
Now and then, when the mental weather is just right, a topic that’s been hovering unseen in the cultural atmosphere starts crystallizing and precipitating. This month, for no apparent reason, that topic is public penalties. It’s in the news everywhere you look.
Not only has CBS sacked four top executives following an investigation into anchorman Dan Rather’s reporting on President Bush’s National Guard service. Not only have ten former WorldCom directors coughed up $18 million in personal funds as punishment for their part in one of the world’s largest bankruptcy cases. Not only has a U.S. Army reservist received 10 years in military prison and a dishonorable discharge for his role as a ringleader in the abuses at Iraq’s Abu Ghraib prison. Not only has Major League Baseball announced a revision of penalties for players caught using steroids. Even the Supreme Court has weighed in, challenging the architecture of the federal sentencing guidelines used by judges to determine penalties large and small.
The court’s decision brought a philosophical perspective to this suddenly visible topic. What, after all, are the most fitting penalties for various crimes? How can they be made consistent, so that similar crimes in like contexts get similar sentences?
But for most people, I suspect, the galvanizing questions this month arose not from high-level judicial philosophizing (important though that is) but from down-to-earth ethical incongruities. When sentences seem too light, too heavy, or too inconsistent — or when they’re meted out to underlings rather than to those bearing the overall responsibility — public confidence takes a hit.
How deep a hit? Here’s a little test, phrased in the language of the high-school yearbook. Which of the four cases involving (1) CBS, (2) WorldCom, (3) Major League Baseball, or (4) Abu Ghraib would you vote “most likely to succeed” in:
promoting a snickering public cynicism;
causing a massive sigh of relief in high places;
sending a frisson of horror shivering through an entire elite community; or
engendering a head-shaking, they-had-it-coming, I-told-you-so response?
I suspect 1(d) is pretty obvious. When Dan Rather and CBS producer Mary Mapes allowed their values to be largely defined by competition and haste, they ignored the most rudimentary journalistic standards for checking facts and verifying sources. Then they surrendered any appearance of independence by talking with Democratic presidential candidate John Kerry’s campaign, fueling the impression that they were not trying to get the story but to get Bush. Finally, instead of learning from the sobering and instructive history of stonewalling (including Watergate and Clinton-Lewinsky), they clung doggedly to their story. Result: a grim public satisfaction in seeing a tainted organization get punished, even though some of its top people escaped.
That escape — and the relief engendered in high places when someone below you takes the fall — produces the 4(b) linkage. In the Abu Ghraib case, public outrage would have been severely roiled had Charles Graner gone free. But the prospect of those above him avoiding punishment smells so pungently of caproic acid — the scent of goats, in this case scapegoats — as to undermine the very premise of a chain of command. If the Army stands for anything, it is that superiors who have earned the right to give orders must shoulder the responsibility for knowing what’s going on. The gosh-I-had-no-clue defense ploy, which apparently may be used by former Enron CEO Ken Lay in his upcoming trial, is pitiful in the corporate sector. In the military, it’s scandalous.
Also associated with that defensive ploy, of course, is former WorldCom CEO Bernie Ebbers. Not so his directors, whom I would pair up with the frisson of horror in point (c). That shivering chill may betoken a new curb on malfeasance — and even ignorance — by corporate directors everywhere. The message is now clear: A director’s personal assets are not immune when his or her decisions wreck the fortunes of other investors.
Baseball, by contrast, has dug in to defend its immunity. Its 3(a) combo can promote only more cynicism. Is Major League Baseball really saying that a crime as severe as the use of performance-enhancing steroids can be indulged three times, and punished only in gently increasing stages, before a meaningful penalty kicks in? That a crime whose first indulgence sends Olympic athletes into often-career-ending banishment should, in the pro leagues, be treated with such hand-wringing and coddling? That it’s okay that every game played this next season may well have somebody on the field who, unknown to us, will be currently and deliberately using steroids? That a game so proudly associated with kids — think of the old bubble-gum-and-baseball-cards connection — should so cynically assert that steroids, known for their devastating effects on the young, are really not so bad? Does baseball really want to go the way of professional wrestling, which is known widely not as a genuine sport but as merely scripted crowd-pleasing?
Four issues, four penalties. When the punishment fits, behavior shifts and the public is encouraged. When it misses the mark, nothing changes and cynicism builds. As these events remind us, an ethical culture gets built not just by judging the guilty but by punishing them in just the right way.
©2005 Institute for Global Ethics