A few weeks ago, my POLITICO colleague Nicholas Wu and NBC’s Sahil Kapur ran into D.C. Del. Eleanor Holmes Norton in the Capitol. Like good congressional reporters, they jumped at the opportunity to pepper a lawmaker about the news of the day. In this case, one question concerned Norton herself, a civil rights icon who is now the oldest House member: Would she run for another term next year, by which point she would be 89 years old? “Yeah, sure,” Norton said.
Coming on the heels of multiple stories about Norton’s alleged cognitive decline, the statement made news. But a few hours later, Norton’s office began unmaking that news. The Democrat “wants to run again but she’s in conversations with her family, friends, and closest advisors to decide what’s best,” a spokesperson told Wu. There was still no final decision.
It was all awkward and embarrassing — and did little to buttress Norton’s insistence that she’s as sharp as ever. And then, amazingly, it happened again. Last week, Kapur once again approached the delegate and asked about her plans. Once again, she said she’s running: “Yeah, I’m going to run for re-election.” And once again, her spokesperson quickly walked back the comment, telling Axios that “no decision has been made.”
The spokesperson, Sharon Nichols, did not offer any explanation for the discrepancy. She also didn’t respond when I asked her for details of what happened or whether journalists should take future Norton statements at face value.
That last question is relevant even if you don’t much care about the electoral plans of one non-voting delegate. For people interested in how Washington works, it’s an increasingly common issue in our era of gerontocracy: Just how are you supposed to interact with an elected official who might not be all there?
It’s an ongoing private conversation among reporters, animated by a sense that the watchdogs haven’t been zealous enough — but featuring no real agreement on how to handle these moments.
“I’m on the fence about it,” said New York Times congressional reporter Annie Karni, the author of her own recent piece about Norton’s struggles. “Is it newsworthy to be even doing this dance where you ask her a thing, she says something that makes no sense, and staff has to walk it back? Like, what are we doing? Or are we showing the problem? I don’t know what the answer is.”
“Every reporter has a story about this,” said Kristin Wilson, who was a CNN Capitol Hill producer until last year. Incidents that couldn’t be explained away sometimes made news, like the time the late GOP Sen. Thad Cochran got lost in the Capitol, or the time a colleague had to instruct late Democratic Sen. Dianne Feinstein to “just say aye” at a vote. When Texas Rep. Kay Granger struggled with dementia at the end of her term last year, it fell to a Dallas news site to reveal it. But many quieter interactions involving nonsensical quotes never got published. “I think we have pulled punches,” Wilson said.
Wilson recalled an incident when her team was interviewing the late GOP Sen. Orrin Hatch for a story on senators’ hideaway offices: “Hatch kind of went off on a tangent of a story, and as he’s telling the story, his aide is just like looking at me and his eyes are just massive, like he knew Hatch had just sort of gone down a bad path.”
In the end, the tangent wasn’t germane to the story. “The Hill is like living in a small town,” Wilson said. “And you know all these people, and you’re around them all the time. Are you going to be that person in that small town that you’re in?”
For journalists, the answer to that question is supposed to be: Yes, that’s exactly who we are! But the exigencies of managing a Hill beat that requires a daily stream of scoops makes it tough to latch onto every potentially embarrassing comment. Publishing them, after all, might enrage the staffers who tip you to those scoops — and confuse readers who just want accuracy.
It turns out Norton’s staff had good reason to think they could simply contradict their boss’ comments without it becoming a story: There’s a long history of spokespeople cajoling media outlets into cleaning up the incorrect, impolitic, or downright addled things that lawmakers say when they get buttonholed by Capitol Hill reporters.
Oftentimes, these involve non-craven fixes. “My rule of thumb was that I’m not in the business of playing gotcha,” said Todd Gillman, a former longtime Washington bureau chief for the Dallas Morning News. “People misspeak. They mix up a bill, a vote or a person. There’s a slip of the tongue. I’ve always let people clean up things like that. I’m going for substance.”
Yet the culture of cleaning up makes it harder to say no when you suspect that the slip of the tongue may actually be the substance. “Seems like the tradeoffs don’t change, though the calculus might,” Gillman told me. “Are you willing to incur some wrath for ignoring their lobbying?” Until Joe Biden’s presidency pushed the national conversation about aging officials, the answer wasn’t always self-evident.
And it comes up particularly often in the Capitol, one of the strangest media environments in America, a place where beat reporters can count on running into VIPs in public hallways and asking for quotes on even the most obscure matters. It’s as if Hollywood reporters could count on buttonholing Clint Eastwood every time he was at the office.
For staffers, this means a lot of work keeping track of potential messes. Brad White, who ran Cochran’s senatorial office before the Republican’s retirement amid health problems at age 80, said his colleagues’ clean-up work was more often about vernacular than mental capacity. “He would confuse some reporters because somebody would say, ‘Well, how are y’all coming on the budget negotiations?’ And he would say something that was more of a generational statement from Mississippi, like, ‘Well, we’re getting down to the lip lock.’ And nobody knew what the hell that might mean.”
All the same, as Cochran struggled, White managed around the edges. “He was an older guy,” White said. “He’d have good days and bad days, and there were days maybe that I would decide today is not the day we need to talk about this issue.” In Cochran’s case, he said, the senator was planning to resign but the timing was complicated by a budget process. “If you’ve got a member that is facing those types of issues, and you can tell that they’re working their way out, then that deserves some grace,” he said. “If you got a member that has no business being there and they’re clutching onto it like the Pope, then maybe that’s worthy of a discussion.”
To their credit, Wu and Kapur both reported the interactions with Norton as they happened, and reported the office’s statements to the contrary. It was an easy call, they both told me: The question at issue — would Norton run again? — was personal and ultimately can only be answered by her. It’s not the same as flubbing details of a 1,000-page bill.
Ed Wasserman, the former dean of the University of California’s graduate school of journalism and a longtime writer about media ethics, thinks the journalistic hand-wringing about how to describe cringey moments may actually make it harder to enlighten the public: “One of the problems is that reporters routinely handle incoherence and inconsistency by ignoring it, so a decision to convey it to readers as significant already rests on a belief that there’s some underlying dysfunction,” he said.
Wasserman said the principled position ought to be that lawmakers’ moments of confusion are news, period. Cleaning it up “is not really an option,” Wasserman said. “This is clearly performance related. And their job performance is your job to report on.”
The challenge is that it’s also a reporter’s job to cover the day’s debate about a bill or a nomination. Inserting incoherent comments from a lawmaker can confuse most readers — even if it enlightens a subset of folks interested in that particular lawmaker’s state of mind. “It’s weird that in the Capitol, people know which lawmakers you can’t really talk to substantively, and avoid them,” said Karni. “When you’re not reporting on the age issue, which I have reported a lot on, I think it’s important to just know who is not able to participate like that.”
By way of example, she cites yet another kerfuffle over yet another Norton comment: In April, the lawmaker told a reporter that she might try to become the top Democrat on the House Oversight Committee. The news kicked off a round of Democratic agita about aging leadership clinging to power. Hours later, her office put out a statement from Norton taking herself out of contention. The incident may have said something about Norton, but it didn’t really help the (probably larger) number of people who just want to be up to date about the committee’s future.
“Is this productive? Is this fair? She’s clearly not running for Oversight. So having her say that, it created a dumb news cycle with this kind of faux outrage,” Karni said. “You could say, ‘Are you thinking about running for president?’ And she might say, ‘I’m thinking about it.’ So what are we doing when we’re asking that question?”
It makes for a weird status quo: One set of lawmakers who can be grilled about legislative issues, another who are considered out to lunch, everyone keeping secret mental lists of who’s who, and no one feeling able to publish them because, after all, who can really prove what’s going on in someone’s head?
“The conundrum is you’re not going to be able to reach that judgment without applying certain standards that you’re not necessarily able to reach because you’re not a psychiatrist or you don’t really know them,” Wasserman said. “But at the same time, you know enough. You see what’s an indication that they’re not enough in command of the intellectual challenges of the job. … You have no reason to apologize for that. It’s your job.”
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