Carlton Vogt's

Enterprise Ethics

Volume 5, No. 7 July 20, 2007

Lady Bird and me

A cautionary tale of journalistic ethics and political pressure

It was December (I think) of 1967. I was a young reporter for United Press. I worked alone in Western Massachusetts in an office just slightly bigger than one of the Halliburton cages in Guantanamo. I had a desk, a phone, a manual typewriter, and a teletype machine -- and room for not much more.

I was assigned to cover Lady Bird Johnson's trip to Williamstown, Mass., where she was to be awarded an honorary doctorate at a special convocation at Williams College. It was made more remarkable by the fact that some students had announced they planned to walk out of the event as a protest against the Vietnam War.

That, in itself, was noteworthy, because at that time, protests against the war were still in their infancy and had yet to grow to the mega-demonstrations they later became. This was still several weeks before Eartha Kitt made the mistake of criticizing the war while at the White House and saw her promising career go down in flames.

I went to the college, arrived early, and scoped out the chapel where the ceremony was to take place. I determined that the best vantage point was the gallery at the rear of the chapel, which would give me a clear view from above, no matter what went on in the chapel itself. I plunked my butt down on a pew and waited.

Thinking back, it's amazing that I could do that, and all I can conclude is that even given the assassination of JFK, security measures weren't what we see today, although the isolation of today's administration is quite a departure from any others.

As the crowd gathered for the ceremony, the dignitaries filed in and my chief competitor, the reporter for the AP, snagged a seat in the front of the chapel, accompanying the publisher of the local newspaper. Because AP isn't a private company, but a cooperative owned by the "member" newspapers, AP reporters spend a lot of time schmoozing the guys who pay the bills.

When Lady Bird was finally introduced, the crowd in the chapel stood, and people began walking out. The spectators in the front of the chapel, as you might expect, had a limited view of what was going on. My bird's-eye view, on the other hand, allowed me to count the heads of the protestors as they walked underneath the gallery to leave the chapel.

There were about 75, maybe a couple of more, but it got a little confusing, so I shaded the number to the low side to make sure I didn't overstate the case. I scribbled some notes, interviewed some people, and went to a phone to call in my story -- this was long before laptops and wi-fi hotspots. Then, I drove the 70 miles home to go to bed.

About 1 a.m., the phone rang. It was the editor on duty in the Boston bureau. He had gotten a call from headquarters in New York, which had gotten a call from the Washington bureau, which had gotten a call from the White House.

Was I sure it was 75 people who walked out? Yes, I said, I was sure. The AP is reporting 10, and the White House is hopping mad, demanding that we revise our story. I'm sticking with 75 people, I told them.

But the AP says 10. I don't care what they AP says. The AP guy couldn't see. He was in what became the back of the crowd when people started walking out. There were several hundred people, some of them standing on the pews, between him and the door. I counted the heads.

We had a saying at United Press that if you're going to announce a death toll, count the bodies. I had counted the bodies. OK.

So back to sleep. Well, back to sleep for 15 minutes. The phone rang again. This time it was New York. Are you sure? Yes, I'm sure. How do you know? I counted the people. The AP says 10. The AP is wrong. The White House is hopping mad. Bleep the White House.

Back to sleep. Another phone call. Same discussion. Eventually, my story ran with my figure. I don't know how many newspapers picked it up. The New York Times used my version, although inside and only a few paragraphs, but in wire-service world that's a plus.

My moment of reckoning, however, came early. After a couple of hours sleep, I had to get up and drive the 70 or so miles to the Hancock Shaker Village, outside of Pittsfield, Mass., where Lady Bird was making another appearance. There were a handful of us there at the museum -- don't miss it if you're in the area -- and Lady Bird was extremely charming.

However, her press secretary, Liz Carpenter, cornered me in a side room and chastised me for being a "naughty, naughty boy." She then slapped my face. It was a no more than a playful tap. I wasn't particularly menaced, but it made me one of the few people who can say that I was slapped in the face by a White House press secretary.

She also told me she was going to put me in her autobiography when she wrote it. I suspect that she didn't.

Here's a photo of our breakfast group. I'm in the back, apparently writing in my notebook -- or trying to stay out of the way of Liz Carpenter, second from left.

Why do I bring this up, other than to "name drop" following the death of Lady Bird? It's not so much name dropping. In 40 or so years of journalism, you meet a lot of people and name dropping just becomes tiresome and rather pointless. But, I suppose I mention it because of my reaction to what I see as the death -- or at least terminal illness -- of journalistic ethics.

Lest you get the wrong idea, I'm not telling this story to hold myself out as a paragon of journalistic virtue. In fact, quite the opposite. The story is remarkable because at the time, I never cast it as an ethical issue. I never consciously reflected on the principles and propositions of ethical theory. I merely did what journalists do.

I covered the story conscientiously. I made sure of my facts. I told the story as best I could. And I stuck to my story -- even in the face of what was, for the time, immense pressure to change it.

I was a "kid" in a profession that was then populated by a lot of older men (mostly). And I was getting phone calls from Washington and New York, from guys who wore three-piece suits. They smoked cigars, for crying out loud, and not just at bachelor parties. It was quite scary.

These were the days when bosses were still allowed to be mean to underlings. I once had a sub-editor throw a Rolodex, a really big Rolodex, at my head, as I sat at the copy desk typing away. I saw it coming. I ducked. And the Rolodex hit the wall behind me, making just one more gouge to join the dozens of other gouges -- probably from other flung Rolodexes -- in the grimy, smudged prison-green wall.

I never missed a keystroke, because it was 2 a.m., I was working on deadline, and I was more afraid of the chief editor than I was of the Rolodex. At least death at the hands of the Rolodex would be quick. The chief editor would have drawn it out had I missed the deadline.

But the thought of sticking to my story didn't scare me -- the constant early-morning phone calls annoyed me -- because I knew my editors expected me to do just what I did: cover my story in such a way that I could stand behind it. That's what all my colleagues did. That's what they simply assumed I would do.

So, while I didn't see it in ethical terms at the time, in retrospect, I guess that's just what it was. Journalistic ethics were so ingrained in us that we simply saw them as what we did. Not everyone, of course. There were a few bad apples, but they were generally looked down on in the journalistic community and in the community in general.

Fast forward to today. What would be the outcome were the same thing to occur? The first difference is that I probably would not have been allowed my catbird seat vantage point. I would be secluded with the "press gaggle" by the advance men to help "control the message."

The next difference is that the protestors wouldn't have gotten in. Today's "audiences" are generally scrubbed and vetted, so there is no chance of anything going off message. If a protestor or two does slip through the net, they are quickly subdued, arrested, and maligned as either mentally unstable or "troublemakers."

There were instances during the last presidential campaign, where the president was "adored" by an adoring audience that, oddly enough, consisted of the exact same people as at the stop before. A group of "supporters" was being bussed from appearance to appearance. No chance of any untoward activity there. While many bloggers noted this, the mainstream media was strangely quiet. And this brings me to my next point.

What we, as young journalists more than four decades ago, considered "the way we do it" is no longer the way it's done. We could, as geezers are wont to do, attribute that to the deterioration of the younger generation, but geezers have been singing that song since the days of ancient Rome.

I lay the blame at the feet of corporatism. Media outlets have shed all pretense of journalistic integrity, and have one goal only, which is the sating of the corporate need for more and more money.

Granted, media outlets have always been structured as corporations, and it was always necessary to make a profit. In my early days, however, the corporations were locally owned, the publishers were people with a love for journalism, and they demanded that the paper -- while making a profit -- serve the community and the readers. More importantly, they demanded that reporters tell the truth.

Today, media outlets are merely "profit centers" for the handful of giant corporations that control all our information. Colleagues from long ago, tell me that the corporate bosses no longer ask about "serving the community" or whether the news coverage is worthwhile. The corporate bosses at headquarters ask one question: Did you make your numbers? Everything else is irrelevant.

Many words are wasted these days on discussing whether the media is "liberal" or not. But, while it keeps people entertained, the question is meaningless. The media is neither primarily liberal nor conservative. It is corporate. It serves the corporate agenda. That agenda most closely aligns with the conservative side of the aisle, but not always. Any given media outlet will do what will help its managers "meet their numbers."

And that ethic filters down to the troops, some of whom willingly join the fray on the side of the bosses -- a posture not unknown in corporate life, where you are eager to do whatever it is that makes your boss smile.

Others are actually co-opted. There is a new phenomenon called "buckraking," as opposed to the old journalistic "muckraking." How that works is that one side of the political spectrum identifies a journalist who might he helpful to the cause. So, an organization invites that journalist to speak and offers him a hefty stipend -- say $50,000, plus expenses -- first-class airfare, five-star hotel, and a couple of good meals.

A couple of those gigs in a six-month period make the journalist in question see the world through a different pair of glasses. He's more than equaled his annual salary simply by giving the same speech three times. As the gigs increase, it becomes less likely that he's going to yank the emergency cord on that gravy train.

So, he may begin to resolve all doubts in favor of his benefactor. He may be more open to their suggestions. And he definitely isn't going to write or say anything that might stem the flow of invitations. Some "news" organizations allegedly ban the practice, but it hasn't stopped some major "news" reporters from making the rounds. And the people with the most money to spread around are the people who most closely align with the corporate agenda.

The final factor is that the pressure from above has become increasingly vicious. In my day, the politicians and what we then called the "press" lived in kind of a Mexican standoff. We did our job, which was to keep an eye on them. They complained about it, and they phoned the publisher or the paper, and they ranted and screamed, but at the end of the day, as long as we told the truth, they stopped there.

Today, from what I'm told, the scenario is far different. Entire news organizations are threatened with "lack of access," if all its reporters -- most of whom have now morphed into stenographers -- don't toe the politicians' line. That creates a downward pressure on the people at the bottom. Were they to stand up to the White House or State House, they could lose their job. It has happened. I was never afraid of that. I always had the certainty my boss would back me up -- even despite the occasional flying Rolodex.

Sooner or later, what's known in the psych business as "operant conditioning" takes place. The reporters at the bottom avoid any confrontations with guys in suits by changing their behavior and by avoiding those thing they know will result in a threatening exchange of words. And so, the downward spiral in journalistic ethics gains speed.

My memories of the Lady Bird encounter, spurred by her recent death, were augmented by the news that Rupert Murdoch is going to buy the Wall Street Journal. That, to me, is the journalistic equivalent of the Fall of Saigon.

Everyone in the business has always considered the Journal's editorial board as a bin full of loonies, but the newsroom had immense respect from their colleagues. Even the Journal's news staff will admit after a few beers -- OK, martinis, this is the Journal after all -- that they view the editorial board like a dotty, elderly aunt who puts on her wedding dress and sits on the front porch shrieking at passers-by as proxies for the rogue who left her at the altar.

Murdoch's record in journalistic ethics is about as long as the most direct route from his limo to the bank. If it's in his interests, the Journal may be a reliable source. If it's not, it won't be. If he needs to put topless starlets on Page 3, he will. But, on any given day, we'll never really know. So, we have to assume the worst. The Journal's fall isn't the whole story, but it's symbolic of the process.

A friend and colleague who started in the business the same time I did is retiring today. For a while, we both had rooms at the same sordid rooming house in a Hartford, Conn., slum. We worked together several times at different places, and we shared some incredible experiences. I wrote to wish him well in retirement, and commiserated with him on the sorry state into which our chosen profession has fallen.

"At least you're getting out before the whole thing goes completely into the toilet," I wrote in my email. He answered back very simply. "We've skipped the toilet. We're already swimming in the sewer."

So, how would I have acted had I encountered the same situation today -- given the extreme corporatization of the media and the ham-handed tactics of the administration? I really don't know.

The easiest answer is that I probably wouldn't have survived in the business long enough to find out. My lack of success in the corporate world is two-fold: my inability to keep my big mouth shut and not caring whether my boss ever smiled or not.

But mostly, I chalk it up to moral luck. I was never faced with having to make that decision under those circumstances. And for that I am eternally grateful.

© Copyright 2007 Carlton Vogt