Less than a fortnight ago, in the middle of a national drought in which parts of the country were “enduring days, and sometimes weeks of no water,” readers of the of the Trinidad Express learned that “clear water [was gushing] from more than four plant sprinklers over the lawn grass at Prime Minister Patrick Manning’s residence…” This scoop ran beneath a damning photograph, courtesy of an anonymous “citizen journalist,” of a gardener monitoring the extravagant watering. The official residence’s imperial white walkways were clearly visible in the background. After a brief, puzzled silence the Prime Minister acted decisively: he claimed ignorance of the situation and dismissed the ‘contractor’ deemed responsible.

Shortly afterwards, sceptical Express readers might not have been surprised to learn that Mrs Manning, who is also Local Government Minister, had reportedly declined to comment on whether she intended to rehire the dismissed contractor. After deflecting inquires about this minor intrigue, Mrs Manning explained that she was “really very, very conscious of what is happening now and hopefully by the end of June, July when the rain starts to fall, we can return to normal.” Ever alert to the duties of her office, she added that “whatever little water we have now, we have to see how we can stretch that.”

This tidbit, which could have come straight out of half a dozen Naipaul novels, hardly seems worth mentioning outside of the microcosm of Trinidad politics, except for the fact that both the Prime Minister and Mrs Manning’s responses suggest that they were at least vaguely aware that there might be a price to pay for public anger at their perceived hypocrisy. Apparently, even in Trinidad’s debased political culture, public shame still has some power over the Napoleonic tendencies of the political elite.

It is often tempting to think that the Caribbean produces uniquely corrupt, arrogant and self-serving public figures, especially when they are caught in the middle of their indiscretions, but this impression is misleading. In fact, our politicians’ sensitivity to the court of public opinion can seem charmingly old fashioned when set against the attitudes of social and political elites elsewhere. Consider, for example, that while the Mannings were clumsily trying to spin their way out of the lawn-watering story, former US Vice President Dick Cheney was busy provoking new controversies over some of his more infamous opinions. On Valentine’s Day, Cheney candidly told a television interviewer that he was “a big supporter of waterboarding [and] a big supporter of the enhanced interrogation techniques.” He made this statement knowing that since waterboarding contravenes the Geneva Conventions the remark could expose him to prosecution for a war crime. Clearly Cheney does not believe this will happen, nor does he wish to let the matter languish quietly, even though President Obama has seemed all too ready to let this happen. On the contrary, instead of keeping a judicious silence, Cheney seems eager to thumb his nose at everyone who has criticized his willingness to embrace torture, assuming that political connections will keep him safe from US or international justice. Sadly, he is probably correct.

Open disdain of public opinion can also appear in non-political contexts. The Vatican, for example, is currently doing its best to convey the impression that it is seriously tackling generations of child sex abuse by Roman Catholic clergy in Ireland and elsewhere. To this end, Pope Benedict XVI has rightly called the transgressions of the Irish clergy a “heinous crime” and a “grave sin” which the church must address in order to restore its “spiritual and moral credibility.” But before he became Pope, Cardinal Ratzinger, as Prefect for the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, is known to have argued that investigations into very similar crimes and sins should be kept secret for at least a decade after the alleged victims, usually minors, had turned 18. On more than one occasion, this closed-doors approach helped to give abusive priests the opportunity to move to new parishes where they committed many of the same offences all over again. But instead of holding the church to account for its many evasions on these questions, the media has generally reported the pontiff’s recent statements as though he has always been in favour of transparency in cases of suspected abuse – even though, apparently, that has never been the case.

When public opinions matter, politicians, clergymen and public figures act accordingly, but this tends to happens only when a curious, sceptical and independent press remains focused on useful and relevant information. Absent this and the pressure on public figures to remain accountable for their actions is easily lost. That is why in one country an angry public can stop the prime minister from watering his lawn, while in another an indifferent audience – or one distracted by military and economic crises – will allow a high official to brag about possible war crimes without fear of repercussions. Anyone who has ever doubted the importance of a free press should consider this difference carefully.