Early this week, I received a call from a Columbia Journalism School student asking if I would be willing to do an interview.  Unlike other interviews, I am always happy to help J-School students with their education, and I’ve done numerous interviews with Columbia students in the past as part of their class assignments, as well as their hope to get a story published “for real.”

With working journalists, it’s neither my place nor pleasure to teach them how to do their job.  It would be presumptuous of me to think that I know more about their story or methods then they do, and if I elect to do an interview, then I play it straight.  Like a good witness, I answer the questions asked.

But there’s something different about doing an interview with students.  They are students, which by definition means they are learning their craft.  I consider it a duty, even a mitzvah, to help them.  And have a little fun in the process.

There were three students conducting the interview, each asking a question in turn.  Their concern was a New York case about which I had blogged, and they were trying to write a story making sense of this particularly bizarre scenario.  Right out of the box came this beauty:

                Does this happen often?

Oh absolutely.  That’s the funny thing about truly bizarre and unusual cases.  They happen all the time, in almost every criminal case.  Then silence, as it dawned on the questioner that anomalies, by definition, don’t happen often.

After a discussion about the nature of conflicting factual allegations, this question was posed:

                How does the judge know who’s telling the truth?

There’s a special chair on side of the judge’s bench, and they put the witness into the chair and ask questions.  Above the chair is a very bright red light, and if the red light goes off while the witness is speaking, then the witness is lying.  Again, silence. Then nervous laughter.

“You’re not serious, right?”  No.  No, I’m not serious.  I then launch into a compare and contrast explanation of the witness who’s a junkie, twitchy and nervous, with a horrible criminal record, scowling demeanor and nasty disposition, who is telling the truth, versus an 18 year veteran police officer in his clean but well-worn uniform, with a chest full of medals and a calm, forthright appearance, who is lying through his teeth.  “Who would you believe?” I ask.  “What makes you think the judge has magical powers that you don’t?”

                So what happens if the judge gets it all wrong?

This is one of my favorite questions from students, and every single time I’m interviewed by a J-School student, it’s asked.  I tell them, “then the wrong person goes to jail and everyone else goes home and has dinner.”

My response invariably evokes a reaction that I make the system sound terribly unreliable, terribly cynical.  Then I know I’ve done my job.  If these are our journalists of the future, they need to do two very important things:  First, they need to figure out that you only get the right answers by asking the right questions.  Ask stupid questions and you get stupid answers.

Second, they need to realize that we live in an imperfect world, and that they, our journalists of the future, play a crucial role in digging beneath the obvious, the superficial, the official, to act as a guardian of skepticism.  While I hate to spoil their childhood belief that there is fairness and justice in the world, somebody has to burst their bubble if they are ever going to be good journalists.