Reflections on Sentencing, Storytelling, and the Politics of Context
By Ricardo Lamour
I still remember the moment I was offered the internship with the Cree Nation Government, in early January 2025. It came at a time when I wasn’t sure what would be left of me by the end of my first Winter semester as a 1L student—unsure whether I’d have the energy or clarity to step directly into something so demanding. I had only a few days to accept or decline the offer. To make a long story short: I have no regrets. I consider myself lucky. Lucky to have been entrusted—not with full access, but with the tools, structure, and proximity that made it possible to engage with the lifeworld1 of an accused person. And lifeworlds are never neutral ground. One should never assume the right to fully step into someone else’s world. Rather, it’s a space one approaches with care, context, and a duty to reflect on how law intersects with personal and collective experiences.
As I write these words, my second year of law school begins tomorrow. It went by quickly. Most of my work took place remotely, but later in the internship I had the opportunity to spend time in the Montréal offices of the Cree Nation Government—walking the halls, sharing meals, and soaking in the atmosphere. This included witnessing the shift in energy before and after the Grand Council elections brought in new leadership.
I will not wear the uniform of a criminal. I demand to wear my own clothes – Hunger
Besides submitting my first Gladue Report with a distinct tight deadline, I was part of a collaborative research effort that led to the drafting of a legal memorandum exploring the potential creation of an Indigenous-led oversight and regulatory mechanism—one rooted in the Cree Nation’s lived experience but designed with national relevance for First Nations, Inuit, and Métis peoples. Guided by a hierarchy of standards drawn from international human rights law, national legislation, and Cree-specific norms, we examined how Indigenous self-governance and accountability structures could be reinforced in areas such as justice, housing, and democratic participation.
Our work incorporated Canadian legal instruments such as the UNDRIP Act, Bill C‑92, and the Supreme Court’s 2024 reference on Indigenous self-government, while also drawing from global examples like South Africa’s Equality Courts, which impose affirmative duties on the state and challenge Canada’s more reactive human rights enforcement model. These comparative insights helped us envision what a more inclusive and effective Indigenous oversight structure could look like—one that holds real enforcement power, and one shaped by Indigenous priorities rather than external timelines or limitations.
I am deeply grateful for the mentorship and camaraderie I received from my supervisor, Tim Parr, and from colleagues Aoife, Anya, Alina, and Vicky. As I begin my second year of law school, I look forward to deepening my relationship with the Department of Justice and Correctional Services in the months ahead.
I’m down on my knees and I take the foal’s head and I hold it under the water. He’s thrashing a little bit to start and so I press down harder until he’s drowned. – Bobby (Hunger)
Meeting the staff meant saying multiple hellos to Mary Alice at reception, chatting about the air conditioner, the weather, or the minor drama of a Thursday afternoon coffee run. I borrowed oversized mugs from the shared kitchen to make tea with the almond milk I brought from home. I talked with a graphic designer raising funds for environmental projects, and with a McGill Law graduate working on legal files, who offered his take on alternative pathways through the profession. These casual exchanges, as ordinary as they seemed, grounded me in the lived rhythms of the office. They reminded me that institutions are not just mandates and memos—they are made up of people, habits, and everyday gestures. That sense of place, of warmth, of being in relation, cannot be replicated on a Zoom/Teams screen.
In July, as the internship neared its end, I found myself wanting to capture something of that summer. The thought of asking for a photo crossed my mind—just something to remember the moment. That’s when a memory came back to me: a blog post I had read months earlier, while applying for this very internship. In it, Jacinthe Poisson2 recalled how, during Ban Ki‑moon’s visit to the Inter-American Court, many interns rushed to take selfies with him—even as protesters outside called attention to the invasion of Gaza and Indigenous land claims in Salitre. The contrast she described—the optics of access versus the ethics of attention—stayed with me.
That day, word had spread that the Grand Chief was in the building. The atmosphere shifted. A room filled. The moment didn’t need capturing; it needed witnessing. And I remembered: proximity doesn’t entitle you to permanence. You don’t always document presence. Sometimes, you just live inside it.
Sharing the memo that a colleague and I had worked on brought with it a nervous kind of pride. It was the result of weeks of collective research—four interns, many sources, and hours of legal and policy reflection. I was later invited to review sections of my colleagues’ memos, which touched on other areas of Indigenous realities. That trust felt weighty. I knew the work we were doing had the potential to leave a trace.
Over time, I also began to understand more fully the responsibilities carried by our supervisor—a recent McGill Law graduate whose legal insight was sharp, and whose calm, almost laconic presence had a kind of Clint Eastwood swagger to it. He bore heavy responsibilities on young shoulders, yet managed to do so with both precision and cool. His detailed feedback and long-view questions reminded me that rigour and imagination can (and must) coexist in legal work. I tried to bring that same spirit into my own writing.
Outside the office, I learned the geography of the Old Port by heart—especially the early-morning frustration of finding an empty Bixi spot. I tested out lunch places with my supervisor, sometimes suggesting new spots with mixed success (the final winner was Dispensa, an Italian grocery with solid sandwiches). I also discovered that not all jokes land—but some do well enough to earn a second smile.
These are the kinds of things that don’t show up on a Zoom call.
At one point, I made a confident comment about the greatest jail film of all time—only to be lovingly dismantled by my supervisor, who, having done a master’s in cinema, proceeded to send me a 50-title must-watch list. My colleagues nodded along with many of his picks. If the art of storytelling governs the field of law as much as it does cinema, then there’s something to learn from both the way we argue and the way we watch.
Indeed, I hadn’t watched a film (Hunger) that centered such a long, uninterrupted dialogue between a priest—draped in the garments of morality—and a detained man (Bobby Sands), whose quiet dignity left his interlocutor exposed, almost ashamed of his own reflection in the other’s gaze. The scene, stripped of sentimentality, felt like law without the courtroom: raw, principled confrontation over power, duty, and the price of resistance.
Despite the challenges that come with producing Gladue reports, they are generally accepted in courtrooms. They are recognized by judges, prosecutors, and defence lawyers alike as essential tools to fulfill the obligations of section 718.2(e) of the Criminal Code. They don’t spark editorials. They aren’t treated as political provocations.
That’s not the case with IRCAs—Impact of Race and Culture Assessments—which serve a similar function but focus on the lived impacts of systemic anti-Black racism. Developed in Nova Scotia by Robert Wright in 2014, IRCAs have since been used in multiple provinces, particularly in Ontario. But in Québec, they have yet to find stable ground. It was only in late July that Judge Magalie Lepage considered IRCA evidence in R v Paris, a case involving a Black man, and factored systemic discrimination into her sentencing decision.
The response was immediate—and telling. Québec’s minister responsible for fighting racism, himself a Black man, called the decision a “sad first.” Columnists referred to the report as “vaguely esoteric,” or suggested that sentencing now depends on whether you’re Black or white.3 The backlash revealed not just discomfort, but a deeper resistance to acknowledging how race shapes punishment.
Yet the data speaks plainly. Over a ten-year period (2010–2020), Black offenders were more likely than white offenders to be admitted to federal custody for offences with mandatory minimum penalties—53% versus 46%.4Research has consistently shown that Black accused tend to receive harsher sentences than their white counterparts.5 These disparities help explain why IRCAs are needed—not as exceptions, but as a minimum ethical baseline.
At one point, I made a confident comment about the greatest jail film of all time—only to be lovingly dismantled by my supervisor, who, having done a master’s in cinema, proceeded to send me a 50-title must-watch list. My colleagues nodded along with many of his picks. If the art of storytelling governs the field of law as much as it does cinema, then there’s something to learn from both the way we argue and the way we watch.
Indeed, I hadn’t watched a film (Hunger) that centered such a long, uninterrupted dialogue between a priest—draped in the garments of morality—and a detained man (Bobby Sands), whose quiet dignity left his interlocutor exposed, almost ashamed of his own reflection in the other’s gaze. The scene, stripped of sentimentality, felt like law without the courtroom: raw, principled confrontation over power, duty, and the price of resistance.
Despite the challenges that come with producing Gladue reports, they are generally accepted in courtrooms. They are recognized by judges, prosecutors, and defence lawyers alike as essential tools to fulfill the obligations of section 718.2(e) of the Criminal Code. They don’t spark editorials. They aren’t treated as political provocations.
That’s not the case with IRCAs—Impact of Race and Culture Assessments—which serve a similar function but focus on the lived impacts of systemic anti-Black racism. Developed in Nova Scotia by Robert Wright in 2014, IRCAs have since been used in multiple provinces, particularly in Ontario. But in Québec, they have yet to find stable ground. It was only in late July that Judge Magalie Lepage considered IRCA evidence in R v Paris, a case involving a Black man, and factored systemic discrimination into her sentencing decision.
The response was immediate—and telling. Québec’s minister responsible for fighting racism, himself a Black man, called the decision a “sad first.” Columnists referred to the report as “vaguely esoteric,” or suggested that sentencing now depends on whether you’re Black or white.6 The backlash revealed not just discomfort, but a deeper resistance to acknowledging how race shapes punishment.
Yet the data speaks plainly. Over a ten-year period (2010–2020), Black offenders were more likely than white offenders to be admitted to federal custody for offences with mandatory minimum penalties—53% versus 46%.[2] Research has consistently shown that Black accused tend to receive harsher sentences than their white counterparts.[3] These disparities help explain why IRCAs are needed—not as exceptions, but as a minimum ethical baseline.
What does it mean when one tool for contextualizing injustice—Gladue—is institutionally accepted, while another—IRCA—is met with suspicion? Both help judges understand the histories and systemic factors that shape an accused person’s path. But only one has crossed the threshold of political tolerance. The other remains on trial. One must ask: how many court decisions fail—not just judicially, but collectively—to meet any meaningful standard of equity?
Next time around I’ll be born in the countryside, guaranteed. Wildlife and stuff. Birds, ya know. Love all that. Paradise. – Bobby, in Hunger
Working with the Cree Nation Government’s Department of Justice and Correctional Services gave me an up-close view of the sentencing process—not only as a legal requirement, but as a human encounter. I conducted my interviews over the phone, speaking with the individual awaiting sentencing as well as their relatives in distinct, separate conversations. Even at a distance, the act of listening—closely, deliberately, and with care—seemed to open something.
Gladue reports are meant to provide courts with a fuller picture of a person’s background and the broader social context of their offense. But even before a report is written, something meaningful happens in the exchange itself. It’s a practice of contextualization and care, one that helps make visible what sentencing so often ignores. Yet one must ask: what would justice look like without section 718.2(e) of the Criminal Code? The answer is already visible in the system as it stands—Indigenous people overrepresented in prisons, sentenced without adequate tools to make context matter.
But acknowledging context is not without risk. The recent backlash surrounding IRCAs—particularly in Québec—should concern everyone involved in community-based justice. In R v Paris, selected excerpts of the IRCA report were leaked to the press before the full decision was even published. I visited the Longueuil courthouse around August 8th, and at that point, the written ruling was still unavailable. Yet media commentators were already dismissing the report as “esoteric,” political, or divisive. The accused’s story—shared in the hope that it would be handled with care—was weaponized in public discourse.
This raises an urgent need for those developing and defending IRCAs to build strategic alliances with Gladue writers, legal advocacy organizations, and community groups. The backlash will not disappear on its own. It requires coordinated response, public education, and above all, protections for those most vulnerable—those who speak their truth, believing it will be met with care by the courts, and not exploited by commentators seeking outrage. Defence counsel also have a responsibility: to anticipate these risks, and to safeguard clients from the unintended consequences of truth-telling in an often hostile legal-media landscape.
One could question the province’s coherence with its legal obligations under human rights law. Gladue reports, while not facing the same political hostility, are not a state favor. They exist to help judges meet their obligations. IRCAs serve the same purpose. And one must dare to wonder: how many court decisions—through the failure of judges, prosecutors, and defenders alike—have fallen short of any standard resembling equity?You stop quick enough looking around at your surroundings, figure your business is the business of the soul and all… – Fr. Thomas (Hunger)
If IRCAs are to survive and grow as tools of justice, they cannot stand alone. They must be part of a broader ecosystem of care, backed by legal strategy, media literacy, and community defence.
- The concept of lifeworld refers to the lived, subjective world of individuals and communities—their everyday experiences, values, histories, and social contexts. In legal settings, engaging with someone’s lifeworld involves more than gathering facts; it means recognizing that law operates within and across deeply personal terrains. As argued in The Lifeworlds of Law: On Revitalizing Indigenous Legal Orders Today (McGill Law Journal), the presumed neutrality of legal reasoning often erases the specificity of these lived realities. Instead, the author calls for legal actors to acknowledge the plural, situated, and relational nature of lifeworlds, particularly when working within Indigenous legal orders or contexts of systemic harm. Access to someone’s lifeworld, even in professional or institutional settings, is not a right—it is a responsibility that requires humility, reflexivity, and restraint. Available at: https://lawjournal.mcgill.ca/article/the-lifeworlds-of-law-on-revitalizing-indigenous-legal-orders-today ↩︎
- Jacinthe Poisson, “La antigua panaderia, la Sele et Ban Ki-Moon,” McGill Human Rights Internship Program Blog, August 14, 2014. https://humanrightsinterns.blogs.mcgill.ca/2014/08/14/la-antigua-panaderia-la-sele-et-ban-ki-moon/ ↩︎
- La Presse, “Une triste première, selon le gouvernement Legault” (6 August 2025), online: https://www.lapresse.ca/actualites/justice-et-faits-divers/2025-08-06/peines-adaptees-pour-criminels-racises/une-triste-premiere-selon-le-gouvernement-legault.php; La Presse, “Un rapport vaguement ésotérique” (7 August 2025), online: https://www.lapresse.ca/actualites/chroniques/2025-08-07/premiere-peine-adaptee-aux-criminels-racises/un-rapport-vaguement-esoterique.php; Journal de Montréal, “Selon que vous soyez blanc ou noir, votre peine sera plus ou moins sévère” (7 August 2025), online: https://www.journaldemontreal.com/2025/08/07/selon-que-vous-soyez-blanc-ou-noir-votre-peine-sera-plus-ou-moins-severe; CBC News, “In a First, Quebec Judge Considers Race, Culture in Sentencing” (8 August 2025), online: https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/montreal/pre-sentence-report-systemic-racism-1.7604302; ↩︎
- Department of Justice Canada, Results from the Research on Black People and the Criminal Justice System in Canada (2022), https://www.justice.gc.ca/eng/rp-pr/jr/rrbb-bbrr/results-resultats.html ↩︎
- See e.g. Owusu-Bempah & Jeffers (2022); Commission on Systemic Racism in the Ontario Criminal Justice System (1995). ↩︎