Trust is the invisible currency of self-government. It cannot be legislated, subpoenaed or forced. And once it is spent recklessly, no institution can easily restore it.
Just because something is legal, does that make it right?
In recent weeks, Alabama politics has been shaped not by debate over policy or ideas, but by recordings—private conversations captured, selectively released and quickly weaponized for political effect. A 57-second snippet from a Republican caucus meeting circulated publicly, used to damage Speaker Nathaniel Ledbetter. Around the same time, a recorded phone conversation between representatives of Energy Alabama and a government affairs official with Alabama Power entered the public arena, fueling another cycle of outrage and accusation.
In both cases, the recordings themselves may not have violated Alabama law.
But legality is not the same as ethics. A political culture governed only by what is permissible eventually forgets what is honorable.
A society that records everything eventually believes nothing.
Alabama has faced moments before when the character of public life mattered more than the outcome of any single political fight. Our history reminds us that institutions endure not because they are protected by power, but because citizens and leaders alike choose integrity when expedience would be easier.
The deeper issue is not who benefited from these recordings or whose political position gained advantage in the moment. The deeper issue is what happens when trust itself becomes a liability—when every private conversation is treated as opposition research waiting to be deployed.
Caucus meetings exist so lawmakers can speak candidly with one another. Advocacy conversations allow opposing sides to test ideas, challenge assumptions and search for solutions. Democracy depends upon spaces where imperfect thoughts can be expressed without fear that a single sentence, stripped of context, will be turned into public condemnation.
When participants assume they are always being recorded, candor disappears.
Conversation becomes performance. Leadership becomes self-protection. Governance becomes theater.
Those of us who have spent years watching Alabama politics understand how fragile public trust can be. Institutions rarely fail all at once. They erode slowly, weakened each time advantage is chosen over principle.
What made these episodes especially troubling was not simply the act of recording.
It was what followed.
Much of the media did not pause. Few sought the full context surrounding a 57-second clip taken from a private discussion. Little effort was made to determine whether a recorded advocacy call reflected ordinary political dialogue rather than scandal.
Instead, many outlets rushed to amplify the most inflammatory interpretation available.
Headlines hardened before facts were fully understood. Narratives formed before verification occurred. Context—the first obligation of journalism—became secondary to speed and attention.
This is not journalism.
The press was never meant to be the loudest participant in political conflict. It was meant to be the careful witness—the institution that slows events long enough for truth to catch up with outrage.
The moment we reward betrayal as strategy, we should not be surprised when truth itself becomes collateral damage.
When media organizations repeat selectively released material without examining its origin or completeness, they cease acting as watchdogs and become participants in manipulation.
Political actors learn that secretly recording conversations yields power.
Media outlets learn that outrage generates traffic.
And the public learns to distrust everyone involved.
These choices are not made only by politicians or journalists. They are reinforced by audiences who reward outrage, share fragments without reflection, and mistake exposure for understanding. The culture we now criticize is, in part, the culture we have allowed to grow.
When trust becomes a weapon, everyone eventually becomes a target—including democracy itself.
Recording someone who believes they are engaged in candid dialogue may win a political battle. Selectively releasing a fragment may dominate a news cycle. Yet each time such tactics are normalized, the cost is borne not by a single politician, company or advocacy group.
The cost is borne by the system itself.
Self-government has always depended on something quieter than politics—the same trust that allows neighbors to settle disagreements across a fence line, congregations to debate difficult questions, and communities to govern themselves without fear of betrayal.
Transparency remains essential. Whistleblowers have exposed genuine corruption and served the public good.
But there is a moral difference between exposing wrongdoing and weaponizing trust.
Freedom endures only where character restrains power long after the law falls silent.
There is a consequence to all of this that rarely makes headlines.
The honest participants begin to withdraw.
The thoughtful legislator stops speaking candidly.
The advocate hesitates to engage in good-faith dialogue.
Public servants learn that openness carries risk while silence feels safer.
Politics becomes performance.
Governance becomes caution.
Trust quietly disappears.
Democracy requires disagreement.
It requires scrutiny.
It even requires confrontation.
But it cannot survive without trust.
Self-government endures not because we can expose one another, but because we choose—at critical moments—not to betray one another.
Our institutions are resilient, but they are not indestructible. They depend on character long after the law has spoken.
And now the answer is unavoidable.
What is permissible is not always ethical.
What is legal is not always right.
A society that rewards betrayal eventually produces leaders who trust no one, journalists who verify too little and citizens who believe nothing.
That is not accountability.
That is erosion.
A democracy does not collapse when people break the law; it collapses when people stop honoring the trust the law cannot enforce.
