Some years ago, someone asked me how much I was paid to do legal commentary on television.  I wasn’t.  They sent a nice black car to pick me up and take me back.  They let me eat whatever I wanted in the “green room,” the name for the place where they make you sit and wait until it’s your turn for 30 seconds of air time even though I’ve never seen one that was actually green. 

Sometimes, I got a t-shirt or coffee mug out of it. Once, I even got a “fair and balanced” tie.  But I was never paid a dime.

Wondering why this was so, I asked a TV reporter friend, who explained to me that lawyers were always available to do commentary for free, so why pay them?  Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free.  But I challenged, asking why they also kept a coterie of “legal correspondents” on hand who were, unlike me, paid to show up.

These people were different, he explained.  They were the ones who were sufficiently photogenic and available, willing to be there for the 5:00 a.m. spots and to be part of the team.  They weren’t really lawyers, but part of the show.  We had discussed these “lawyers” many times in the past, primarily because I would tell him how wrong they were on a particular subject, to which he invariably responded, “but they looked pretty, didn’t they?”

The truth is that lawyers love to be interviewed.  Often, too much.  Given half a chance, most lawyers will drop everything to get their puss on the TV.  Marketing is usually cited as the reason, though personal ego plays a larger role.  You gain a certain degree of prominence by being on TV, and are often expected to trade your dignity and integrity for the chance.

I’ve been a frequent critic of lawyers opining on topics about which they know very little, sometimes nothing.  I call them media sluts, willing to sell themselves just to be on the air.  They don’t illuminate, but mislead.  They are proffered as experts to the public, but it’s a lie.  And even when the opine on subject they know a great deal about, the media doesn’t let itself to clear or nuanced discussion.  It’s usually the host asking a 2 minute, multipart, presumptive question, and the “expert” left to nod his head like a fool.  The program is geared toward making the host look like a genius.  If you tell the host he’s not, they don’t like you very much.  You may not get a mug.

All of this comes up in the course of a request I received for an interview the other day, from a very nice freelance reporter who was writing an article for a magazine.  As a blawger, I get frequent requests for interviews.  The reporter was writing about a fairly technical legal issue, and the article was particularly appropriate and important to the target audience of the magazine.  But she was on deadline, and needed answers NOW.  So rather than suggest that we chat on the phone, she sent questions in an email for me to answer.

The combination of complex legal issue, deadline, email and the nature of the questions troubled me.  It would have been easy enough to respond, but there was a nagging feeling about the way it all came together.  After some reflection, I realized that the questions reflected the writer’s position at the bottom of the learning curve, unprepared as yet to appreciate what I would have written in response to her questions, the many variables and the scope of application.

As a blawger, I have come to appreciate the limits of the written word as a communication tool, and the unbearably broad scope of understanding of those reading what I write.  Misunderstandings occur constantly, and I usually attribute them to my own lack of clarity.  But the truth is, you can’t write for everyone.  Some will get it, others will not. 

I’m resigned to this fate on my blawg, but I’m not prepared to go out in the real world and have my words misunderstood.  If I can’t help to illuminate, then I accomplish nothing.  My lawyer marketing friends will excoriate me for passing up an opportunity, something they preach a lawyer should never do.  With all due respect, I demur.  I don’t want to read words after my name that don’t reflect what I think or know because another writer, or television host, doesn’t get it.  I passed on the interview, and hope that the writer will get the story right.

Some years ago, on a television program that no longer exists, I was asked do legal commentary on a federal decision of interest to me.  I agreed.  The prep questions were fine, and lent themselves to my responses.  But on air, the first question out of the hostess’ mouth was, “Can you get into the judge’s head and tell us what she was thinking?”  I responded, “No, I don’t have that ability, but I can tell you what she wrote on paper.”  The hostess was not amused.

In New York, at least, no one remembers the lawyer who plays the talking head.  There are just too many to matter, and we come and go so quickly that it’s as if it never happened.  If you feel that you can contribute, then it’s part of our obligation to inform the public.  But if you get that nagging feeling that you will do nothing more than fill airtime, or bring nothing thoughtful to the discussion, maybe it’s a good time to take a pass.  Worse still, if you feel that you will be part of comedy routine that serves to push an agenda and mislead the public, run away. 

These are the times to say no to an interview.  Don’t feel badly for the media.  They’ll find another lawyer easily enough who will be more than happy to be a free media slut.  It doesn’t have to be you.