As I recall, our secretive meetings were held usually in the early darkness of London’s winter afternoons. They weren’t announced, but like the handful of other Americans in the London press corps, I knew where to find them: in a nondescript upper room at the Foreign Office, just across Downing Street from then-prime minister Margaret Thatcher’s residence at Number Ten.
We all knew what to expect. A sharp, witty, and well-informed member of the Foreign Office staff would start by offering us tea. Then he would explain that this meeting was not happening, that it never had happened, and that if any of us wrote that it had happened, he would deny it to the hilt and never speak to us again. With that understood, he then would ask us what we wanted to discuss and would share the government’s position candidly and in depth.
Was he playing us? Like a harp. He knew the notes his government wanted us to sing, and he plucked them firmly. Were we using him? Unashamedly. We knew what he wanted us to write, and we were mining his revelations to develop alternative views and find on-the-record sources. He offered us accuracy and a window deep into the government’s views. We offered him confidentiality and exposure for those views. It was a trade-off as old as journalism itself and central to its success.
The just-concluded Washington trial of I. Lewis “Scooter” Libby, Jr., vice president Dick Cheney’s former top aide, delivered a body blow to that trade-off. Not because of its outcome, which found Libby guilty of obstruction of justice, giving false statements to the FBI, and perjuring himself. And not because of any probability that he may be pardoned by President Bush. No, the real damage from this trial is the precedent it creates for attacking the secrecy that journalists offer to their sources.
The ability of journalists to promise confidentiality is crucial to helping move democracy forward in several ways:
- Leveling the playing field.
Governments enjoy tremendous powers of obfuscation if they choose to use them. But democracy depends on an informed public. Journalists, by promising to keep private conversations off the record, can use inside sources to create transparency and help maintain the balance of power.
- Identifying fissures.
Governments usually arrive at their positions through internal competition among rival views. They then roll out those views through the impression of a single unified front. Cracks and fissures in that front help citizens understand where a position comes from, gauge the depth and significance of its backing within government, and better prepare them to support or critique it.
- Providing context.
Those London briefings didn’t always produce stories, nor even lead us toward future commentary, but they thickened the mix of our understanding of the general political and diplomatic landscape. Such off-the-record conversations are vital in educating journalists to better assess a government in its entirety. Their readers then are better able to distinguish important stories from those that are only secondary — a central task in an age of bloggers who, for every ounce of useful fact they reveal, release pounds of indifferent, unedited, or biased material into the atmosphere.
So when lead prosecutor Patrick Fitzgerald compelled journalists to reveal their sources during the Libby trial, was he acting unethically? No. Fitzgerald probably thought he was taking the moral high ground, supporting democracy by exposing an obfuscator. And the trial in fact produced enormous transparency in the functioning of the domain — the office of the vice president — that was its focus. But in doing what was right in the short term for this individual case, he profoundly damaged the long-term health of the community of those seeking transparency in every other domain. By putting so many journalists on the witness stand and by compelling them to reveal their confidential sources through tactics that included imprisonment, Fitzgerald may have deeply compromised, for years to come, the ability of citizens to uncover truth in government.
Faced with two rights, in other words, Fitzgerald chose the one he thought was higher ¡- which, by definition, was an ethical outcome. But was it a judicious outcome? Perhaps not. Among the toughest calls facing any judiciary is the necessity to let a heinous criminal go free rather than pervert the justice system or compromise the standards of evidence. To many, that often looks like a case where someone got off on “a technicality.” More accurately, it’s a case where the preservation of a salient principle took precedence over the punishment of a single perpetrator. By putting punishment above principle, the Libby trial emphasized results over process.
Should Libby have gone free? Probably not, since democracy needs to be protected from perjurers. But was the cost to democracy worth this conviction? Probably not, since editors around the country say they already are beginning to pull stories that would have let more light into dark governmental corners. To be sure, the pendulum may swing back, and future trials may help restore the right of journalistic confidentiality. For now, however, the damage has been done.
It’s a kind of damage that Thomas Jefferson understood. “Were it left to me to decide whether we should have a government without newspapers or newspapers without a government,” he wrote, “I should not hesitate a moment to prefer the latter.” It’s also a kind of damage any citizen can understand by reflecting for a moment on the common idiom, “You don’t know what you don’t know.” From this point forward, we won’t even know what journalism didn’t dare uncover about the workings of government. If the Libby standard means that the fog of obfuscation will roll in ever stronger, that the fissures will disappear from view, and that we’ll miss the deep context needed to grasp the relative importance of things, then this trial may prove to have been a proudly won battle that helped democracy lose the war.
©2007 Institute for Global Ethics