Jon Ronson - So You've Been Publicly Shamed

“And it’s for hours,” Joanne said. “We’re out on a nice walk and it’s a half-an-hour rant…”

“I see things collapsing,” Michael said.

And so Michael tracked down an electronic version of The Fiddler Now Upspoke . Well, it wasn’t an actual electronic version, but “a complete archive of all known Dylan interviews called Every Mind-Polluting Word ,” Michael told me, “basically a digital version of Fiddler that a fan put together and dumped online.” It turned out that Bob Dylan had given only one radio interview in 1995 and at no time during it had he told the interviewer to “stop asking me to explain.”

—

On July 11, Michael was in the park with his wife and daughter. It was hot. His daughter was running in and out of the fountain. Michael’s phone rang. The voice said, “This is Jonah Lehrer.”

I know Jonah Lehrer’s voice now. If you had to describe it in a word, that word would be measured .

“We had a really nice talk,” Michael said, “about Dylan, about journalism. I told him I wasn’t trying to make a name for myself with this. I said I’d been grinding away at this for years and I’m just — you know — I do what I do and I feed my family and everything’s okay .”

The way Michael said the word okay made it sound like he meant “barely okay.” It was the vocal equivalent of a worried head glancing down at the floor.

“I told him I’m not one of those young Gawker guys going, ‘Find me a target I can burn in the public square and then people will know who I am.’ And Jonah said, ‘I really appreciate that.’”

Michael liked Jonah. “I got along with him. It was really nice. It was a really nice conversation.” They said their good-byes. A few minutes later, Jonah e-mailed Michael to thank him once again for being so decent and not like one of those Gawker guys who delight in humiliation. They didn’t make them like Michael anymore.

After that, Michael went quiet so he could dig around on Jonah some more.

—

These were the good days. Michael felt like Hercule Poirot. Jonah’s claim that he’d had a little bit of help from one of Dylan’s managers had sounded suspiciously vague, Michael had thought. And, indeed, it turned out that Bob Dylan had only one manager. His name was Jeff Rosen. And although Jeff Rosen’s e-mail address was hard to come by, Michael came by it.

Michael e-mailed him. Had Jeff Rosen ever spoken to Jonah Lehrer? Jeff Rosen replied that he never had.

So Michael e-mailed Jonah to say he had some more questions.

Jonah replied, sounding surprised. Was Michael still going to write something? He assumed Michael wasn’t going to write anything.

—

Michael shook his head with incredulity when he recounted this part to me. Jonah had obviously convinced himself that he’d sweet-talked Michael out of investigating him. But no. “Bad liars always think they’re good at it,” Michael said to me. “They’re always confident they’re defeating you.”

—

“I’ve spoken to Jeff Rosen,” Michael told Jonah.

And that, Michael said, is when Jonah lost it. “He just lost it. I’ve never seen anyone like it.”

• • •

Jonah started repeatedly telephoning Michael, pleading with him not to publish. Sometimes Michael would silence his iPhone for a while. Then he’d return to find so many missed calls from Jonah that he would take a screenshot because nobody would otherwise have believed it. I asked Michael at what point it stopped being fun, and he replied, “When your quarry starts panicking.” He paused. “It’s like being out in the woods hunting and you’re, ‘This feels great!’ And then you shoot the animal and it’s lying there twitching and wants its head to be bashed in and you’re, ‘I don’t want to be the person to do this. This is fucking horrible .’”

—

Michael got a call from Jonah’s agent, Andrew Wylie. He represents not just Jonah but also Bob Dylan and Salman Rushdie and David Bowie and David Byrne and David Rockefeller and V. S. Naipaul and Vanity Fair and Martin Amis and Bill Gates and King Abdullah II of Jordan and Al Gore. Actually, Andrew Wylie didn’t phone Michael. “He got in touch with somebody who got in touch with me to tell me to call him,” Michael told me. “Which I thought was very Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy . He’s thought to be the most powerful literary agent in the United States and I’m a schlub, I’m a nobody. So I called him. I laid out the case. He said, ‘If you publish this, you’re going to ruin a guy’s life. Do you think this is a big enough deal to ruin a guy’s life?’”

“How did you reply?” I asked.

“I said, ‘I’ll think about it,’” Michael said. “I guess Andrew Wylie is a bazillionaire because he’s very perceptive, because I got a call from Jonah, who said, ‘So Andrew Wylie says you’re going to go ahead and publish.’”

—

On the afternoon of Sunday, July 29, Michael was walking down Flatbush Avenue, on the telephone to Jonah, shouting at him, “‘I need you to go on the record. You have to do it, Jonah. You have to go on the record.’ My arms were going crazy. I was so angry and so frustrated. All the time he was wasting. All his lies. And he was simpering.” Finally something in Jonah’s voice made Michael know that it was going to happen. “So I ran into Duane Reade, and I bought a fucking Hello Kitty notebook and a pen, and in twenty-five seconds, he said, ‘I panicked. And I’m deeply sorry for lying.’”

“And there you go,” said Michael. “It’s done.”

—

Twenty-six days, and it took Michael forty minutes to write the story. He’d still not worked out how to make money from journalism. He’d agreed to give the scoop to a small Jewish online magazine, Tablet . Knowing how lucky they were, the people at Tablet paid Michael quadruple what they usually pay, but it was quadruple of not much: $2,200 total — which is all he’d ever make from the story.

Forty minutes to write it, and what felt to him like nine packs of cigarettes.

“If anything, Jonah Lehrer nearly killed me I smoked so many fucking cigarettes out on the fire escape. Smoking, smoking, smoking. When you have the ability to press send on something and really, really affect the outcome of the rest of that person’s life. And the phone was ringing and ringing and ringing and ringing. There were twenty-odd missed calls from Jonah that Sunday night. Twenty-four missed calls, twenty-five missed calls.”

“He kept phoning,” Joanne said. “It was so sad. I don’t understand why he thought it was a good idea to keep phoning.”

“It was the worst night of his life,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah, for sure, for sure,” Michael said.

Finally, Michael picked up the phone. “I said, ‘Jonah, you have to stop calling me. This is almost to the point of harassment.’ I felt like I was talking him off the ledge. I said, ‘Tell me you’re not going to do anything stupid.’ It was that level of panic. So much so that I thought maybe I should pull back from this. He was, ‘Please, please, please,’ like a child’s toy breaking, droning, running out of batteries, ‘ Please please, please… ’”

Michael asked me if I’d ever been in that position. Had I ever stumbled on a piece of information that, if published, would destroy someone? Actually destroy them.

I thought for a while. “Destroy someone?” I said. I paused. “No. I don’t think so. I’m not sure.”

“Don’t ever do it,” he said.

Michael said he honestly considered not pressing send that night. Jonah had a young daughter the same age as Michael’s young daughter. Michael said he couldn’t kid himself. He understood what pressing send would mean to Jonah’s life: “What we do, when we fuck up, we don’t lose our job. We lose our vocation .”