by Walter
Brasch
She quietly walked into the classroom and
stood there, just inside the door, against a wall.
The professor, his back to her, continued
his lecture, unaware of her presence until his students’ eyes began focusing
upon her rather than him.
“Yes?” he asked, turning to her. Just “Yes.”
Nothing more.
“You shouldn’t have done it,” she said
peacefully. He was confused. So she said it again, this time a little louder.
“Ma’am,” he began, but she cut him off. He
tried to defuse the situation, but couldn’t reason with her. She pulled a gun
from her purse and shot him, and then quickly left. He recovered immediately.
It took less than a minute.
The scene was yet another exercise in the
professor’s newswriting class, this one unannounced but highly planned. His
assignment was for the students to quickly write down everything they could
about the incident. What happened. What was said. What she looked like. What
she was wearing. Just the facts. Nothing more.
Everyone got some of the information
right, but no one got all the facts, even the ones they were absolutely
positively sure they saw or heard correctly. And, most interestingly, the “gun”
the visitor used and which the students either couldn’t identify or
misidentified was in reality a . . . banana; a painted black banana, but a banana
nevertheless. The actual gunshot was on tape on a hidden recorder activated by
the professor.
It was a lesson in observation and truth.
Witnesses often get the facts wrong,
unable to distinguish events happening on top of each other. Sometimes they
even want to “help” the reporter and say what they think the reporter wants to
hear.
Reporters are society’s witnesses who
record history by interviewing other witnesses, and they all make mistakes, not
because they want to, but because everyone’s life experiences and perceptions
fog reality. Put 10 reporters into a PTA meeting or court trial, and there will
be 10 different stories.
Of the infinite number of facts and
observations that occur, reporters must select a few. Which few they select,
which thousands they deliberately don’t select—and, more important—which parts
they don’t even know exist—all make up news, usually written under deadline
pressure. Thus, it isn’t unusual for readers to wonder how reporters could have
been in the same meeting as they were since the published stories didn’t seem
to reflect the reality of that meeting.
It’s no different with witnesses to a
shooting on a public street.
Put 10 witnesses in the same area. All may
get some common facts accurately. But, each witness sees the same scene
different. It may be because they see it from different locations, from
different perspectives, from different backgrounds.
Now, place a police officer into the
scene. And let’s assume the officer shot and killed an unarmed suspect, one he
may have believed was posing an imminent threat to his life. Now, let’s have the police officer testify
before a grand jury as to what happened.
What happened at the scene, and what the
police officer later remembered may be different. The police officer may not
have lied to the grand jury; he may have embedded into his own memory something
different from what had happened—or why it happened—or how it happened. Time
continually changes our perceptions of reality.
Add in a prosecutor, because prosecutors
are the ones who control grand juries. They are the ones who present evidence,
call witnesses, and create the narrative the grand jury follows. There are no
defense attorneys. There are no cross-examinations.
In one city in America, a prosecutor chose
his witnesses and how to question them.
In one city in America, a 12-member grand
jury—each with his or her own backgrounds and perceptions—listened to what was
presented to them. They struggled to determine the facts, to try to reach a
just verdict. And, after the prosecutor presented what he chose to present,
that grand jury decided not to indict a police officer who shot and killed a
suspect.
A maxim of the way the law is practiced,
not how it is written, is that if they wanted to, prosecutors could get grand
juries to indict a ham sandwich.
A maxim of life is that truth will
eventually emerge—no matter how long it takes.
[Walter
Brasch has been a journalist more than four decades, covering everything from
local service club luncheons to the Congress and the White House. For many of
those years, he was also a professor of journalism. Dr. Brasch is the author of
20 books; his most recent one is Fracking
Pennsylvania, an in-depth investigation of the effects of horizontal
fracturing upon health and the environment, with special investigation of the
relationships between politics and corporate business.]