Secretary of State Mike Pompeo’s private remonstration and subsequent public rebuke of NPR reporter Mary Louise Kelly has many facets to it — from a fundamental disagreement about the ground rules under which Pompeo agreed to an interview to Pompeo’s long-running animus for the public radio network dating back to his days as a member of Congress.
But one aspect is relatively straightforward: Pompeo’s assertion and Kelly’s denial that the post-interview imbroglio in which Kelly claims Pompeo berated her in an F-bomb-laden tirade was supposed to be off the record.
As a Washington-based reporter for more than four decades, I have attended dozens of off-the-record dinners, had hundreds of off-the-record conversations with sources, and been an observer at many off-the-record events.
And as such, when it comes to “off the record,” I know a thing or two because I’ve seen a thing or two (as the insurance company slogan goes).
And so should Pompeo.
Set aside for the moment whether Kelly went too far in pressing Pompeo to answer a question he clearly indicated he would not or whether Pompeo should have kept his cool and handled the situation more diplomatically.
Focus instead on Pompeo’s complaint, issued as an official statement the day after the dust-up, that Kelly had agreed to keep the “post-interview conversation off the record” and thereby committed a “shameful” offense, violating “the basic rules of journalism and decency.”
There are several things to consider about the allegation.
One is that for a conversation to be off the record, both sides have to give explicit, affirmative consent before the conversation takes place.
Usually, this comes when an official says to a reporter something along the lines of, “I’m going to tell you something, but you have to agree it will be off the record,” which gives the journalist the option of declining.
In a group setting, several reporters might get invited to speak to the secretary in an off-the-record session, and merely by attending the event, the reporters tacitly accept the ground rules.
For the case in question, according to NPR, Pompeo objected to a series of questions about former U.S. Ambassador to Ukraine Marie Yovanovitch, and after Kelly wouldn’t drop the subject, Katie Martin, deputy assistant secretary for the State Department, “politely ended the interview.”
Kelly says Martin then asked her to come to Pompeo’s private quarters without her tape recorder but “did not say we were off the record, nor would I have agreed.”
But whoever is right about what was said when and by whom, Pompeo’s understanding of “off the record” does not square with the practice and spirit of “off the record” as commonly applied in Washington.
Officials offer, and journalists often agree to accept, off-the-record information so that reporting can be better informed. While the information itself is not to be reported, just knowing it can help reporters frame a story with a more nuanced context and suggest leads for follow-up. In turn, government officials can to some degree counter false narratives — assuming, of course, there is a degree of trust between the two parties.
What an off-the-record agreement with a reporter is not, is a shield against rude, abusive, or even criminal behavior. One does not have to have much of an imagination to come up with scenarios in which a reporter would feel bound to break a promise of confidentiality.
As a reporter who covers the military, I have thought about this a lot.
While in my 40-year career I have never knowingly broken an agreement to keep what I’ve seen and heard to myself, that doesn’t mean I never would.
Allow me to explain.
Let’s say hypothetically in an off-the-record discussion, a high-ranking general disparaged the president of the United States with a vicious ethnic or racial slur, which would be a clear violation of military law, which bars officers from uttering contemptuous words against the commander in chief.
Let’s take it a step further. Let’s say a government official invited a reporter to have an off-the-record discussion in his hotel room and then sexually assaulted the reporter.
Or suppose as a reporter, I was invited to accompany a U.S. military unit on patrol with the condition that I could observe but report nothing of the operation, but then, I witnessed the mass murder of civilians.
In each of these admittedly extreme cases, I would likely inform my source that I could no longer honor my off-the-record pledge.
At this point, I should note that the practice of proving information off the record is not a law or a rule that is codified anywhere — but rather a convention employed by two parties that trust each other.
When I would attend off-the-record dinners in Washington, I would often interject at the beginning with my personal definition of “off the record.”
“Off the record,” I would say, “means not for reporting in any form.” Pause a beat: “Unless it’s really, really good.”
The joke would always get a laugh.
But as my mother said, “Many a truth is said in jest,” and as any good public affairs officer would advise Pompeo, it’s better not to say anything off the record that would embarrass you if it got out.
Because somehow, it will.
Jamie McIntyre is the Washington Examiner’s senior writer on defense and national security. His morning newsletter, “Jamie McIntyre’s Daily on Defense,” is free and available by email subscription at dailyondefense.com.
