Also by Janet Malcolm
DIANA AND NIKON
PSYCHOANALYSIS: THE IMPOSSIBLE PROFESSION
IN THE FREUD ARCHIVES
FIRST VINTAGE BOOKS EDITION, NOVEMBER 1990
Copyright © 1990 by Janet Malcolm
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published, in different form, in The New Yorker. This edition was originally published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., in 1990.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Malcolm, Janet.
The journalist and the murderer / Janet Malcolm.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-307-79787-2
1. Journalistic ethics—United States. 2. Investigative reporting—United States. 3. Journalism—United States—Objectivity. 4. Journalism—Social aspects—United States.
I. Title.
[PN4888.E8 1990b]
174’.9097—dc20 90-50156
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published material:
Newsday, Inc.: Excerpts from transcript of Bob Keeler’s interview with Joe McGinniss, The Newsday Magazine, July 1983. Copyright © 1983 by Newsday, Inc. Reprinted by permission.
Princeton Alumni Weekly: Excerpts from Michael Malley’s review of Fatal Vision by Joe McGinniss, Princeton Alumni Weekly, 1984. Reprinted by permission.
South Carolina Educational Television: Excerpts from transcript of filmed interview of William F. Buckley with Joe McGinniss, “Firing Line,” September 18, 1987. Reprinted by permission.
Sterling Lord Literistic, Inc.: Excerpts from Heroes by Joe McGinniss. Copyright © 1976 by Joe McGinniss. Reprinted by permission of Sterling Lord Literistic, Inc.
v3.1
To Andulka
So a novelist is the same as a journalist, then. Is that what you’re saying?
—Question asked by Judge William J. Rea during the MacDonald-McGinniss trial, July 7, 1987
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
First Page
Afterword
About the Author
EVERY journalist who is not too stupid or too full of himself to notice what is going on knows that what he does is morally indefensible. He is a kind of confidence man, preying on people’s vanity, ignorance, or loneliness, gaining their trust and betraying them without remorse. Like the credulous widow who wakes up one day to find the charming young man and all her savings gone, so the consenting subject of a piece of nonfiction writing learns—when the article or book appears—his hard lesson. Journalists justify their treachery in various ways according to their temperaments. The more pompous talk about freedom of speech and “the public’s right to know”; the least talented talk about Art; the seemliest murmur about earning a living.
The catastrophe suffered by the subject is no simple matter of an unflattering likeness or a misrepresentation of his views; what pains him, what rankles and sometimes drives him to extremes of vengefulness, is the deception that has been practiced on him. On reading the article or book in question, he has to face the fact that the journalist—who seemed so friendly and sympathetic, so keen to understand him fully, so remarkably attuned to his vision of things—never had the slightest intention of collaborating with him on his story but always intended to write a story of his own. The disparity between what seems to be the intention of an interview as it is taking place and what it actually turns out to have been in aid of always comes as a shock to the subject. His situation resembles that of the subject of Stanley Milgram’s famous psychological experiment (conducted at Yale in the early sixties), who was tricked into believing that he was participating in a study of the effect of punishment on learning and memory when in fact what was being studied was his own capacity for cruelty under the pressure of authority. In an ingenious fake laboratory setup, the “naïve subject”—a volunteer who had answered an advertisement in a New Haven newspaper—was told to give an increasingly painful electric shock to a person, presumably another volunteer, in response to every wrong answer to a test question. In Obedience to Authority, his book about the experiment, Milgram writes of his surprise at the large number of subjects who obeyed the experimenter, and kept on pulling the lever even though the receiver of the shocks was screaming with pain—or, rather, with simulated pain, since the whole thing was rigged: the electrical apparatus to which the victim was strapped was a stage prop, and the victim himself was an actor. Milgram’s idea had been to see how ordinary Americans would behave when put in a situation roughly comparable to that of the ordinary Germans who were ordered to participate actively in the destruction of the Jews of Europe. The results were not encouraging. Although a few subjects refused to go on with the experiment at the first sign of distress from the victim, most subjects docilely continued giving shock after shock. However, Milgram’s chilling findings are not the point. The point lies in the structure of the situation: the deliberately induced delusion, followed by a moment of shattering revelation. The dizzying shift of perspective experienced by the subject of the Milgram experiment when he was “debriefed,” or “dehoaxed,” as Milgram calls it, is comparable to the dislocation felt by the subject of a book or article when he first reads it. The subject of the piece of writing has not suffered the tension and anxiety endured by the subject of the “Eichmann experiment” (as it has been called)—on the contrary, he has been on a sort of narcissist’s holiday during the period of interviews—but when the moment of peripeteia comes, he is confronted with the same mortifying spectacle of himself flunking a test of character he did not know he was taking.
However, unlike the reader of Obedience to Authority, with whom Milgram shares the technical details of the deception, the reader of a work of journalism can only imagine how the writer got the subject to make such a spectacle of himself. The subject, for his part, is not likely to supply the answer. After his dehoaxing, he tends to pick himself up and walk away from the debacle, relegating his relationship with the journalist to the rubbish heap of love affairs that ended badly and are best pushed out of consciousness. Occasionally, a subject will have become so enmeshed with the journalist that he cannot let go of him, and long after the galling book has been remaindered the relationship is maintained through the interminable lawsuit that the subject launches to keep the writer bound to him. Yet even here the journalist’s perfidy is not exposed, for the lawyer who takes the subject’s case translates his story of seduction and betrayal into one or several of the conventional narratives of libel law, such as defamation of character or false statement of facts or reckless disregard of the truth.
• • •
IN THE summer of 1984, a lawsuit was filed by a subject against a writer in which, remarkably, the underlying narrative of betrayed love was not translated into any of those conventional narratives but, rather, was told straight—and, moreover, told so compellingly that at trial five of the six jurors were persuaded that a man who was serving three consecutive life sentences for the murder of his wife and two small children was deserving of more sympathy than the writer who had deceived him.
I learned of the case only after the trial had ended, when I received a letter, dated September 1, 1987, from a certain Daniel Kornstein. The letter—which had been sent to some thirty-odd journalists throughout the country—began:
I am the lawyer who defended Joe McGinniss, author of Fatal Vision, in a six-week jury trial recently conclude
d in Los Angeles. As you may know, the suit was filed by convicted triple murderer Jeffrey MacDonald, the subject of McGinniss’s book.
The trial ended in a hung jury. Although the plaintiff recovered nothing, the possibility of a retrial means that in a very real sense the issues raised by the trial are still alive, open, and undecided. Indeed, one of the jurors—who admitted she had not read a book since high school—was reported to have said afterwards that she would have awarded “millions and millions of dollars to set an example for all authors to show they can’t tell an untruth” to their subjects.
Kornstein went on to characterize the suit—which was for fraud and breach of contract—as an attempt “to set a new precedent whereby a reporter or author would be legally obligated to disclose his state of mind and attitude toward his subject during the process of writing and research,” and to speak of the “grave threat to established journalistic freedoms” that such a precedent would pose:
For the first time, a disgruntled subject has been permitted to sue a writer on grounds that render irrelevant the truth or falsity of what was published.… Now, for the first time, a journalist’s demeanor and point of view throughout the entire creative process have become an issue to be resolved by jury trial.… The MacDonald claim suggests that newspaper and magazine reporters, as well as authors, can and will be sued for writing truthful but unflattering articles should they ever have acted in a fashion that indicated a sympathetic attitude toward their interview subject.
With his letter Kornstein enclosed transcripts of the testimony of William F. Buckley, Jr., and Joseph Wambaugh, who had appeared as expert witnesses for the defense, and excerpts from his own closing statement, “in which I tried to stress the gravity and scope of this new threat to freedom of expression.” He concluded, “Joe McGinniss and I both feel that the danger is sufficiently clear and present as to warrant your close attention and concern.”
I took Kornstein’s bait—I don’t know if any of the other journalists he wrote to did—and a few days later I was driving up to Williamstown, Massachusetts, to talk to Joe McGinniss at his house there. I looked forward to the interview, which would be the first of a series of tape-recorded conversations that McGinniss and I had arranged to have over the next few weeks. I had never interviewed a journalist before, and was curious about what would develop between me and a journalistically knowledgeable, rather than naïve, subject. Here, clearly, there would be none of the moral uneasiness that the naïve subject all but forces the journalist to endure as the price of his opportunity to once again point out the frailty of human nature. McGinniss and I would be less like experimenter and subject than like two experimenters strolling home from the lab together after the day’s work, companionably thrashing out the problems of the profession. The tape recorder would preserve the trenchant things we would say; nobody would “do” anything to anyone. The conversation would be serious, on a high level, maybe even lively and witty.
It did not work out that way. McGinniss refused the role of co-experimenter, preferring to play the role of subject. After the first hour of the five hours we spent together, I stopped struggling to preserve my scenario of elevated talk between confrères and gave in to McGinniss’s imperative that we play the old game of Confession, by which journalists earn their bread and subjects indulge their masochism. For, of course, at bottom, no subject is naïve. Every hoodwinked widow, every deceived lover, every betrayed friend, every subject of writing knows on some level what is in store for him, and remains in the relationship anyway, impelled by something stronger than his reason. That McGinniss, who had interviewed hundreds of people and knew the game backward and forward, should nevertheless exhibit himself to me as a defensive, self-righteous, scared man only demonstrates the strength of this force. Near the end of the day, he told me of a dream he had had the night before: “I was back in the courthouse in L.A. There was a second trial. I said, ‘No, this can’t be happening. I’m not ready for this yet, it’s too soon, I haven’t recovered from the first trial yet.’ When I woke up this morning, my amateur analysis of the dream was that it was about my talking to you today. This would be the new trial. It didn’t seem very subtle. The message was right on the surface.” At six o’clock, the tape recorder clicked, and though McGinniss sat waiting for me to put in a new tape, I decided to bring the interview to an end. When, two days later, he called to cancel our future interviews and to say “I want to put all this behind me,” I was not surprised, and rather relieved: I had begun to sense that McGinniss’s confession to me was not a new one. Someone had been there before me, and something was being repeated with me. A few weeks later, upon reading the transcript of the MacDonald-McGinniss trial, I knew who and what it was. What McGinniss had not yet recovered from—what he had no doubt been helplessly reliving in his imagination during his meeting with me—was a four-and-a-half-day interrogation by Gary Bostwick, the plaintiff’s lawyer. Bostwick had mauled McGinniss until there was little left of him. What McGinniss had gone through at the trial was what one goes through in those nightmares of being found out, from which one awakens with tears of gratitude that it is just a dream. Only the most hardhearted person could read the transcript of Bostwick’s examination without feeling pity for McGinniss. But even the staunchest defender of a journalist’s right to do his work in whatever unpleasant way he chooses cannot but wonder how McGinniss could have been so imprudent as to leave behind—in the form of some forty letters to MacDonald—a written record of his bad faith.
MCGINNISS is forty-eight years old and has published six books, the most recent being Blind Faith, of 1989. The first, The Selling of the President, 1968, written when he was twenty-six, brought him immediate fame and acclaim. In the 1968 Nixon-Humphrey campaign, he had penetrated the inner councils of the advertising agency hired by Nixon, and in his book he revealed the techniques by which Nixon had been made to appear less awful on television. This was in the early days of television’s use in politics, and McGinniss’s revelations (today very tame) seemed startling and ominous. The defeated Humphrey was quoted on the book jacket as having said, “The biggest mistake in my political life was not to learn how to use television,” and “I’m fighting packaged politics. It’s an abomination for a man to place himself completely in the hands of the technicians, the ghost writers, the experts, the pollsters and come out only as an attractive package.”
During our talk, McGinniss spoke of how he had come to write The Selling of the President, and surprised me when he said that he had first taken his idea of reporting a Presidential-advertising campaign to the Humphrey camp. “Humphrey’s people said, ‘Are you crazy? This is all secret. The public shouldn’t know about this. No way.’ Humphrey’s advertising agency was Doyle Dane Bernbach, a very sophisticated group who recognized right up front that a book calling attention to the process would not be in their best interest, so they wouldn’t give me any access at all. Nixon’s people were almost touchingly naïve. They said, ‘Oh, gosh, really—a book? Yeah, sure.’ These were people who had had very little experience of being written about.” Then, as if the ghost of Bostwick had just appeared at his side, McGinniss added, “But I hardly felt the obligation to say when I arrived at their offices every morning, ‘Gentlemen, I must again remind you that I’m a registered Democrat who plans to vote against Mr. Nixon, and that I think what you’re doing—which is trying to fool the American people—is sinister and malevolent, and that I intend to portray you in terms that you are not going to find flattering.’ I felt no obligation to make that statement. And when they were talking about what they were doing and turned to me and said ‘What do you think of that?’ I’d say ‘Yeah, that looks good’ if I thought it was done effectively. I was trying to make myself as unobtrusive a presence as possible. And when the book was published, they reacted with outrage or wry amusement, depending on their sense of humor or their degree of passion as Nixonians. But in no case did anyone think he could sue because he had been defrauded into believing I was going
to do something other than what I did.”
McGinniss’s next book was a novel, The Dream Team, which was a critical and commercial failure. Then, in 1976, he published a curious book called Heroes. It is a confessional work that—like many such exercises—confesses something different from what the confessor thinks he is confessing; by making himself into a subject, the autobiographer sets himself up for a betrayal no less profound than that invited by the subject of someone else’s writing. Heroes juxtaposes chapters about (among other personal matters) McGinniss’s inability to be nice to his girlfriend, Nancy Doherty (now his second wife), because of the guilt he feels over leaving his wife and three children, with chapters about meetings with public figures such as Eugene McCarthy, Ted Kennedy, Daniel Berrigan, George McGovern, William Westmoreland, and William Styron, who disappoint him, and confirm him in his notion that there are no heroes left in the world. Before his meeting with McCarthy, over lunch at Toots Shor’s, McGinniss rehearses his lines:
What I wanted to say to him was: “Look. Once you were at the center of things. Everything revolved around you. You had squeezed your whole universe into a ball and had held it in your hands and no one could touch it. Now it’s gone. The moment has passed. It won’t be back.” I wanted to say also that once I had been at the center of things: at twenty-six I had written a book which had become the best-selling nonfiction book in America. It had got good reviews almost everywhere. It was deemed important, and, as its author, so was I. The youngest person ever (I was told) to have written a book that became number one on the New York Times best-seller list. Not counting Anne Frank. Then the moment had passed. In many ways, as McCarthy had seemed to, I had tried to make it pass. Part of him had needed to not win. Part of me had needed to not succeed.… Now, I wanted to ask Eugene McCarthy, What happens next? Where is the center of things? Why didn’t we stay there? Will we ever be there again?
The Journalist and the Murderer Page 1
