He insists on honesty, not merely as a moral ideal but as a persuasive technique. Decision-makers trust counsel who acknowledge rough terrain.
The chapter stresses, and with real force, the advocate’s responsibility to communicate with precision and restraint in an environment that does not offer the same procedural scaffolding as a courtroom. Tribunal members often do not have clerks, lengthy transcripts, or hours reserved for reserved judgments. They rely heavily on counsel to make the issues intelligible, the evidence navigable, and the narrative coherent. This is why Archibald and Hughes return to the fundamentals of language, the need for plain English, the active voice, short sentences, and the honest, unembellished presentation of both the good facts and the difficult ones. In tribunals, where hearings can drift without disciplined framing, clarity becomes the advocate’s primary duty. When counsel strips away jargon and theatricality and speaks plainly with a steady hand and a coherent theme, they give the decision-maker something essential. That is a structure capable of supporting a fair and reasoned outcome.
The chapter’s guidance on openings is especially practical. Archibald and Hughes emphasize that an effective opening in a tribunal setting is not a recitation of every fact but an exercise in orientation. Tribunal members, often dealing with large caseloads and less formal evidentiary structures, benefit from an advocate who can give them a clear frame at the outset, namely the controlling theme, the central issues, and the narrative arc that will organize what follows. The authors stress point-first communication and the need to present conclusions in a way that equips the adjudicator to absorb the evidence efficiently. The opening becomes a roadmap, not theatrical, not argumentative, but measured and structured, signalling that counsel has distilled the case to its essentials and will guide the tribunal through it with discipline and clarity.
The chapter’s treatment of civility is worth highlighting because it is refreshingly free of moralizing. Archibald and Hughes don’t wag fingers. Their point is practical, that uncivil counsel are less persuasive. They derail hearings. They irritate adjudicators. They appear less trustworthy. Tribunal practice, which often operates under time pressure, depends heavily on cooperation. The uncivil advocate not only draws suspicion but wastes the tribunal’s limited resources. Civility, in this chapter, is not about politeness. It is about professionalism tied directly to persuasion.
Later, the chapter turns to the pre-hearing process. This is one of its strongest and most realistic sections. The authors point out that tribunal hearings often succeed or fail long before anyone enters the hearing room. Agreed facts, will-says, document narrowing, realistic time estimates, sensible scheduling, these steps not only respect the tribunal’s role but also shape the entire narrative of the case. A bloated record or chaotic evidentiary plan signals lack of preparation. A lean, organized pre-hearing process signals clarity, professionalism, and again, reliability.
The final section, on rules of evidence, is a necessary corrective. Too many counsel believe the relaxed rules in tribunals mean that anything can be admitted. In reality, relevance and fairness still govern. Admitting everything and “letting it go to weight” is not good advocacy. It is abdication. Tribunal members may not be bound by the strict rules of court, but they still rely on counsel to construct a record that makes sense. The chapter reminds us that some tribunals actually apply the full rules of evidence, and even those that don’t expect counsel to exercise judgement. The good advocate protects the record instead of cluttering it.
What stands out most after reading Chapter 7 is how deeply grounded it is in lived experience. It does not romanticize tribunal advocacy. It does not inflate its complexity or diminish its importance. It treats it as a core part of the advocate’s role, deserving the same care, the same discipline, and the same intellectual integrity we associate with trial work. And it closes implicitly, not explicitly, with a challenge. If tribunals are where most people experience justice, then the advocate who treats them with anything less than full seriousness is failing not just the client but the system itself.
This chapter is one of the clearest distillations of what good advocacy looks like outside of court. Not glamorous. Not theatrical. Just principled, prepared, disciplined. And humane.
A fitting contribution to a book that is already rich with them.