
Our toughest ethical dilemmas arise when two strong moral arguments are pitted against each other. Our most innovative resolutions arise when we find a middle ground between them, turning dilemmas into trilemmas.
But is every trilemma option a winner? Can what looks like a creative accommodation prove to be a craven appeasement? That’s the question raised by president George W. Bush’s commutation last week of Scooter Libby’s prison sentence.
Mr. Libby, you recall, was vice president Dick Cheney’s chief of staff when he became involved in the Valerie Plame affair. Plame’s husband, former ambassador Joseph Wilson, had written an article critical of the administration. In apparent retaliation, administration higher-ups leaked the fact that Plame was an undercover intelligence operative.
The special investigator for the case, Patrick Fitzgerald, zeroed in on Cheney’s office as the likely source of the leak. Under questioning, Libby lied. He was convicted and sentenced to 30 months in prison and a $250,000 fine. Last week, President Bush exercised his presidential privilege to erase Libby’s prison time.
In the ensuing uproar, Bush’s supporters praised him for saving a fine man from an excessive sentence. Bush’s detractors fulminated against his favoritism and his high-handed disregard for the course of justice. Behind the shouting, however, the case reflects a straightforward right-versus-right dilemma, resolved by a trilemma option.
The president’s statement about his decision neatly lays out both sides of this justice-versus-mercy choice. Critics of the investigation, he says, argued that it should never have been pursued once the leaker of Ms. Plame’s name had been determined — which, by the time of Libby’s trial for lying to investigators, it had. Those critics, he notes, also point out that “neither Mr. Libby nor anyone else has been charged with violating the Intelligence Identities Protection Act nor the Espionage Act, which were the original subjects of the investigation.” Finally, these critics argue that the punishment is inappropriate for “a first-time offender with years of exceptional public service.”
On the other hand, Bush observes, “a jury of citizens” found Libby “guilty of perjury and obstructing justice.” In addition, those supporting the investigation “argue, correctly, that our entire system of justice relies on people telling the truth,” that those who hold “the public trust” must be “held accountable” if they lie, and that “had Mr. Libby only told the truth, he would have never been indicted in the first place.”
Rather than coming down on one side or the other, however, Bush then explains his reason for choosing a middle ground that (unlike a pardon) lets the conviction stand but (unlike a full sentence) relieves the most onerous part. “I respect the jury’s verdict,” he says, but then calls the prison time “excessive.” He explains that his decision “leaves in place a harsh punishment” that includes a “forever damaged” reputation, a significant fine, and “the consequences of his felony conviction” that will be “long-lasting.”
Bush’s statement is a well-argued piece, as far as it goes. But trilemma options are subject to several caveats. First, not every dilemma lends itself to a trilemma option. If you attempt to force-fit one onto a dilemma that cries out for a more black-and-white choice, you can become an unconscionable compromiser, waffling just when you needed to stand firm. Second, because a trilemma option is often a highly creative solution, it tends to come into focus gradually and sometimes incompletely. By the time it must be enacted, it’s not always well tested. And like all things creative, it’s sometimes brilliant and sometimes a flop.
Which was this? The question that still divides the public is not about whether Bush had the legal right to commute. It is about what he left out of consideration:
- Given a recent appeals court ruling upholding a similar punishment in a similar case and given Bush’s record of resisting pardons and commutations while governor of Texas, was this exception based more on personal loyalty than on legal standards?
- Given every administration’s desire to protect its inner secrets, was this decision a way of buying Libby’s silence rather than driving him to write a tell-all book?
- Given his lame-duck status, did Bush have little to lose and much to gain by appeasing his friend Dick Cheney and his party’s vociferous far-right wing?
- Given his visibility as leader of the world’s chief democracy, was he concerned that overseas he could look like any tin-pot dictator bending his nation’s laws to protect his own interests?
- Given the $5 million in funds flowing from admirers into Libby’s legal defense fund, might Libby never be out of pocket for his fine (for which he wrote a check last week), and might those same admirers reward him with a high-salaried position, rendering moot the president’s “harsh punishment” argument?
- Given the president’s professed desire to upgrade the tone of the presidency, following President Clinton’s impeachment by the House of Representatives for lying, has Bush reversed course and signaled that lying in high places is no big deal?
As the Libby trilemma was unfolding, these points needed to be addressed. Would that have forced even more creativity — and a better resolution? Or would that have compelled a retreat to the stark polarities of the original dilemma, and a firm choice for one side (no intervention) or the other (full pardon)? We’ll never know. For all it accomplished, this trilemma left a lot to be desired.
©2007 Institute for Global Ethics