When journalists investigate private businesses for wrongdoing, or upcoming products, or rumors, etc., do they commit corporate espionage? By “corporate espionage” (or “industrial espionage”), I mean simply when one business attempts to obtain information about another business for competitive gain.

Journalists usually work for privately-held media. Learning about other companies helps journalists against their competition by spawning fresh, potentially exclusive, stories to go on their websites or into their newspapers.

• Journalists could argue that they provide a public service.

  Probably, but:

  • That doesn’t necessarily cancel out their engaging in business-against-business intelligence work.

  • Couldn’t the businesses that journalists investigate also argue, under the dominant ideology in this country, that they provide a public service by offering goods in the marketplace? If so, do they contribute better public services than do journalists?

• Journalists could argue that, if the corporation is clearly harming the public, then the journalist has a stronger moral claim to investigate them.

  But, journalists can’t know about the corporation’s harm until after their investigation. Their investigation could demonstrate that the reporter’s hunch was incorrect, in which case we would have to go back to whose public service was greater.

Does it matter whether journalists are considered corporate spies?

If journalists coordinated with law enforcement before investigating private businesses (given that we rely on the government to watch over business otherwise), thereby working on behalf of a public agency, would their work stop being corporate espionage? [1]

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But at the same time, I don’t quite get it. Concern for context in journalism has been around since before the Hutchins Commission, which in 1947 wrote: “The media should provide a truthful, comprehensive and intelligent account of the day’s events in a context which gives them meaning.”

So, what’s different today? The Web, obviously. It provides great opportunities for context and background.

But, then again, so do books, and they’re not new.

But, then then, the most oft-cited “explainer” I’m aware of is a radio program, This American Life’s “Giant Pool of Money” (which lived up to the hype).

I’m left with a couple of questions:

Does “context” mean something different now such that Web provides it better than “old” media could?

If explainers are so important to our understanding, why do we need newspapers? Even after we understand the context, what good is a daily report when a more infrequent summary could provide the same, while linking it to the context we’ve already absorbed or the context we don’t know yet? (As a commenter on PressThink notes, explainers are not simple.)

Has the meaning of “context” changed such that the time and effort normally considered required to understand an issue in context is no longer applies? If news organizations’ try to provide the news quickly and in easily-digestable forms, should we expect them to provide context?

Note also the irony in the message at the bottom of the video window: “Did you know? Viewers like you are our largest single source of support.”

(Thanks to Bob Moser for the link.)

Wouldn’t you know it? That view reared its head in the Washington Post:

“I don’t think it’s appropriate for a reporter in our newsroom to be challenging the views, or challenging the integrity, of our editorial board”

speaketh Liz Spayd, the Post’s managing editor.

A reporter challenging authority? Perish the thought!

It’s a news industry truism that most people read newspapers for the comics and the sports. Assuming it’s a true truism, and even given that most readers of The New York Times are not comparable to the rest of the country, doesn’t Michael Roston’s advice on what the Times should charge for on its Web site make sense? Charge them for the diversions! Wedding listings, maybe crosswords. Hey, it might work.

Consider (what I think is) the article’s conclusion:

Having failed to persuade President Obama to scrap a proposed tax on high-cost health insurance policies, labor leaders took their case Tuesday to Speaker Nancy Pelosi, and they said they received a more favorable response.

“[Labor leaders] said they received a more favorable response [from Pelosi].” Shouldn’t this be an extraordinarily easy argument to prove? All I need is a to read a labor leader telling me how they were received by Obama, and how much better their reception from Pelosi was.

But what are we told about the reactions of “labor leaders”? Only Andrew Stern saying: “I love the House, and I love the speaker.”

By what rules of logic and argumentation can we reach the conclusion from Stern’s statement?

If no such rule exists, why should we believe what the article is arguing? Why couldn’t the article have simply featured a few quotes?

What upsets me is that the kind of logic on display seems to be common among journalists–those who describe their role as helping people know about what their government is doing. It frustrates me that what passes for political journalism is appears to be devoid of basic argumentative skill.

But, I can’t back up with data the feeling that this writing style is common. It is just memory talking. So, I would welcome arguments to the contrary.

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Reporting: A 747 aircraft crashed in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean yesterday.

Journalism: A review of maintenance reports of the 747 aircraft that crashed last month revealed that the airplane had a faulty engine parts. Reports indicate that airline management ignored warnings that the parts were malfunctioning.

Journalism is getting beneath the news. It’s investigation, analysis and thoughtful commentary. It’s in-depth expository reporting. And people are still willing to pay for good journalism. That’s why newspapers and magazines that have placed a premium on providing good journalism have done better — for the most part — than those that focused more on reporting (the Wall Street Journal and New York Times come to mind).

Whose journalism?

“It’s in-depth expository reporting.” How can journalism be different from reporting if it’s a particular form of reporting?

Setting that question aside, is it correct to say that Snell’s definition makes no assumptions as to who is investigating, analyzing, and commenting? If so, is it true that “people [I assume he's thinking primarily of Americans] are willing to pay for good journalism”? Were they ever willing to pay for it?

I present Exhibit A: the federal government. The government happens to have a Federal Aviation Administration, which, according to its Mission, “[issues] and [enforces] regulations and minimum standards covering manufacturing, operating, and maintaining aircraft.” The FAA issues reports on such matters. The Government Accountability Office also issues reports investigating, analyzing, and commenting on government activities, reports that news organizations generally find trustworthy [1].

Although it’s incorrect to say that federal agencies are the only groups capable of producing journalism (as Snell points out, the major newspapers and magazines do so as well), were we to support a higher taxation rate, of course, we would also be supporting for the invaluable journalism of the FAA, GAO, and others. But, I think I can just assert that Americans shudder at the word “taxes.” Is it then fair to assert that Americans are still willing to pay for good journalism? Or, does the question require additional clarification: Whose journalism?

Journalism and argument

Why is the distinction between journalism and reporting important? Is not the quality of a claim — its evidence and reasoning — more important than naming the species of the claim?

What if I were to tell you that a plane crashed outside my apartment yesterday. Would you believe me? Not unless you were given additional evidence, such as a quote from an airline official, or images from the scene. So long as a reader uses critical thinking skills, and thereby recognizing that some claims are more difficult to prove than others, shouldn’t we be discussing which kinds of claims are more important for us to preserve?

Notes

1. Here’s a report from The New York Times, which Snell approvingly cites, that uses a GAO report to add background to a story.

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As to why “philosophy of journalism” is not a major topic of philosophical study, I would have thought the answer obvious: it’s not a central or substantial intellectual or cultural practice, unlike science, art, or law.

John Merrill or Clifford Christians et al. might disagree. But, I dunno. What do you say, journalists? Can you defend your profession?

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I wanted to share some ideas I heard at the panel, as well as hear your responses to my initial reaction to them.

The Fifth Estate

Most journalists know their profession is commonly called the “4th Estate,” so named by those who consider it as important to U.S. democracy as the legislative, judicial, and executive branches of government (the other three “estates”). According to the panel – I believe McBride mentioned it – the bloggers, Tweeters, and at-large pundits online world constitute a “5th estate.”

At the moment, McBride said, most of the 5th Estate takes content from the 4th Estate, but provides little in return. The 5th Estate’s behavior is killing the 4th, in the form the 4th’s decreasing volume of original reporting. The 5th Estate will flounder if the 4th dies, McBride said, but, more importantly, democracy will not survive if the 4th Estate dies and the 5th lives.

Claiming democracy will perish if the press – as we understand it today – fades away is bold. I’m inclined to distrust the idea on its grand nature alone.

The panelists themselves seemed to discount the idea when they highlighted Talking Points Memo as an example of an organization migrating from the 5th to 4th estate. It may take time for similar sites to emerge, of course, and that gap is scary.

On a minor note, I’m not sure the term “5th Estate” makes sense. If the 4th Estate is named because its importance to democracy, do we wish to similarly ascribe “unofficial branch of government” status to the 5th Estate if it holds the power to destroy democracy?

For that matter, how many Estates can we have? What’s the 12th Estate going to look like? How will it relate to the other 11?

Relationships

McBride asserted, slightly offhandedly, the “essential importance of relationships” for successful journalists. The word “relationships” often reminds me of Relational Responsibility, by Sheila McNamee and Kenneth Gergen.

What’s neat about the book is its structure. McNamee and Gergen begin by outlining their theory of relational responsibility (you can read a summary of the theory here if interested). The next section presents critiques – some supportive, others not – from other authors who were able to read McNamee and Gergen’s outline and submit responses. In the final section, McNamee and Gergen respond to the critiques.

In this setup, the authors practice what they preach. They see their presentation of relational responsibility as inextricably linked to how others evaluate it. So, they try to recognize that link within the book itself.

Could a journalist publish a report with as much respect for others? I wonder whether someone locked into a “traditional” newsroom would even attempt to.

Could you imagine a story that says, “here’s what we think happened at this event, but after that you’ll find some other recollections, and then after those we’ll respond to some of those comments.” Of course not. Traditional newsrooms, I would guess, are too concerned about appearing authoritative.

“Conversation”

The words “conversation” and “discussion” appeared repeatedly throughout the session. “We need bring so and so into the conversation.” “This has been a really rich discussion.” &c. The words were tossed around so many times I lost track of what they meant. They began to feel vacuous, or at least unhelpful.

I asked myself what such a “conversation” might look like, and imagined people sitting around the room, debating something in civil tones. OK, fine.

But, why are they talking? Suppose it’s for each participant to arrive at a conclusion about some issue in the area. If so, then to consider the “conversation” by itself is incomplete. The conversation occurs within a larger context. In the case of this hypothetical, the context might be that the participants’ conclusions will affect another action, such as voting. Whatever the context is, it demonstrates that a “conversation” isn’t just.

What is the context for a conversation about journalism? Is it to convince readers why professional, traditional journalists are important? Do the readers get any kind of “vote” in the process? What, in other words, is the reason for the conversation? What do each of the participants get to do?

Let me elaborate on these points. I’d love to hear your responses.

I should first mention that I haven’t read Foreman’s book in full. So, I am well aware that all someone needs to do is tell me that Foreman addresses my concerns somewhere in the text, and I will deservedly slink back into my corner. However, the excerpt chapter, table of contents, and index offered on the book’s Web site do not suggest to me the book contains any refutation to what I’m about to say.

Justifying a new approach

The book, as Foreman told an Inquirer reporter, is based on the assumption that studying individual cases is more conducive to ethical development than general theories. The reporter, Michael D. Schaffer, includes quotes from other journalism professors and thinkers supporting Foreman’s position.

Foreman tells Schaffer: “What a lot of the current books do is to say, ‘You figure it out’ … I think [students] ought to know, ‘Here are the consensus guidelines in the profession.’ Here are all the experiences, good and bad, that practicing journalists have had.”

My fairest interpretation of this statement is that Foreman believes students are too inexperienced to contextualize ethical journalistic quandaries with all of the factors likely to influence their decision. Hence, ethics texts ask students to “figure out” a question they cannot construct.

Are practicing journalists that special?

But Foreman responds with the opposite extreme: He constructs for students both the questions and the appropriate answers by grounding an ethics textbook in the “consensus guidelines in the profession.”

Privileging the consensus view does not teach proper behavior; it only discourages challenges to that consensus. Additionally, by deliberately excluding the views of non-journalists, the book assumes that only journalists hold the key to acting ethically, or at least that journalists operate outside of the ethical realm occupied by the rest of us.

Contradiction

Foreman’s approach is also incompatible with one of the reasons, as described by one of Schaffer’s sources, for creating case study-based ethics books.

As Professor David Boeyink told Schaffer, journalism ethics spends “too much time focusing on top-down reasoning as a way of resolving ethical issues … [students need to decide] from the bottom up, focusing largely on the details of cases.”

But if journalism ethics is, in fact, too focused on the “top down,” then why does Foreman outline “the consensus guidelines in the profession”? Are guidelines not a “top” level of reasoning meant to guide the “bottom” reasons — exactly what Boeyink argues textbooks should not provide?

To recap, I disagree with Foreman’s case-study based approach to ethics because (a) it privileges the status quo opinion while discouraging challenge to that opinion; and (b) contradicts the original reasoning behind case study-based texts.

What do you think? Please share your comments.

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