1. The Weakest Link Truism

On May 31, 2012, shortly after the former research assistant “reached out to the police,” they left a voicemail for Bruckert (who had hired, trained, and mentored them when they were a University of Ottawa student), indicating their confidence that together they could “help the police with their investigation” (C. Bruckert, personal communication, 2012). That voicemail sent Bruckert spinning (and leaving messages pleading for assistance on answering machines across the University of Ottawa campus). Her hope that the police would not be interested in an interview conducted almost five years previously—four years before the victim, Lin Jun, was even in the country—were soon dashed. Within the hour, Bruckert received a call from Detective Guy Gélinas of the SPVM (Service de police de la Ville de Montréal) who advised her that he would be securing the necessary warrant to seize the “Jimmy” interview. Bruckert’s rather frantic efforts to explain that she simply did not know whether she had done an interview with Magnotta was firmly rebuffed—apparently the research assistant had provided compelling enough information to convince the police of the interview’s existence and relevance.

Clearly, the first lesson is that confidentiality is only as solid as the weakest link. The research team’s careful protocols (e.g., rigorous anonymization, oral consent, honorariums signed with a pseudonym, the deletion of all potentially identifiable information such as email addresses) were for naught; all it took was one team member to remember the participant and his pseudonym and reach out to police despite their ethics training. The potential that one member of a research team could jeopardize the ability of all team members to honour their confidentiality commitments resonated with the Canadian researchers we spoke with. One of our key informants explained: “I’m really concerned about this [protecting research participant confidentiality], in part, because of Chris Bruckert’s experience. Researchers not really being able to have a lot of control over what people do after the process. As many times as you can have conversations about the importance of confidentiality, you don’t know what other people are going to do.”

This lesson is not specific to the Parent and Bruckert case, of course. One key-informant researcher described an experience that speaks to the same issue. During a community-based research project, a research assistant—who had been entrusted with rigorously de-identifying data—failed to adequately do so. When the narratives were brought back to the community for discussion, community members were able to identify participants. The researcher noted:

In short, there are potential risks when one’s program of research begins to expand, and aspects of data collection or analysis start to be delegated. In the context of a team, those organizing and/or conducting interviews are in many ways the individuals in the confidentiality chain who have the most information (e.g., they have met and may have corresponded with the participants). They may also know the pseudonyms. Indeed, there is another lesson to be learned here in relation to pseudonyms (and the potential risk when participants select their own pseudonym). Had Magnotta not chosen Jimmy (his sex work alias) it is unlikely that the research assistant would have been able to identify which transcript was Magnotta’s (see also Palys and McAlister Reference Palys and MacAlister2016).

2. We Do Not Know What the Future Holds

Critical qualitative sociolegal studies researchers and criminologists (amongst others) routinely find themselves navigating stigmatic assumptions and sensationalized perceptions by Research Ethics Board (REB) officers who demand, for example, that researchers simplify their language (presumably prisoners and drug users cannot understand “big” words) and develop detailed safety protocols. One key informant—who was well situated, knew the participants, and whose project collected information on prisoners’ often-mundane day-to-day activities—found their REB holding up their project: “Anything that is like quote, unquote, crime, is a red flag within the university. They had a lot of questions, that it was like a high-risk project […]. There was a lot of resistance. I think in a weird way, they were scared for my safety. And I’m like, yeah, no.” Another researcher noted a similar problem:

As the researcher quoted above alludes to, we simply do not know what the future holds—for ourselves or our participants. One of the survey respondents spoke to this when they wrote: “Learning about Bruckert’s experiences reminded me of the real possibility of being asked to break confidentiality and the importance of having a plan in place.” However, in the context of stigma-driven REB decisions it is important to note that sex work was completely extraneous to the Parent c R case—Magnotta’s crime was unrelated to how he earned his living. In fact, this was noted by Justice Bourque, who presided over the case, when she rejected the Crown’s assertion that Magnotta’s past as a sex worker had relevance:

Put another way, it is equally (un)likely that a nurse, a plumber, or an executive interviewed about their work would later come to the attention to law enforcement. It is also unlikely but nonetheless possible that our “banal” research may suddenly become hot. Here, the classic (albeit American) example is the experience of Mario Brajuha, whose ethnographic field notes were subpoenaed when the restaurant he was studying burned down under suspicious circumstances (Brajuha and Hallowell Reference Brajuha and Hallowell1986).Footnote ⁵ In short, then, “the impossible is possible” cliché resonates at the same time as we must guard against assumptions of elevated risk based on the presumed deviance of specific research populations or sites.

3. Beware of REB Defaults

The May 31, 2012, phone call from Detective Gélinas of the SPVM pushed Bruckert to examine her unquestioning acceptance of REB defaults, including the preservation of the raw data following the completion of data collection. The University of Ottawa ethics application at the time indicated that, “generally, data should be conserved for a period of 5 to 10 years after time of publications” (University of Ottawa 2004, n.p.; emphasis added). The language has since changed to allow researchers to determine a timeframe, asking them to indicate “how long it [data] will be conserved” (University of Ottawa 2020, n.p.). In fact, while data preservation is reasonable for large quantitative studies where anonymized data can be aggregated (and therefore shared) it makes little sense for qualitative projects—after all, we can never share our interviews or field notes without breaching the very ethics protocols we are committing to in our REB applications. Nonetheless, Bruckert had unthinkingly indicated a five-year conservation period; in real terms, this meant the interview was still available to be seized.

We see the importance of perpetual vigilance to avoid inadvertently opening the door for a confidentiality breach in other REB defaults as well. For example, some university template consent forms specify that confidentiality will be preserved within the limits of the law, or that “all data will be kept confidential, unless release is required by law” (Carleton University 2020, n.p.). Reproducing this phrase—essentially promising only partial confidentiality—could seriously compromise a researcher’s ability to protect confidentiality should records be seized or subpoenaed (Palys and Lowman Reference Palys and Lowman2000). During our interviews, several key informants noted this concern. One researcher, then a doctoral student, challenged their university’s template consent form because of Parent and Bruckert’s experience and the fear of not meeting the Wigmore criteria. The researcher noted: “I wanted to remove the thing from their standard consent form saying that I would maintain confidentiality up until the limits of the law. It was on all their forms. I changed it to say I would maintain confidentiality up until the highest standards of ethics in my field. I removed the law component and we had to go back and forth a little bit. But ultimately, they agreed with me.”

The quotation above alerts us to the need for researchers to be proactive and persistent—something that can be daunting for a new hire or a graduate student. There is little doubt that, at the institutional level, research ethics offices and boards are principally concerned with liability and protecting the university (Onyemelukwe and Downie Reference Onyemelukwe and Downie2011; Haggerty Reference Haggerty2004; van den Hoonaard Reference van den Hoonaard2001). Haggerty (Reference Haggerty2004) called the establishment of these prescribed codes “ethics creep,” an institutional process not particularly concerned with ethical issues arising through research but focused on the mitigation of risks (to the institution). That said, and contrary to the assumption of many of our colleagues and students, research ethics offices and boards are not necessarily peopled with autocratic and rigid gatekeepers. Rather, they can be comprised of individuals deeply committed to ethical research practices who are trying to navigate competing and sometimes conflicting interests.

Indeed, when we asked our survey respondents how accurate it was to state that their REB had been supportive in ensuring they could implement the protocols necessary to protect participant confidentiality, over half (53%) indicated “very accurate” or “accurate,” while only ten (16.6%) said “not accurate”; 70% of respondents stated that they have never had to make compromises with their REB that would undermine the confidentiality of their research. It would appear that, notwithstanding the general shift to actuarialism, REBs are often open to discussion and revisions if presented with a compelling ethics-first argument (McClelland has found liberally citing the TCPS in any argumentation or rationale to be fruitful). Ironically, it was the University of Ottawa Research Ethics Office who advised Bruckert that the five-year conservation period was not mandatory—albeit only after the police had seized the confidential research data. A more reflexive and proactive approach by Bruckert would have averted the case ever becoming a case.

4. When Sh*t Hits the Fan, There Is Little Practical Institutional Guidance on What to Do

One would assume, given the existence of the Interagency Advisory Panel on Research Ethics (the Tri-Council), offices of Research Ethics and REBs in every Canadian university, and the requirement that researchers articulate (usually in excruciating detail) how they will protect confidentiality prior to being authorized to undertake their research, that there would be a protocol in place when said confidentiality is threatened. Alas, that was not Bruckert’s experience. In fact, while the director of the Research Office and Chair of the Research Ethics Board were certainly engaged and eager to be of assistance, there was a deafening silence emanating from the Office of the Vice-President Research. Bruckert’s union, the Association of Professors of the University of Ottawa (APUO), was initially even less helpful—they advised her that she could “make a representation to the court” that she had promised confidentiality; however, if ordered, she would, “be legally required to abide by the Court’s order,” adding, “at the very least, your objection would be on the record” (C. Bruckert, personal correspondence, 2012; emphasis added). In short, no advice or bad advice.

In the absence of a protocol or even (ethical) guidance, Bruckert felt much like the proverbial headless chicken. Panicking that all her data might be seized by law enforcement and unaware of what actions to take, she made endless phone calls, sent myriad emails, conspired with a trusted colleague to impede access to her office, scoped the countryside for good hiding places to conceal data, consulted with sex working friends about data security, repeatedly overwrote her hard drive, and gave serious consideration to burning digital recorders that might hold ‘ghost’ interviews.Footnote ⁶ Fortunately for Bruckert, knowledgeable professors at other institutions stepped into the breach—notably, John Lowman and Ted Palys (both from SFU) and Russel Ogden (then at Kwantlin Polytechnic University). Indeed, the three scholars provided invaluable advice and assistance throughout the process, including submitting an affidavit (Lowman) and academic activism with the Tri-Council (Palys). They also contacted Jim Turk, then president of the Canadian Association of University Teachers (CAUT). It was Turk who took immediate action, including hiring Peter Jacobsen, LLB, to take on the case and represent Parent and Bruckert.

Again, Bruckert’s experience is not unique. One of our key informants described a research team error that resulted in a confidentiality breach. The researcher explained, however, that their REB provided no guidance on how to solve or resolve the issue:

5. Do Not Let the Raw Data Out of Your Control (or At Least Make Sure It Is Unusable)

On June 14, 2021, at the urging of Jacobsen, Parent and Bruckert sent the “Jimmy” recording and transcript to his law firm for safekeeping—they signed a retainer (with CAUT committing itself to covering the fees if the University of Ottawa refused to do so) that specifically stated, “We have been retained to provide advice and oppose and set aside any warrants that will require you to produce the documents” (Jacobsen Reference Jacobsen2012). Shockingly, just one week later, on June 21, 2021, police executed search warrant 500-26-071828-127 at the Toronto offices of Bersenas Jacobsen Chouest Thomson Blackburn LLP and the audio tape and transcript were seized (or, to be more specific, they were sealed and turned over to the courts; Québec Superior Court, 2012). The seizure of the documents reduced options for the researchers—no longer was it possible to refuse to hand over the documents or to destroy them and face the consequences—the only choice remaining was to fight to keep the documents sealed and out of the hands of law enforcement. The lesson here is clear and unequivocal: once the documents are out of your control, your ability to protect your participants’ confidentiality is critically compromised. The importance of retaining control of the data also highlights the imperative of ensuring data cannot be accessed through other means such as university or commercial cloud servers.

There is another implicit lesson here as well—the importance of ensuring there is nothing identifiable to seize. Mindful of this, researchers told us they make sure their data is thoroughly anonymized and that they promptly delete raw data. One researcher explained that they do not collect any names or personal information during field work and strip any identifying information from transcripts as soon as possible, noting: “In the extreme case that there was some kind of a mandate where transcripts or other aspects of the data would need to be turned over, then at least those individual identifiers would have been removed. And so, it would be very difficult at that point to actually figure out who those different individual speakers are in the first place.” Similarly, the research protocols of projects in which Bruckert is involved now ensure there is nothing for the police to seize; her REB protocols explicitly state that transcripts will be thoroughly anonymized immediately following transcription and that digital recordings will be destroyed once transcription accuracy has been verified.

6. Be Prepared to Justify Your Protocol (and Prove You Followed It)

Given the lack of understanding (and sometimes deeply embedded stigmatic assumptions) about qualitative research on sensitive subjects all too often exhibited by REBs, it is unsurprising that researchers perceive—often rightly so—that the rigid framework of the REB is inconsistent with the need to pivot in response to unanticipated (and unforeseeable) challenges that emerge in the field (Felices-Luna Reference Felices-Luna, Kilty, Felices-Luna and Fabian2014). Such perceptions were widespread among the researchers with whom we spoke. For example, one key informant told us that they did not inform their REB when they adapted their research protocol in response to emerging community dynamics precisely because they feared a lack of understanding and support: “[I realized my protocol] is actually a bit different than what I proposed in my summary protocol. And I was like, I am not telling my university about this, because I feel like if I do, they’re going to make it impossible for me to actually function in the way the milieu functions. […] I felt that they were going to be like, pull the plug, now!”

Unfortunately, in the context of a court case, a researcher’s methodological approach is re-situated from a research context to a legal evidentiary one. In Parent c R, all research-related documents (e.g., REB application, consent forms, recruitment materials, training material for research assistants) were submitted to the courts to affirm not only that research confidentiality was taken seriously (e.g., that research assistants were trained in the importance of ethics and confidentiality and that this training was ongoing) but also that the research procedures had been meticulously followed. Had the court discovered the researchers had failed to follow their protocol, the case could have been significantly damaged—perhaps irreparably so.

Here the lesson is three-fold. First, researchers can use the REB process defensively to establish the evidentiary record demonstrating that research ethics and confidentiality were paramount. Second, researchers must, as Palys and Lowman (Reference Palys and Lowman2014) have repeatedly argued, “walk your talk” given that, perhaps predictably, “courts expect those who claim confidentiality is essential to their work to behave in a manner consistent with that claim” (Palys and Lowman Reference Palys and Lowman2014, 205). The final lesson is directed at REBs—they must create a truly responsive and supportive environment and work collaboratively with researchers to accommodate the complex and dynamic nature of qualitative inquiry.

7. Heed Wigmore: Never Waver From the Promise of Absolute Confidentiality

The Parent c R court case—to set aside the above-noted search warrant—was heard at the Québec Superior Court in Montréal from April 3 to 4, 2013; Justice Sophie Bourque presided. Based in part on the precedent set by Ogden, Jacobsen successfully argued that the Wigmore test should be used. In and of itself, this is useful and affirms what John Lowman and Ted Palys have maintained for years, that researchers must develop their protocols with an eye to the protection of Wigmore by ensuring their projects stand up to the Wigmore test (Palys and Lowman Reference Palys and Lowman2000, Reference Palys and Lowman2014; see also Palys and MacAlister Reference Palys and MacAlister2016). In other words, proactively engage a legal test that is conventionally deployed retroactively.

Truth be told, Parent and Bruckert did not consciously design their research project “Sex Work and Intimacy: Escorts and their Clients,” with an eye to Wigmore. Fortunately, however, like many researchers studying stigmatized and criminalized sectors, they had meticulously implemented tactics and strategies to protect participant confidentiality and guard against the possible seizure of the data set by police, not realizing that the Supreme Court of Canada in M (A) v Ryan, 1997, had ruled that “fishing expeditions are not appropriate where there is a compelling privacy interest at stake, even at the discovery stage” (at para 37). Parent and Bruckert had also promised absolute confidentiality—meaning they were able to meet the first of the four Wigmore criteria—that the communications must originate in a confidence that they will not be disclosed. In this regard, Justice Bourque accepted the research materials as evidence (including consent forms, recruitment materials, research assistant training modules), noting that “both the recruitment flyer and the recruitment letter sent to potential participants made explicit reference to the promise of confidentiality and anonymity attached to the research process” (Parent c R, 2014, para. 47) and that “there was no limitation to the promise of confidentiality given by the interviewers to the participants” (ibid., para. 53).Footnote ⁷ An important caveat to this promise is, of course, provincial/territorial child protection legislation (e.g., Quebec’s Youth Protection Act, para. 39), which enshrines everyone’s duty to report ongoing or imminent child harm to a designated person, organization, or government authority.Footnote ⁸

The lesson is simply that protocols, consent forms, and information documents must explicitly state that the project would not be possible without the protection of confidentiality (e.g., statements such as: “this research is contingent on confidentiality”; “all communications must originate in confidence”; and “I will do everything possible to maintain confidentiality” might prove to be helpful). It is also vital to ensure that there is no aspect of the informed consent process that can be construed as a waiver of privilege; quite simply, saying “within the limits of the law” anywhere in the project could jeopardize the ability to pass the Wigmore test.

Embedded in the imperative to proactively use Wigmore strategically and defensively is a helpful reminder about the fragility of the protections research participants are afforded. Given that researcher–participant communications are not guaranteed the protection of class privilege, the onus is on researchers to assert privilege on a case-by-case basis. As Justice Bourque wrote, “The burden of persuasion thus remains on the Petitioners [Parent and Bruckert] to show that the public interest in protecting the Jimmy–researchers relationship outweighs the public interest in investigating and prosecuting the alleged crime” (Parent c R, 2014, para. 148). Ironically, this lesson may have been undercut by the media attention afforded the case and headlines by CAUT asserting, “Court upholds researchers’ right to protect confidential information” (2014, n.p.). It is troubling that Bruckert is routinely thanked for ensuring that research confidentiality is protected. Sadly, Parent c R did no such thing. Absent guaranteed privilege for researcher–participant communications, such cases will continue to be decided on a case-by-case basis.

8. Even When You Win, You Lose

It was not until January 23, 2014, that Justice Bourque rendered her decision quashing the search warrant. There was reason to celebrate when the court ruled that, “the Confidential Interview is covered by the researcher–participant confidentiality privilege” (Parent c R, 2014, para. 212). In her decision, Justice Bourque noted that the “public interest in respecting the promise of confidentiality is high” (ibid., para. 210). Furthermore, she asserted that the social benefits of maintaining confidentially for the public, for the communities being researched, and for academics outweighed the potential benefits of disclosing information from the interview to the (then) ongoing criminal investigation.

Justice Bourque further noted that the interview—conducted more than four years prior to the offence—was decidedly not “the actus rea of the alleged crime” (ibid., para. 154), that the police had uncovered forensic and videographic evidence, and that “[t]he fact that more relevant contemporary material in regard to his [Magnotta’s] mental state does exist, that Magnotta has a reasonable expectation of privacy, and that Dr. Woodside’sFootnote ⁹ opinion that the 2007 material is likely to be of minimal assistance to a NCR [not criminally responsible] assessment militate in favor of recognizing a privilege” (ibid., para. 177). However, and notwithstanding the above, Justice Bourque deemed that, “the possibility remains that the information derived from the Confidential Interview could be of use to an NCR assessment” (ibid., para. 178). Accordingly, citing M (A) v Ryan, 1997, para. 39, Justice Bourque exercised her right to “examine the Confidential Interview transcripts kept under seal” (ibid., para. 183). In other words, to rule in favour of the petitioners’ right to protect confidentiality, confidentiality first had to be breached!

9. Do Not Assume Your Institution Will Have Your Back

University-based researchers might assume that their institutions would be invested in standing up for the protection of participant confidentiality—even if only motivated by the self-interested desire to safeguard the institution’s reputation (especially considering condemnation of SFU when they failed to support Russel Ogden; see Palys and Lowman Reference Palys and Lowman2014). That was certainly what Bruckert anticipated when she, along with Colette Parent, Jim Turk, and Christian Rouillard (then the APUO president), met with two University of Ottawa Vice-Presidents (Governance and Academics; surprisingly, the VP research was not in attendance) on June 20, 2012, to request that the University of Ottawa assume responsibility for legal fees. After all, the project was done in Parent and Bruckert’s capacity as professors, the SSHRC research funds were administered by the University of Ottawa, the project had received approval from the institution’s REB, and the ability to undertake research—essentially 40% of Parent and Bruckert’s workload—would be compromised if they lost community trust by failing to honour their promise of confidentiality. It took a full six months (until December 19, 2012) to receive a (negative) response from then University of Ottawa president Allan Rock:

The failure of the University of Ottawa to cover legal fees raises an important, and decidedly pragmatic, concern: what happens when CAUT is not willing or able to cover the significant legal fees incurred when researchers take a principled stance? Or what happens to student researchers where there is no CAUT or similar entity to act as a legal safety net? We do not know whether researchers will or have complied with the demands of law enforcement or the courts because of fiscal constraints, nor do we know whether researchers have quietly handed over documents after assessing the career/professional costs of challenging their (unsupportive) institution as “too high” and concluded that, on balance, their interests do not align with those of their participants. But we do know that the University of Ottawa’s response has engendered fear and cynicism amongst researchers. One key informant interviewee told us: “I don’t trust that the university would have participants’ confidentiality at their best interest.” Another explained their position: “Our universities are these monoliths that are interested in institutional risk protection. They’re not actually interested in the well-being of their graduate students or faculty doing research, as has been shown in several of these cases where they decided not to defend people or not to provide resources for faculty members who had data subpoenaed.”

The University of Ottawa’s response also begs the question: what does support look like? Notwithstanding Alan Rock’s assertion that the university “has expressed strong support for, and taken steps to defend, the confidentiality of the research records in the possession of Professors Bruckert and Parent” (A. Rock, personal correspondence, 2013), it is unclear what those steps were; not only was there a refusal to cover costs, but there was also nary a whiff of (any sort of) support from the administrative apparatus. Indeed, although many University of Ottawa faculty, REB members, and students (Feibel Reference Feibel2014), as well as scholars from other institutions, were vocal in their support, Bruckert was never contacted by the Office of the President or any of the five Vice-Presidents, or, for that matter, even her Dean at the time.

10. Some Universities Are Walking the Talk, but Clear (or Any) Policies Are Still Woefully Rare

In one of the two known casesFootnote ¹¹ where confidentiality was threatened post-Parent c R, the researcher’s experience of institutional support was dramatically different than Bruckert’s. In 2016, Dr. Greta Bauer, a tenured epidemiologist at Western University who had done research on transgender people’s health was asked to testify as an expert witness in the Québec Superior Court. The human rights charter challenge case claimed infringements to rights of integrity and security of the person, due to how identity documents—which did not conform to one’s identity—could lead to suicidal ideation for transgender people (Centre de lutte contre l’oppression des genres [Centre for Gender Advocacy] c Québec, 2016). The Attorney General of Québec, in response, and to verify the accuracy of her testimony, sought to access raw data from Dr. Bauer’s study, which was potentially identifiable. Not only did the university’s Associate Vice President for Research submit an affidavit on the damage that data disclosure would have on the study’s participants and to research more generally, but lawyers from the university worked collaboratively with those from the Center for Gender Advocacy. Ultimately, the judge ruled against the release of the data (A. McClelland, personal correspondence, 2018). The experience of Dr. Marie-Ève Maillé (then a doctoral student at the Université du Québec à Montréal [UQAM]) was less exemplary in terms of institutional support although she too successfully challenged a subpoena (initiated by a power corporation) requiring her to produce her doctoral research on rural Québec residents’ experiences of a wind power farm (Rivard c Éoliennes de l’Érable, 2017). Dr. Maillé accessed pro bono legal counsel through the Quebec organization Justice Pro Bono; UQAM filed for intervener status. Notably, after her experience, Maillé publicly called on researchers to “have a lawyer working for you who will defend your interests (and not those of your research institution)” (Couturier Reference Couturier2019, n.p.).

It would appear that, unlike the University of Ottawa (in Parent c R, 2014) and SFU (in Ogden’s case, Unknown Female, Vancouver Coroner’s Court, 1991), some universities are, at least to some extent, supporting their professors and graduate students when they challenge threats to research confidentiality. That said, individual institutions stepping up still leaves researchers unsure about the support they can anticipate should they find themselves in need of legal services. Indeed, when we asked our survey respondents whether their university (or community organization) had a policy to provide guidance in instances where research ethics come into conflict with the law (e.g., if a researcher’s data is subpoenaed), forty-two participants (70%) indicated that they did not know, while twelve (20%) indicated “no,” and only six (10%) indicated “yes.” Of those who answered “yes,” just two stated that the policy guaranteed the paying of legal fees if a researcher resists a legal order to disclose confidential data; three participants indicated they did not know, and one answered “no.”

This lack of clarity is shocking given that, as a result of academic activism on the part of Ted Palys and others (Palys and Ivers Reference Palys and Ivers2018), the most recent Tri-Council policy statement (Reference Palys and Ivers2018) specifies that all universities should “establish policies, procedures or guidelines that explain how [they] will fulfill [their] responsibilities to support [their] researchers” in the context of a legally compelled breach (61). In 2018, Palys and Ivers found that most universities (87.7% of their sample) had not considered developing a policy, had started to but abandoned the endeavour, or were just beginning to develop such a policy. When we approached thirty-five university REBs with the same question in 2021, only sixteen got back to us; of these, three indicated the drafting of policies was “in progress” and only two (McGill University and the University of Waterloo) stated unequivocally “yes” to having a policy.Footnote ¹²

Arguably, this lacuna may speak to a lack of institutional urgency. Indeed, one university explained that their “Legal Counsel’s office does not believe that a policy is warranted, given the number of times that this has been an issue.” Researchers conducting qualitative research on criminalized and socially sanctioned issues may well beg to differ. As one of our key informants put it (when asked what kind of training is needed to support researchers): “It’s not fucking training sessions that people need. What people actually need is the ability to protect their legal rights. Like knowing that I would have access to good quality legal support if necessary. That would have my interests and not my university’s interests at heart. That would be the thing.” In short, the lesson learned is that while there has been some piecemeal progress, most researchers still cannot assume they will be supported should research confidentiality be threatened in the context of a legal process.