Jeremy

The Brutal Economics of Investigative Journalism

What happens when you, or your client, is the subject of a journalistic investigation? Run, hide, fight back, plead guilty, plead the 5th, get in front of it, or what?

A recent piece in The Guardian -- ‘Lying for the laugh’: should comedians tell us the truth? -- prompted me to consider this more deeply. The piece builds around an investigative piece in The New Yorker (archived version) about Hasan Minhaj, a comedian whose material is based on his experience as an American Muslim, which questioned the veracity of the experiences he describes. Minhaj fought back with a video .¹

So let's get the biggest thing out of the way first: For this kind of story the 'interview(s)' you have with the journalist(s) are not, well, interviews. Nor are they conversations. The outcome will not be what you think it might be. You're not, ultimately, trying to persuade them that they don't have a case. They may appear and sound reasonable but this is not that kind of discussion. Most likely, they're talking to you because they already have the story -- or a story that they feel comfortable (editorially, legally) telling -- and they're talking to you to get the quotes, a chance for you to tell your side.

If they're fair, they will include most of your rebuttals. But the cake is already baked, the goose (namely you) cooked.

The Unlikely Spike

But the cake is already baked. However nice you are, however helpful you are, however much material you provide them with, the chances are that the story is already largely written. I've not worked or written for the New Yorker, and I have a lot of respect for it, but the rules of the game are pretty much the same for any mainstream media organisation that is doing big, investigative pieces.

The resources have already been spent. The ship has sailed. It takes an awful lot to get someone to call it back to shore and accept that all the work done has a flaw. I call it the brutal economics of investigative journalism.

It works a bit like this.

• Someone in editorial -- an editor, a journalist -- pitches a story along the lines of: this well-known figure is not everything they're cracked up to be. Usually this comes from a bit of reporting, a passing comment, a hint from a source etc. At this point the story usually has little substance, but it's decided it's worth following up. A reporter is assigned.

• The reporter reports 'around' the subject of the piece. The subject -- maybe object would be a better word here -- is not approached directly until most of the reporting is done. There's still a possibility the story may be dropped: maybe there's less to it than meets the eye. This could be a decision on the part of the journalist, or an editor.

• If the story is still considered worth pursuing, the journalist goes off to talk to as many people as people, obtain court and other records, builds a picture of what, exactly, are the bits that support the 'not everything they're cracked up to be' angle.

• Once they're done, then they go back to the subject/object of the piece, to run all the allegations past them. It's important to note that there's very little chance the story will be dropped. The structure might be re-arranged, maybe rewritten if a draft is already done, but there's very little chance that the story will be dropped. Resources have already been spent, the reporter is deeply committed, and that makes spiking it a hard, but not impossible, decision.

The Sins of Embellishment

So what can we learn from the Hasan Minhaj case? Clare Malone's story is, essentially, that Minhaj lied about the stories he told in his act about his experience as a 'brown' Muslim in America.

[A]fter many weeks of trying, I had been unable to confirm some of the stories that he had told onstage. When we met on a recent afternoon, at a comedy club in the West Village, Minhaj acknowledged, for the first time, that many of the anecdotes he related in his Netflix specials were untrue.

She doesn't use the word 'lie' but 'untrue' is just a fancy word for 'lies'. In fact, the story is less about whether Minhaj lied, but whether it's OK to lie. The story itself is set up, even before you start reading, to assume the truth of the assertion that his stories were lies: The headline is:

Hasan Minhaj’s “Emotional Truths”

And the subhed is this:

In his standup specials, the former “Patriot Act” host often recounts harrowing experiences he’s faced as an Asian American and Muslim American. Does it matter that much of it never happened to him? (my italics)

In other words, the story is asserting out of the traps that a lot of what Minhaj said happened to him related to his ethnicity was a lie. The story is, therefore, about whether this matters. In other words, the story has already -- before a word of it is actually read -- asserted that his mendacity has already been established, and that the only issue left to discuss is whether this actually matters. (Yes, it's not always fair to blame a reporter for a headline or subhed, because those are often left to the editors putting together the magazine/paper etc. But in the case of The New Yorker I would be very surprised if the reporter and whichever editor/s she worked with were not involved in it.)

To me that definitely frontloads the story. Minhaj is guilty of the crime, we're just deciding the sentence.

Thus, even when Minhaj issues his own (partial) rebuttal, via a 20-minute YouTube video, that merely provides an opportunity for other outlets to 'back into' the story. Take, for example, The New York Times, which assumes he lied (OK, 'embellished'): Hasan Minhaj Addresses Embellished Stories Detailed by The New Yorker.

The result, of course, is that the damage has already been done. Minhaj has now been lumped in the public's mind with plagiarists and fantasists -- those that people make up stuff. As Aja Romano writes in her Vox piece Hasan Minhaj, the New Yorker, and the trouble with storytelling, Malone places Minhaj's sins as within "the slipperiness of memoir", equating his standup with

James Frey’s nonexistent drug rampages, Margaret B. Jones’s entirely fake impoverished childhood or Misha Defonseca’s completely made-up Jewish Holocaust survivor identity.

Fact-checking yourself

I don't want to get into whether Minhaj has a genuine grievance about the story -- there are some good pieces exploring it mentioned in a footnote to this piece. But I would say that The New Yorker may itself be acknowledging it went too far with its own response to Minhaj's video:

Hasan Minhaj confirms in this video that he selectively presents information and embellishes to make a point: exactly what we reported. Our piece, which includes Minhaj's perspective at length, was carefully reported and fact-checked. It is based on interviews with more than twenty people, including former "Patriot Act" and "Daily Show" staffers; members of Minhaj's security team; and people who have been the subject of his standup work, including the former F.B.I. informant "Brother Eric" and the woman at the center of his prom rejection story. We stand by our story.

Truth be told, The New Yorker did not report that Minhaj 'selectively' presented information, and 'embellished'. It said that many of his anecdotes were 'untrue' and that 'much of it never happened to him.' In fact, taking their response literally, the word 'selectively' never appears in the story in the story, and 'embellish' only appears in a different context.

In other words, The New Yorker ends up essentially playing the same game that Minhaj is playing -- making a stronger point on top of foundations that aren't, under scrutiny, as strong as they first appear. While I do think Minhaj should look more closely at his act and hew more closely to actual events than he appears to, I think The New Yorker should take a closer look at its own procedures.

Either the publication oversells its rigor, or this one slipped through the net, because the piece -- let alone the topic -- feels unworthy of the magazine. And given its reputation for stringent fact-checking, it probably needs to take a rethink about what exactly a 'fact' is these days. As I explore below, it seems to be pushing its own high standards on a stand-up comic, while falling short of those standards itself.

The Minhaj Manoeuvre

So what do we learn from this, as PR for, and the client themselves?

Well, we're definitely into weird and sensitive territory here. A comedian's act is being scrutinized in the same way an author or other public figure is. That illustrates a couple of things here: political polarization has forced us to look in different places for a guide on what is really happening, and to whom. As a Muslim American, Minhaj has found himself, and built a career out of, being the archetype Muslim American whose experience can be conveyed in a digestible form -- through humour.

At the same time we have somehow emerged into a world where some are held to stricter standards than before -- comedians, say -- while other types -- some politicians, former presidents, say -- who previously had to walk a careful line, escape scot-free. This has huge implications in a world where reputations can be destroyed/'cancelled' overnight.

So should Minhaj have spoken back, or stayed quiet? Well, his response may have been more widely viewed than the piece itself (which is behind a paywall): it currently has 1.9 million views and nearly 17,000 comments, and I gave up scrolling to try to find a negative comment. So on the surface it seems to be job well done. But...

It doesn't necessarily mean this is the way to go.

First off, Minhaj and his team made a basic error by sharing a misconception many have about journalists. As I mentioned above, the object of an investigative piece is usually the last person to be interviewed. I don't know whether this was the case here, but the timing of the interview -- Sept 12, 2023, according to Minhaj's screenshots -- is only three days before the story is published online, according to the list of Malone's stories. That would give the reporter very little time to go back to the other sources she had interviewed and checked his claims against theirs. (Possible, of course, I accept), and even less time for the fact-checkers.

Journalists' responses in these situations should not be taken at face value. The Yeahs, the Sures, the I understands. They're merely encouraging noises, not responses. Yet Minhaj (and his publicist) still seem to believe they can persuade the journalist his side of the story, and she offers little in the way to disabuse them of that.

Olfactory dodginess

This is not rocket science and I feel the publicist doesn't do Minhaj any favours here. Something should have smelt off from the get-go. It should have been relatively simple to recognise that this was an investigative piece into the client and that the reporting had already been done. There would be little space for Minhaj's version of events and (probably) little time left to re-report the story by going back to the sources and presenting them with Minhaj's version of events (and his evidence.)

The only slivers of hope would be: The New Yorker prides itself on process. Since soon after its founding in 1925 it has a fact-checking department which Julian Barnes described thus:

After your article has been clipped and styled [. . .] it is delivered to The New Yorker’s fact-checking department. The operatives here are young, unsleeping, scrupulously polite and astoundingly pertinacious. They bug you to hell and then they save your ass... They don’t mind who they call in their lust for verification. They check with you, with your informants, with their computerized information system, with objective authorities; they check to your face and they check behind your back.²

Did the fact-checking department demand their pound of flesh in this case? There is enough in Minhaj's interview and the data that his publicist provided (or at least promised to provide) to the journalist to suggest that this material should be aligned and checked with the other sources, especially since those sources were for the most part unnamed. It's not clear that this happened -- or at least, it's not clear that time was given for this to happen, if the timeline above is correct.

This hopefully will be cleared up in due course. The statement posted on on Malone's X (formerly Twitter) account says the piece was "carefully reported and fact-checked," so we know that something happened. My question would be whether Minhaj's contribution was fact-checked, both with his team and with those sources who reported a different version of events.

The general rule

So a general lesson from this is: understand the publication you're dealing with, research it if you are not familiar with it, and then demand your rights within the purported editorial process of that publication. In Minhaj's case, I believe it would be quite legitimate to ask several questions of the journalist before agreeing to an interview:

• how long have you been working on this story?

• when do you plan to publish the story?

• what topics do you intend to cover in the interview?

• what is the fact-checking process for this story, and when will it be or when was it done?

• what will happen to my contribution to the story? Will it affect the reporting that has been done, and will you go back to sources whose accounts are at odds wioth mine?

Some publications may not agree to anwering these questions, which is their right. But it should give you an idea of what you're in for, and whether producing all the receipts at this point in the story is likely to have any substantive impact on the story, or the publication of the story. (And I have to admit I am not sure whether anyone does this. If that's the case I would argue that's an opportunity lost to reclaim some degree of influence over what the story looks like. )

In one recent case I was involved in, the company at the centre of allegations made by sources in the story declined to make anyone available for interview. While it probably didn't ultimately impact the story -- or the stomach for the TV program involved to air the allegations -- it could be argued the move was a smart one. The company was probably already familiar with the allegations being made, and so whatever it said, and however far it went to try to address the allegations, the story would still be told. By issuing a small statement instead it denied oxygen to that part of the story and limited the journalist's room for manoeuvre, while appearing to be above the fray.

But.

It didn't stop the story going out, and anyone who watched it would be aware that something had happened that the company apparently didn't handle well. The short term win is clear, but the long-term upside up in the air.

Could the company have done things differently? Probably. The story was going out anyway. It was a key topic that ultimately the company would need to show it understood. An articulate spokesperson on screen might have been a way to get in front of the story, presenting a human face, along with some answers that made clear the company had learned some lessons from the episode as well.

But it's easy to argue the other way. What should be included in any calculation is a good understanding of the situation based on the questions I laid out above. By asking those questions you can formulate what your options are. Because there is at least one other way to go: pre-emption.

The Dele Defence

Back in July an English footballer, Dele Alli, was interviewed by a former footballer, Gary Neville, for his podcast: Dele: "Now is the Time to Talk". He talked for the first time about addiction, sexual abuse and feeling abandoned by his birth parents. It was powerful stuff: the video has been watched 5.8 million times, and the video helped to rehabilitate the reputation of a footballer whose early success had given way to lacklustre performances and increasing marginalisation.

But why did the usually taciturn Dele decide to open up so completely on a fellow footballer's podcast? Apparently one or more British tabloid newspapers -- notoriously aggressive and sensationalist -- were sniffing around Dele's off-field woes and were about to publish. It's not clear which newspapers, so it can only be assumed, but Dele's move apparently robbed the newspapers of their scoop.

But it did something else.

The footballer Dele Alli became a person rather than a footballing robot, someone many people could relate to, and the response was overwhelmingly positive. The video allowed Dele to tell his story in his way, and his semi-permanent half-smile turned from what once looked like a smirk to be what it was: a brave face put on through a difficult, turbulent time. (OK, I'm a Spurs fan so I acknowledge some bias, but generally coverage of Dele since the interview has been much more thoughtful and sympathetic.)

This approach -- radical transparency -- might not always work but when there's a high risk of a negative story appearing about you, it might well be worth the effort. The interviewer clearly knew what they were going to be talking about beforehand, but the 40 minute interview was credible enough for it not to feel like issues were being sidestepped or airbrushed out. Radical transparency is just that: it has to look and feel authentic. Minhaj's rebuttal had a similar quality, though perhaps several questions and issues were left un- or partially addressed.

The Epstein Gambit

There is one other approach -- coincidentally one that allegedly worked successfully at The New Yorker. The magazine itself explored the case in its 2022 piece, Why Didn’t Vanity Fair Break the Jeffrey Epstein Story?, about allegations by one of its contributors, Vicky Ward, that the then editor of the magazine decided not to publish her piece about Epstein -- a sexual abuser who died shortly after his arrest for trafficking minors in 2019 -- after approaches and phone calls by Epstein himself. (The New Yorker in the piece cited above denied her version of events.)

I suspect this elite-level approach is more common than it looks. A journalist is always going to be talking to prominent figures, and those prominent figures have connections, either in the media industry or in media-owning circles. Conflicting share-holding makes things even murkier. But I don't think anyone sensible would recommend this approach as it carries with it the whiff of censorship, corruption, and cronyism, and for journalists this is red rag to a bull.

Acceptance

The reality is that very few of us could withstand intense scrutiny of our background and actions -- there are always going to be people who, out of jealousy or legitimate grievance, would be ready to offer a negative account of our actions. That is not to say such stories are without merit, and better quality media would include balance, usually in the form of a 'to-be-sure graf'. But as we can see from the Minhaj case that balance is no good if the story is so strongly fronted by headlines, subheds and key sentences that prejudge the issue before any evidence is presented.

So there is always the option of accepting the story is going to happen and just accept it. But it still pays to work out what you're up against, and a journalist should provide at least some of the answers. Then you have a choice:

• engage on their terms and hope for the best (The Minhaj Manoeuvre)

• provide only a statement

• say nothing

• pre-empt the story (The Deli Defence)

• over their heads (The Epstein Gambit)

Keeping the channels open

There's one other approach worth considering: Keeping the channels open. One investigative piece I produced involved reporting extensively on one individual, and by the time I picked up the phone to interview them the story had already largely been written, and receipts collated. The person said that the claims I made were all rubbish, and he denied most of the substance of the story. We ran with it anyway, because I had the receipts, but I made sure that his denials were properly included, and I allowed him the final quote of the story, emphasising his rejection of the claims. The outcome was a that he felt I had at least been fair, and when, much later, I reached out to him on another story he didn't reject the contact out of hand.

This won't always work, but there is no point for the subject of a piece, however much it felt like a drive-by shooting, to condemn the journalist who produced it, or the publication they work for to eternal purgatory. For journalists it's never (OK, rarely) personal, and unless you felt the journalist crossed any decent line of integrity and honesty, it's better to leave the door half-open.

The bottom line: If you feel the heat of someone preparing a story on you like this, it pays to take it seriously and to prepare yourself by recording all interviews you have given, save all communications you make with journalists (and anyone, frankly, including social media messaging), and be ready to spend time preparing a robust defence -- which includes figuring out where your case might be weak and anticipating what that might look like in print, in audio or in video. Only then should you decide which move to play, and when.

---

[1]  Some other pieces worth reading on the topic: Hasan Minhaj response: Did the New Yorker really do him dirty? Explained, Hasan Minhaj, the New Yorker, and the trouble with storytelling, ‘I’m not a psycho’: Hasan Minhaj responds to New Yorker claims he told false stories.
[2]  Julian Barnes, Letters from London: 1990–1995 (London and Basingstoke: Picador, 1995), pp. xiii–xiv, quoted in *Writing for The New Yorker: Critical Essays on an American Periodical, Edited by Fiona Green, EDINBURGH University Press, 2015




 

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