Yesterday I watched the Netflix series “American Conspiracy: The Octopus Murders,” which picked up a few of the threads first reported by the late Gary Webb, who was crucified for his series about the CIA using the drug trade in the inner cities to fund Iran-Contra. It’s a slog, four one-hour installments that look at drugs, money laundering, and murders.
And it reminded me of the part I really hated about being a journalist — basically, when something smells bad, and you dig into it, and you find more than enough to convince you, but not enough to write about and meet the libel standards of American journalism. Because it’s painful to know things you can’t write about, especially when they say that you can’t trust your government.
Things like important people who were the behind-the-scenes owners of a toxic Superfund site who contracted with the North Jersey mob to dump chemical waste there. Ha ha, just kidding, I can’t tell you that because I can’t prove it! (Even though the FBI agent who told me about it seemed pretty convinced.)
Or a former president who was apparently taking bribes from the Russians in the form of shares in their biggest oil company. (No one in their right mind wanted to talk about that one!)
You know, that sort of thing.
There is a stunning segment in Part 3 when an investigative reporter says the source who worked for the NSA showed her a slow motion copy of the Zapruder film in which the driver of Kennedy’s limo in Dallas turned around and shot him. She said okay, so you doctored the film. He said, no, this one’s the original.
Once you go down the rabbit hole, it’s hard to believe anything. And the people who operate in that murky intelligence world (or politics) blow a lot of smoke up your ass, so you never really know what to believe.
And that’s why I’m glad I’m not a journalist anymore.
Facts.