Yesterday, the Irish Times published a compelling letter from recently retired solicitor, John Mark Downey. Here are some brief extracts:
“As a recently retired solicitor, I cannot understand why any potential witness would co-operate with the PAC, based on what I saw.
In all the courts and tribunals that I appeared in over 34 years, there was always one constant: that witnesses were treated with respect and were allowed to answer questions uninterrupted within reason.
In what I saw, the PAC members, with few exceptions, barracked and hectored the witnesses.”
If Mr. Downey will forgive this criticism of him, then it might be said that it is naïve to expect politicians to behave with the decorum and decency of Judges and solicitors in a formal legal proceeding. Their jobs, and incentives, are very different.
In a court, the Judge is there to ensure fairness. There are no cameras. The objective of proceedings is to extract and establish the facts, and render a judgment on those facts.
By contrast, in an Oireachtas committee, the politicians are there to ensure votes. There are cameras. The objective of the proceedings is to get yourself on the Six One news, expressing outrage on behalf of the people, in the hope that somewhere on a couch in your constituency, a bellicose voter is roaring “well fair play that man!” at the telly in response to you calling the witness a disgrace.
It was for such reasons that the voters, rather wisely, decided not to empower Irish politicians to compel witnesses to attend Oireachtas committees when they were asked to vote on the matter about a decade ago: It’s not that such a power would not be useful. It is that Irish politicians simply cannot be trusted to wield such a power fairly. All their incentives run towards showboating, and unfairness.
All of which makes me fear – to the extent I can summon much empathy for him – for Ryan Tubridy:
The letter pic.twitter.com/TbnTytLQFy
— Seán Defoe (@SeanDefoe) July 5, 2023
In truth, once Tubridy was invited to appear before the Dáil committee, he faced the career version of Sophie’s choice: If he turned it down, then it would be said of him forever that he avoided scrutiny, ran away from questions, and was unwilling to subject himself to the kinds of grilling that broadcasters are customarily expected to dole out to politicians. He could never interview a senior politician again, without the sword of “well you’re not too keen on answering hard questions yourself, Ryan” hanging like that of Damocles over his head.
On the other hand, attending carries significant risk, which is presumably why he has lawyered up to the gills and the letter offering his attendance came from Hayes Solicitors, rather than his private office.
Tubridy faces some very awkward questions: Why did he not correct RTE’s false statements about his pay? Why did he brag about taking a pay cut in solidarity with poor children? Did he know that his pay was being recorded as a “consultancy fee” for his agent? Does he feel his pay packet is in any way commensurate with the service he provides?
The other issue is that the atmosphere will be hostile: Politicians have long memories of perceived slights and injustices from the media, and there will, no doubt, be some there who’ve been itching for years to take Tubridy down a peg or two. That is not fair, but it’s politics.
Finally, Tubridy is well used to asking questions. What he is not well used to is answering them. This matters more than you might think.
As a broadcaster, Tubridy’s skill is his loquaciousness: He can talk extemporaneously at length, for minutes on end. But his solicitors, if they are any good at all, will be advising him to keep his answers to the committee short and to the point and as factual as possible. This is almost certainly the soundest strategy from a legal point of view, but it carries real risks from a public perception point of view: The sight of Tubridy, far from his usual chatty self, sitting there giving one or two sentence answers will be jarring to the public and may – may – reinforce a sense that he is trying to get out of there without divulging every relevant fact.
He is unlikely to take my advice, but if it was sought, it would be as follows: Make a long opening statement. Abase yourself completely. Apologise for things you had nothing to do with. Let the politicians hit you as hard as they can and so hard that it, if they’re dumb enough, their performance ends up flipping public sympathy back in your favour.
But make peace with one fact: The public are never going to look at you the same way again, whatever happens.