to call him—a man who was writing a book on MacDonald did not seem to be the wisest choice as an expert on the author-subject relationship. But MacDonald was very insistent that he do so, and after speaking with Elliot on the telephone Bostwick changed his mind, realizing that he had stumbled upon a treasure. He would not have been able to invent a witness who would better embody the high-mindedness he sought to hold up as an alternative to the ruthless expediency that Buckley and Wambaugh declared to be the standard in the writing profession.
“Dr. Elliot,” Bostwick said in his examination (Elliot has a doctorate in political science), “do you have an opinion as to whether an author who is attempting to obtain information from a living subject he is going to write about may tell that living subject something that in fact the author does not believe to be true, in order to obtain more information from the subject?” (The clumsiness of Bostwick’s syntax derived from a series of objections by Kornstein to earlier versions of the question, in which theword “lie” was used; they were sustained, forcing Bostwick into these contortions.)
Elliot replied, “My opinion is that, while I’m sure there are those who do this, it is extremely irregular and unprofessional and, in my view, lacking in integrity and principle. I have not done it. I would not do it. And most authors whom I have interviewed, whom I know, whom I work with, would not deceive or lie or tell falsehoods, either in terms of getting assignments or, once they receive the assignments, of manipulating their subjects in order to write a story that they thought would fetch them either greater money or greater notoriety. Such conduct would likely result, particularly if discovered, in a ruination of reputations, publishers, and publishing houses, and would destroy credibility in terms of getting future assignments and projects.” He continued, “Obviously, if one expects to interview well-known international and national figures, an attitude of hostility or belligerency is certainly going to kill the interview before it begins. But that’s very, very different from expressing directly—either verbally or in writing—untruths which lead the subject to believe that in fact you have one position when you have another. That, I think, is just unacceptable.”
In his cross-examination, Kornstein, attempting to show that Elliot, when it came to the point, was no better than Wambaugh or Buckley, brought up an interview with Fidel Castro that Elliot had done for
Playboy
in 1985, and asked, “Now, when you were interviewing Fidel Castro, you didn’t tell him that you were against his Cuban revolution, did you?”
“No, I did not,” Elliot replied.
“And you didn’t tell him that you thought he was a mass murderer, did you?”
“I did not.”
“In fact, didn’t you try to appear sensitive and understanding of his particular point of view?”
“Sensitive and understanding and willing to listen.”
“Right. You were not confrontational?” Kornstein said, forgetting the first rule of cross-examination: Ask only questions you know the answers to.
“Yes, I was,” Elliot replied. “There were many places where I was, and if you read the interview in
Playboy
you will see that.”
Kornstein said, “That was part of your process of being sensitive and understanding?”
Elliot, recognizing his opportunity, replied with unction, “There are times when a particular question must be asked, and whether it’s comfortable or not truth requires that you ask it.”
A few weeks before my trip to Durham, I had spoken with Elliot on the telephone. At the trial, under Bostwick’s questioning, he had identified himself as a “distinguished adviser on international relations” to Mervyn Dymally, a black California congressman. He had listed black politics, civil rights, and civil liberties among the courses he taught at North Carolina Central, and the
“Dr. Elliot,” Bostwick said in his examination (Elliot has a doctorate in political science), “do you have an opinion as to whether an author who is attempting to obtain information from a living subject he is going to write about may tell that living subject something that in fact the author does not believe to be true, in order to obtain more information from the subject?” (The clumsiness of Bostwick’s syntax derived from a series of objections by Kornstein to earlier versions of the question, in which theword “lie” was used; they were sustained, forcing Bostwick into these contortions.)
Elliot replied, “My opinion is that, while I’m sure there are those who do this, it is extremely irregular and unprofessional and, in my view, lacking in integrity and principle. I have not done it. I would not do it. And most authors whom I have interviewed, whom I know, whom I work with, would not deceive or lie or tell falsehoods, either in terms of getting assignments or, once they receive the assignments, of manipulating their subjects in order to write a story that they thought would fetch them either greater money or greater notoriety. Such conduct would likely result, particularly if discovered, in a ruination of reputations, publishers, and publishing houses, and would destroy credibility in terms of getting future assignments and projects.” He continued, “Obviously, if one expects to interview well-known international and national figures, an attitude of hostility or belligerency is certainly going to kill the interview before it begins. But that’s very, very different from expressing directly—either verbally or in writing—untruths which lead the subject to believe that in fact you have one position when you have another. That, I think, is just unacceptable.”
In his cross-examination, Kornstein, attempting to show that Elliot, when it came to the point, was no better than Wambaugh or Buckley, brought up an interview with Fidel Castro that Elliot had done for
Playboy
in 1985, and asked, “Now, when you were interviewing Fidel Castro, you didn’t tell him that you were against his Cuban revolution, did you?”
“No, I did not,” Elliot replied.
“And you didn’t tell him that you thought he was a mass murderer, did you?”
“I did not.”
“In fact, didn’t you try to appear sensitive and understanding of his particular point of view?”
“Sensitive and understanding and willing to listen.”
“Right. You were not confrontational?” Kornstein said, forgetting the first rule of cross-examination: Ask only questions you know the answers to.
“Yes, I was,” Elliot replied. “There were many places where I was, and if you read the interview in
Playboy
you will see that.”
Kornstein said, “That was part of your process of being sensitive and understanding?”
Elliot, recognizing his opportunity, replied with unction, “There are times when a particular question must be asked, and whether it’s comfortable or not truth requires that you ask it.”
A few weeks before my trip to Durham, I had spoken with Elliot on the telephone. At the trial, under Bostwick’s questioning, he had identified himself as a “distinguished adviser on international relations” to Mervyn Dymally, a black California congressman. He had listed black politics, civil rights, and civil liberties among the courses he taught at North Carolina Central, and the
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