“Can I Quote You on That?”

Examining the Relationship Between Reporters and Sources

At 5:03 p.m., while putting the finishing edits on my story, I got a frantic text from a man I’d interviewed that morning.

“Can you call me right away?” it said. “I don’t want my name used.”

My heart sank — deadline was three minutes ago.

“I didn’t realize you were going to use my name,” he said on the phone. “I thought I was just giving quotes.”

I roll my eyes and fight the urge to bid him tough luck. He’d expressed no hesitations or wariness just a few hours ago. We’d talked for a solid 30 minutes and he eagerly spelled his name when I asked. Had he texted me an hour later, it would have been too late. But then again, I never explicitly told him I’d be printing his name.

“Hi there. My name is Laura Howells, I’m a reporter with Newspaper X. I’m working on a story about Y. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

Journalists often only identify themselves and their employer in order to gain consent for an interview. But this relies on the assumption that the general public understands exactly what they’re consenting to.

If the person on the other end of the line says yes, we’re off to the races. They’re saying quotes; I’m typing; news is happening. Such is the process — right?

“You can talk to a person for a half hour, and only when you say “And you spell your name…?” will their features cloud as the terrible realization dawns upon them that you have been jotting down their words for an ulterior motive,” writes Chicago Sun-Times columnist Neil Steinberg in his book, You Were Never in Chicago.

Maybe the source thinks he’s just having a chat, not realizing that every word he says could be splashed across the front page of a national newspaper. Or maybe he does, but doesn’t realize how that publicity will affect his life. Journalists know how the media sausage is made; we live and breathe it daily. But there is often a knowledge gap between us and the people we cover — and with media credibility increasingly under seige, we crucially need to bridge that gap in our daily work.

Abiding by professional norms may not be enough, and reporters could do more to explain the reporting process to our sources — even if that means scaring some off.

Daina Goldfinger thought she’d found the perfect main character. She was working on a feature about a drug used in addiction treatment, and found a clinic worker with a compelling personal story. Goldfinger reached out, explained her project, and the woman agreed to talk.

Goldfinger, a graduate journalism student in Toronto, flew across the country. She spent hours following her source around the clinic, taking notes. But after Goldfinger got home, the woman called and off-handedly mentioned that she’d need a fake name.

Goldfinger was stunned — they’d never discussed anonymity. She’d been upfront about her intentions and the woman knew she was talking to a journalist.

“She just didn’t seem so clear on how that information would be used,” Goldfinger reflects.

But should we really be so surprised? This woman wasn’t a comms professional; she had no journalistic training. If Anthony Scaramucci is confused about when he’s “on the record,” the average Joe might be too.

“People don’t understand that once you talk to a reporter, it’s the reporter’s story,” said Kathy English, public editor at the Toronto Star. “Now, a good reporter will be fair to the story, to the subject to the source. But it’s still the reporter’s story, it’s still the news organization who decides how to play the story.”

English says we must take particular care to explain the process to vulnerable sources — non-media savvy folks, or those thrust into the news through no will of their own. Of course, defining a vulnerable source is subjective. Children and people with developmental disabilities feel like obvious examples. But where’s the line? When does treating a source as “vulnerable” simply become paternalistic?

English was part of a discussion paper from the Canadian Association of Journalists, which discussed informed consent in journalistic practice.

The report mentions Neil Steinberg’s “speech” — a short disclaimer he’d give at the beginning of every interview to ensure his subjects knew exactly what they were getting themselves into.

“You understand I write for a newspaper,” he’d say. “That I’m talking to you because I’m going to put what you say into an article, which will appear in the newspaper, which people will then read.”

There are cues that journalists can employ to remind their sources that they’re speaking on the record. It could be as simple as taking their recorder out, very obviously hitting record, and keeping the recorder in plain view. Or asking somebody to say and spell their name at the start of the interview. But perhaps we should all be delivering versions of Steinberg’s “speech,” even in situations where it’d seem obvious or even patronizing.

Even if a person understands exactly what talking to a reporter entails, however, that doesn’t mean they understand how being thrust into the public eye could affect their life.

“Publicizing private information is not a neutral act,” writes Meredith Levine in her Master of Journalism thesis. “Those who do frequently experience a shift in their lives, sometimes only fleeting, other times more lasting; sometimes the change is for the better, and other times things get worse.”

In her thesis, Levine describes a situation where, as a producer for a national current affairs radio program, a woman readily told her story of childhood sexual abuse in front of a microphone. But several months later, the woman contacted Levine: She’d been hospitalized with severe depression and blamed the negative consequences of that interview. After publicizing her private history, her intimate relationships were in shambles and awkward stares followed her at work.

“Did I have an obligation to inform this woman that publicizing intimate information could have an impact on her life and her relationships? Back then, this question never occurred to me,” Levine writes.

Levine argues that journalists have a duty to talk to subjects about potential harms, and that we should look to informed consent standards in healthcare and social science research.

Journalists can’t anticipate every possible consequence of publicizing private information. But we do often know more than our subjects, she says, “yet rarely share this information.”

Of course, discussing negative consequences may stop some people from speaking out. Public dubiousness towards “unnamed sources” means there’s added pressure to get people on the record; but showing more compassion and sensitivity to our sources could improve public trust long-term. So where is the line? Should we tell a trans woman that if she talks to us, she’s likely to get inundated with hateful comments online? Should we tell a 19-year-old that criticizing the government might limit his future job prospects?

And if they still agree to talk, should we ever override their own judgement?

Last year, I was reporting on the French election from Saint Pierre and Miquelon, a tiny French colony off the coast of Newfoundland. One evening, I interviewed a 16-year-old girl who told me she was a big supporter of Marine Le Pen. The girl knew we were on the record — she spoke into a radio mic — and had no qualms about her convictions. I was initially glad to talk to her; she was one of the few open Le Pen supporters I could find. But when it came time to write the story, I couldn’t bring myself to incorporate her quotes. She was 16, sure, but she was still a minor and I worried that publicizing her political beliefs could have unforeseen consequences down the road. Youthful opinions are malleable, but an online story lives forever. I wanted to protect her, but I still question my decision to withhold. It felt paternalistic; if she’d been 18, I probably wouldn’t have hesitated to put her in the story. But what’s the difference between a 16-year-old and an 18-year-old? Or a 65-year-old who doesn’t understand the internet?

For Jim Rankin, a reporter at the Toronto Star, it’s imperative that journalists minimize harm — even if that means losing a quote or two.

Rankin has reported extensively on police carding and racial profiling in the city.

When he’s working with vulnerable sources, like young people or those without media experience, he’s careful to explain what talking to a journalist means — and ensure they understand that what they say is out there “for good.” He talks to people about potential consequences and online backlash, while also discussing the benefits of speaking out.

If someone is particularly nervous and unfamiliar with the media, Rankin doesn’t mind reading back their parts of the story with them before publication — and giving them the opportunity to ‘take something back.’

It’s a controversial standpoint, but Rankin feels it’s “the right thing to do.” He’d never give politicians or spokespeople that option, but has no problem doing it with vulnerable sources. Plus, he said, going over what someone said can be a form of fact-checking.

Ann Rauhala, a professor of journalism at Ryerson University, finds that clarity with sources actually has the opposite effect than what one might anticipate. The more explicit she is with sources about what she’s doing, she finds, the more they open up to her. (Full disclosure: I currently work as a research assistant for Rauhala.)

Rauhala said that when first starting out as a journalist, she felt like she was trying to “trick” or “seduce” her sources into speaking frankly and quickly. The older she got, the more she thought about her sources, and how aware they were of the journalistic process.

“When you’re an inexperienced reporter, you don’t take time to turn the interview into a real conversation,” said Rauhala. “Once you start getting to the point where you’re comfortable enough to have conversations with people, then you are sort of innately recognizing their humanity.”

Journalists are often encouraged to be aggressive, Rankin said, but that can be harmful for the industry’s overall reputation. If someone has a bad experience with one reporter, that can taint their perception of journalism en masse.

“Especially in this day and age, with the media’s reputation being called into question…we should all be looking at ways to make what we do way more transparent,” he said.

Rauhala now teaches her first-year reporting students to treat a source like they were “mother or father of someone you’re madly in love with, who you’re meeting for the first time.” Be more polite, respectful and clear than you would ever normally be — and try to give them the benefit of the doubt.

Ultimately, English says journalists need to be constantly asking themselves, “Is this fair?” And sometimes this means “saving people from themselves”: calling back, double checking, and asking them if that’s really what they mean…even if it’s an excellent quote.

Journalists ascribe tremendous importance to spoken words. Quotes and “real human voices” are often the lynchpins of good stories. But people speak carelessly, constantly. What many of us say in conversation is rarely well-articulated or thoroughly-considered. And yet journalists will use these words as the basis for a headline, or a key voice in a story.

Many journalists will disagree with Levine’s suggestions about informed consent, or the idea that we could ever allow a source to renege on a quote. But perhaps we should start having these arguments — both in our newsrooms and in the public sphere — if only to help build trust in an industry that badly needs it.

“We can’t forget that it comes down to us…Anyone who you deal with, how they perceive journalism may well come down to only how they perceive their interaction with you,” said English.

“We all carry our own internal code of what we will do, what we believe is fair. And that doesn’t mean you stop being a human being.”