Here and There

I just finished reading The Price of Loyalty, a book about Bush’s first secretary of the Treasury, Paul O’Neill, written by former Wall Street Journal reporter Ron Suskind.

What struck me most about this book was how likable I found O’Neill. Anyone who knows me knows of my aversion to business wheeling and dealing, to CEOs and the arena of stuffed whiteshirts and fancy yachts, getaways in the Hamptons, and what not. O’Neill, while not entirely of that fabric, did come to be a member of Bush’s first cabinet from the head of steel industry giant Alcoa.

Further back on O’Neill’s résumé are gigs such as: he was assistant director of Office of Management and Budget (OMB) for Richard Nixon; he served Gerald Ford as deputy director of OMB; and then he was appointed by George H. W. Bush to chair an advisory group on education. Bush 41 originally offered O’Neill secretary of Defense. But because he had just started his tenure at Alcoa, O’Neill turned it down, recommending his old friend Dick Cheney for the job instead.

I’m giving this background to show the circumstances under which I came to like O’Neill. He was chosen to join Bush 43’s team, ostensibly, based on these credentials. His government and private sector leadership over three decades made him a perfect choice.

But what the Bush posse underestimated was one of O’Neill’s most formidable qualities: his love of inquiry and truth. In addition to this, or perhaps because of it, there was another aspect of O’Neill’s personality the administration honchos would soon learn to abhor: his distaste for politics, especially when it trumps the truth.

Suskind does a pretty remarkable job mixing his narrative with equal parts detail and mood. He takes the reader on a not-always-linear journey, from O’Neill’s early dealings with government up to his mystical, spy-novelesque recruitment by Bush and Cheney.

O’Neill’s tenure in Bush 43’s cabinet is marked by a pattern: the Treasury secretary would meet with Federal Reserve Chairman (and economic guru) Alan Greenspan (the book portrays the two as being almost exclusively in agreement on fiscal policy); then O’Neill would take their conclusions to the president. The first of these ideas was to tie Bush’s initial round of tax cuts to so-called “triggers.” The idea was to wait and see if the projected surplus would actually materialize, and if so, how big it would be, then proceed cutting taxes.

But on tax cuts, as on Iraq and the Middle East, Bush heard his treasury secretary out in their one-on-ones, and said nothing. O’Neill notes throughout The Price of Loyalty the absence of intellectual curiosity, debate, or inquiry on the part of the president.

The bit about the National Security Council meetings being obsessed from day one (February 2001) with Iraq and removing Saddam Hussein are noteworthy, as is the other half of that policy: complete disengagement from the Israeli-Palestinian peace process. Certain obvious members of the administration came to town to do the work they had been planning throughout the late-90s, as they foamed at the mouth over Clinton’s policy of head-on engagement.

Suskind also writes of O’Neill’s somewhat famous tour of Africa with Bono. At every stop, O’Neill would make calculations, trying to figure out how “inexpensive” it would be to get water wells for the communities he was touring. The implication, of course, is that with water, so many positive things can happen, the least of which is the ability to treat infectious diseases.

This all, of course, has striking relevance now, as the U. S. economy still appears backed against the ropes, the war in Iraq drags on with no end in sight, the plan for Social Security privatization has fallen apart (in part because there was no money to make the transition thanks to tax cuts and the squandering of the surplus), and now, finally, the president’s popularity has taken a hit. It’s ironic that now, nearly three years down the road from when O’Neill was told over the phone by Dick Cheney, “the president has decided to make some changes to the economic team, and you’re part of that change,” the country could use an honest broker like him.

A few weeks ago, I toyed with the idea of writing an entry on a regular schedule (what was I thinking?). From this seed of an idea, I soon stumbled upon an obvious name for the column: O-blog-atory. Needless to say, said column has yet to materialize. I figure getting readers first is a better idea.

On to why I really wanted to write today. As a potential likely future amateur novice journalist, I appreciate the idea of fairness. I espouse the notion of objectivity (realizing all the while that there is no such thing). I believe in transparency, accuracy, and, as much as possible, a lack of bias in my own reporting.

Then I find stuff like this. Once again, a crackpot right-wing (I’m gonna go ahead and say) pseudo-Christian nutjob has called for a punishment that doesn’t fit the crime. In this case, it’s arguable that there’s even a crime to be punished.

Venezuela’s President Hugo Chavez, who leads a country with the largest oil reserves in the Western Hemisphere, is an open critic of George W. Bush and U.S. foreign policy under Bush’s tutelage. Whether you agree with him, Chavez is only exercising one of this country’s most precious of rights: freedom of speech. Freedom to criticize. Freedom to openly question the government or our fellow citizens. The problem, according to douche bags like Robertson, is that Chavez speaks his free mind through a fairly large bullhorn, seated atop a well of black gold.

Robertson’s call to kill Chavez isn’t isolated, either. A few months ago, on the same program on which he issued his most recent fatwa, he prayed to his bearded guy in the sky for another vacancy on the Supreme Court (this was after O’Connor announced her retirement). A nice, fluffy Christian prayer for death.

If I were as “biblical” as Robertson, I’d simply call for his murder. But I’m not so medieval as the Dear Leader of the 700 Club. No, instead, I can only rub my little pet rock, burn some charcoal in the barbecue, dance on one leg while juggling three bottles of tequila, and hope that no one is taking that guy seriously.

The reason I’m calling this entry “Like a broken clock” is Bob Dole’s op-ed in The New York Times on August 16, 2005 (I would link to said article, but The Times doesn’t make that easy). Dole called for a federal shield law in that column. I’m implying that, like a broken clock, conservatives like Dole are correct from time to time.

The outrage over mere talk of establishing a federal reporter’s shield law reminds me a bit of the outrage over same-sex marriage: they’re equally outrageous reactions that betray a deeper paranoia.

Opponents of journalists’ shield laws are quick to point out that journalists should be afforded no privilege higher than that of ordinary american citizens. If that were the case (and countless court decisions agree), no whistle blower in their right mind would ever dare talk to a Bob Woodward, let alone a Brian Williams. But then, people who fight a federal shield law are many of the same characters who still believe Watergate was a mistake — only in that it drove a “great president” from office.

As of now, the shield laws that exist in most states protect reporters from having to disclose information obtained confidentially when that information does not imply complicity in an illegal act on the reporter’s part.

The law in California, which is technically an immunity from contempt, not a privilege, states that: A publisher, editor, reporter, … cannot be adjudged in contempt by a judicial, legislative, administrative body, … for refusing to disclose … the source of any information procured while so connected or employed for publication in a newspaper, magazine, or other periodical publication, or for refusing to disclose any unpublished information obtained or prepared in gathering, receiving or processing of information for communication to the public. (emphases added, and ellipses used in place of legalese)

Such a shield law would most likely have kept Judith Miller out of jail.

And a series of U.S. Supreme Court cases set the stage for what can happen at the federal level.
In Branzburg v. Hayes (1972), the court ruled that journalists can be called to testify before state and federal grand juries. But in order to force them to do so, the government had to show three things: (1) cause to believe a crime had been committed; (2) that the information they hope to get from the reporter cannot be obtained elsewhere; and (3) a compelling court interest in the information.

While the case concerned a reporter who witnessed a crime, much like the Valerie Plame investigation, Branzburg speaks to the court’s best attempts to define where privilege ends and obligation to testify begins.

Journalists are still held accountable for their actions, for example, if news is gathered in an illegal manner (established by the Supreme Court in Cohen v. Cowles Media Co. in 1991).

Oh, and this topic reminds me of gay marriage in the following way: I’m still scratching my head trying to figure out how shield laws, like same-sex marriage, in any way harms its opponents. I would still love to challenge the leading advocates of bans of and constitutional amendments against same-sex marriage to cite one simple way their rights are infringed by granting same-sex couples the right to marry.

I’d like to discuss a pet peeve. For the past couple of years (coinciding with a rising interest in journalism), I’ve had a big problem with descriptions like this, from the August 8 & 15 issue of The New Yorker: “Among the passengers the other afternoon on the Ninety-sixth Street crosstown bus was a young black man in bluejeans and a white T-shirt.”

In case it’s not obvious, my problem isn’t grammatical in nature, but rather an issue of poor word choice.

Based solely on the fact that if this man had been white, his race wouldn’t have been included in a description of him, the mere reference to his being black strikes me as absurd. You see it with just about every race except white, which makes it reek of the racist, Anglo-centric past.

True, it’s small. And yes, I’m probably both wrong to be so bothered by it and one of the few people to even notice it. Still, it’s part of my professional calling to notice the small things that make a difference.

So it some regards, it’s more than small. It’s a tiny instance that speaks to underlying, possibly subconscious racism.

It should be noted that I’m not the type of person who goes around pinning the “Racist” label with reckless abandon. To me, it’s a tricky accusation, as I believe we’re all imbued with at least a tinge of racism, in the sense that we can’t help but see race. What we do with that, both mentally and actually, is another matter altogether.

Anyway, just wanted to get this pet peeve, brought to mind by one of my favorite magazines, off my chest.