I Begged Them to Let Me Cover the Iran War but Here Is My Report on the Diddy Trial

By Jacob Fuzetti

Sean Combs image by Paras Griffin via Getty, “Jacob Fuzetti” image by and Marcus Aurelius.

Sean “Diddy” Combs, a rap singer, was found not guilty of sex trafficking but convicted of lesser charges in a Manhattan courtroom on Wednesday. Mr. Combs pumped his fist and smiled when the verdict was read, which I know because I was present. In fact, I have been present for the entire seven-week trial, because I Might Be Wrong editor Jeff Maurer assigned me to this story instead of to the Iran/Israel conflict that I have basically been preparing my whole life to cover.

The charges against Mr. Combs involved alleged actions related to drug-fueled sex parties that Mr. Combs called “freak offs”. I suspect that the lurid nature of those parties are why Mr. Maurer decided that this story should be covered at the exclusion of far more important news. “Whoa,” Mr. Maurer exclaimed one day while scrolling through a Yahoo News article about the trial in the I Might Be Wrong “newsroom” (an abandoned WeWork filled with iMacs). “These parties are some freaky-ass stuff,” he said. “We gotta cover this shit — guaranteed clicks.” I opined that the story was more racy than impactful, and that it deserved minimal coverage. Mr. Maurer opined that people “like to horndog out whenever they get the chance,” and that spicy news stories “let them get a chub on while pretending to be all brainy about it.” I pressed my case, perhaps too much, because Mr. Maurer assigned me to the trial to “teach me to shut my Metamucil hole and write some Pulitzer-worthy descriptions of all the fucking and sucking.”

I filed 32 dispatches from the courtroom, one for each day of the trial. None were published. “What the fuck is this?” Mr. Maurer yelled over the phone one day. “People don’t want this Perry Mason shit — they want to hear detailed accounts of who bopped who when and in what hole! And get me one of those courtroom sketches of the fuckfest — nobody reads articles, they just click if they like the pervy banner photo!” I explained to Mr. Maurer that a courtroom sketch would depict events that occurred in the courtroom, not events described in the courtroom — Mr. Maurer said “Fine, I’ll do it myself!" and hung up. This article ran in I Might Be Wrong the next day:

I consider the fact that I was assigned to this story and not to the Iran/Israel conflict to be a personal insult. (Ed note: Yes, it was a personal insult.) I spent four decades as a war correspondent for The Washington Post and Der Spiegel, and I have experience with conflict in the region, having extensively covered conflicts in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Lebanon. I took this job because there are few opportunities for journalists my age, and because the loneliness of retirement frightens me; nonetheless, I thought that my skillset would be utilized when prudent. I didn’t think that my editor would accuse me of “reigning a barrage of bitch missiles” down on him simply by pointing out that I’m well-suited to cover the Iran story.

I also didn’t anticipate that I Might Be Wrong would send another reporter to file dispatches from Iran. But Jeff sent IMBW correspondent Paula Fox to Tehran, which I consider another personal insult. (Ed note: Bingo.) Don’t get me wrong, Paula is an excellent reporter — her coverage of EU regulation of tech markets has been first rate — but she’s a tech reporter, and her writing style is…perhaps unsuited for this story. Here is the opening line of her first dispatch from Iran:

TEHRAN 🤪🤪🤪 — The S*E*X*Y conflict b3tween the People’s ~THROBBING~ Republic of Iran 🍆🍆🍆 an I,srael( entered a new`` H_O_R_N_Y 😈😈😈 phas3 today as ^^^Naughty^^^ 😮 missiles 🚀🚀💦💦 r;ain9ed down on Teh$ran whil’e I am ***NAVIGATING MY NUBILE CRACK WITH AN ELECTRIC TOOTHBRUSH*** 😝😝🍑🍑🍑🍑🪥!!!!

And my frustration turned to outright despondence when I received this text from the woman I…from a colleague:

As long-time readers of my dispatches may know, the woman writing is Azita Majidi, a former reporter for the BBC World Service whom I was involved with while we were stationed in Sarajevo during the Balkan Wars. We’ve been estranged for years, and here she was, trying to connect! I could not type fast enough expressing how thrilled I was to hear from her, and that I think about her constantly, and that I sometimes wonder if I’ve been left to shuffle aimlessly through my twilight years simply so that we may one day rekindle the flame that we once shared. But when I hit “send”, it said “message not delivered.” I tried again…”message not delivered”. I’ve been trying constantly to get this message through, but it always says “message not delivered”. And then I read that Israel has knocked out cell phone service in Iran.

I begged Jeff to send me to Tehran. I told him that I’d file hourly dispatches from the thick of the action; I told him that I’d draw on my contacts cultivated from decades of reporting in the Middle East to provide a vantage point that no other publication could offer. He just said “I thought I assigned you to that rapper prostitute thing.” I told him I’d work for free — he said “for what I pay you, you’re already basically free.” He wouldn’t budge, and I can’t enter Iran without media credentials. And I haven’t heard more from Azita. I don’t know if that’s because cell phone service is still out, she’s perished in a missile strike, or — and this is honestly the scenario I fear most — she’s interpreted my silence as hostility and moved on.

The trial of Sean “Diddy” Combs is now over. But I have not been reassigned to Iran; I have been sent to cover the opening weekend of Jurassic World: Rebirth. I write to you from a Days Inn in Van Nuys; I have a press junket interview with rapper/actor Ed Skrein later today. I am in a first-floor room facing the parking lot, writing at that little half-desk that pulls up to the green, burlap chair in my room, drinking coffee that I got in the lobby and hitting “send” on my message to Azita every 20 seconds. That’s where I am, physically…but my soul is in Tehran. Or wherever Azita is, be that Tehran, some other city, or even a realm beyond this Earth. My soul will always follow hers, possibly as a longing admirer, though hopefully as a cherished companion, as I’m certain we were always meant to be.

Mr. Combs faces a sentence of up to 20 years for transportation to engage in prostitution.

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