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proceedings. An official secrets act allows the government to outlaw the publication of certain documents. Until recent years, private individualscould obtain so-called super-injunctions—effectively, gag orders preventing news organizations from publishing information they do not want to come to light. The Press Complaints Commission, set up by the industry itself, judges public challenges to coverage. And should that fail to satisfy, British libel law favors plaintiffs more strongly than does American law.
    All of these restraints lend momentum to the impulse for mischief. McMullan, a wiry, twitchy man who keeps a camera with telephoto lenses stashed in the back of his van, now runs a pub in the town of Dover, by the English Channel. But previously he flourished as a reporter at the News of the World , becoming a senior features editor and for a time living fat on expense accounts.
    McMullan snorted at the idea that the public only recently learned reporters relied on questionably obtained tapes of private exchanges. People paid money for the right to call a special line set up to listen to the peculiar flirtations of the next in line to the British throne. At the time it occurred, recording conversations from portable phones did not break the law. But even if it had, British courts have often set aside prosecution against illegal intrusions if news proprietors can convincingly argue a story they had published served the public interest.
    McMullan argued judges and lawyers construe that protection too narrowly.“I think anything that the public is interested in is in thepublic interest,” McMullan said, echoing Murdoch’s views. “And who is anyone to say that you are not allowed to read that? Who is putting themselves in the position to restrict what the British public can read? It’s people in power who don’t want to get caught and thrown out of office.”
    â€œPrivacy,” he said,“is for paedos”—pedophiles. No one else needs to keep secrets.
    He does not apologize for his former way of life. McMullan’s words evoke American principles of freedom of the press, demanding, not requesting, freedom from government censorship or prudish meddling. And yet his ethical construct fails to account for the question of how the story is acquired. The News of the World , the Sun , and other papers routinely failed to inform their readers which sources they had paid for information and how they obtained other damaging material.
    One of McMullan’s infamous scoops involved the late British actor Denholm Elliott’s daughter, who had become addicted to drugs. A policeman found her begging in a London Underground stop. Instead of helping the troubled young woman, he called the newspaper and pocketed a fee for the tip. “And then I went and chatted to her and did the story,” McMullan said. “The tragedy is, a few years later she actually killed herself. So that’s something I feel guilty about.” The story never mentioned the payment.
    McMullan showed undue modesty. In reality, the reporter actively set up Jennifer Elliott, playing on her desperation to convince her to come to an apartment to have sex with him for £50. He made sure the hidden cameras captured her face for the pictures that would be published in News of the World .
    McMullan displayed something of a nihilist streak that blinded him to limits on his ability to intrude upon the private lives of others. If a receptionist at a medical clinic called in with a tip that an internationally known model had shown up pregnant at a doctor’s office, McMullan said, he would have eagerly paid ten grand, even though thereceptionist would have broken the law in violating her privacy.“Do you just stick your fingers in your ears and go, ‘No, no, don’t tell me?’ No, you’re a journalist.” Celebrities relied on publicity from the tabloid to hawk their movies, albums, sports