Trump’s FCC Cracks Down: KCBS, ABC, and NPR Under Fire

Paul Riverbank, 12/16/2025Trump's FCC is exerting control over media outlets like KCBS, ABC, and NPR, creating a chilling effect on political reporting. Amidst scrutiny and regulatory threats, journalists are navigating a tense atmosphere where editorial freedoms are increasingly compromised. This article explores the fragility of media independence in current times.

It started, oddly enough, with a few unremarkable cars. There were reports that federal immigration agents, rather than stepping out of vehicles marked with government insignias, were quietly rolling through town in a black Dodge Durango, a gray Maxima, and a white Nissan truck. KCBS ran the story on air—routine news, many thought. Within hours, though, social media practically burst into flame. Angry calls flooded the switchboard, some from conservative activists accusing KCBS of recklessness—of supposedly betraying the agents’ whereabouts.

But that backlash was just the warm-up. Brendan Carr, chair of the Federal Communications Commission, announced he was investigating whether KCBS was serving the “public interest.” It was enough to rattle anyone, let alone a station recently bruised by bankruptcy and an ownership shakeup. Reporters started hearing from editors: go easy on the political stories, maybe focus on “good news” or “human interest” pieces for now. Some noticed that stories referencing Trump or immigration seemed to vanish after heavy internal review.

Doug Sovern, a well-regarded political reporter, didn’t mince words when describing the sudden shift: “ ‘Chilling effect’ doesn’t begin to cover it.” He retired not long after, making it clear the timing had nothing to do with this controversy... but for many, the optics were hard to miss. At least one veteran anchor, Bret Burkhart, found himself nudged off his usual slot after reading the immigration agents story. Not that anyone in the newsroom got a satisfying explanation.

Management insisted—on the record—that “nothing has changed” about KCBS’s editorial priorities. News would remain “balanced and objective.” But privately, staff began tiptoeing around anything smelling of political heat, and not just because of the FCC.

Attorneys representing the station’s parent company showed up. They closed doors. Pulled employee social posts. Even asked reporters bluntly about their political leanings. Nobody said this outright, but the implication was clear: avoid anything that gives Carr or federal regulators a reason to dig deeper. Jennifer Seelig, the station’s news director, met with staff and—according to those in the room—told them they had to stay “careful” to avoid risking an FCC penalty. She didn’t reply to follow-up questions.

It wasn’t just KCBS catching heat. ABC found itself on Carr’s radar too—ostensibly for airing a Jimmy Kimmel monologue that poked at the sudden death of conservative activist Charlie Kirk. Kimmel’s show went dark for a few nights, and when ABC and CBS settled open lawsuits filed by the Trump administration, both parent companies also happened to have important business pending before the FCC. Even NPR and PBS, often considered above the commercial fray, found their accounting practices under review.

When regulators finally approved a key merger that changed the ownership atop CBS, there was a wave of new corporate pledges: new management, new standards, more “accountability.” Carr publicly approved. To no one’s surprise, he also amplified Trump’s own call to remove Seth Meyers from NBC. The atmosphere among journalists watching all this—especially those who’d survived previous swings in media freedom—grew more uneasy.

Al Sikes, himself a Republican and once chairman of the FCC, summarized the moment: Lines that once separated politics from regulatory power, he warned, were getting blurry. “We’re seeing a new exercise of authority—reinforcing allies, punishing critics.”

KCBS, for its part, has always played survivor. It’s outlasted storms, bankruptcy deals (including a high-profile investment from George Soros’s fund—approved under the Biden administration, to groans from some conservatives), and the everyday grind of digital disruption. Lately, their sprawling office felt like a ship riding out a squall, especially as newsrooms everywhere wrestled with new economics and layoffs.

In one of the stranger footnotes, the White House briefly barred Associated Press reporters from official events unless they agreed to call the Gulf of Mexico by the newly designated “Gulf of America”—a Trump diktat that led AP to file a lawsuit, still crawling toward resolution. It’s a minor episode, and yet, emblematic.

KCBS’s old guard likened the change in newsroom mood to a cold snap. Interviews with certain political figures—like California gubernatorial candidate Katie Porter—were canceled over fears that open criticism of the president might provoke more regulatory headaches. Sovern, whose reporting long defined KCBS during crises, lamented what had happened. “For a station built on truth and accountability, letting fear or financial anxiety dictate coverage is anathema.”

Gradually, over several months and several cautious stories, the clamp seemed to loosen. New coverage returned: protests, local and national, even a “No Kings Day” rally, made it on the air. It wasn’t carte blanche, but in the shadows, some reporters called it “a return to something like normal.”

Still, the sobering fact remains: when the U.S. government can threaten, warn, or fine broadcasters—and, if determined, revoke their licenses—the balance between reporting and institutional survival is never as straightforward as pundits would have you believe. KCBS’s recent ordeal stands as living proof of just how fragile the old norms have become. It’s a reminder to anyone who values open reporting: the boundaries are always being redrawn, sometimes quite suddenly, and not always by those most invested in telling the facts, come what may.

If you walked into the KCBS-AM newsroom last year—maybe just a bit after Donald Trump began his second term—you’d have felt the tension in the air. Old-timers at the Bay Area’s stalwart all-news radio station, some pushing three or four decades behind a mic, weren’t just adjusting to the usual turbulence of the news cycle. This was something sharper.It started, oddly enough, with a few unremarkable cars. There were reports that federal immigration agents, rather than stepping out of vehicles marked with government insignias, were quietly rolling through town in a black Dodge Durango, a gray Maxima, and a white Nissan truck. KCBS ran the story on air—routine news, many thought. Within hours, though, social media practically burst into flame. Angry calls flooded the switchboard, some from conservative activists accusing KCBS of recklessness—of supposedly betraying the agents’ whereabouts.But that backlash was just the warm-up. Brendan Carr, chair of the Federal Communications Commission, announced he was investigating whether KCBS was serving the “public interest.” It was enough to rattle anyone, let alone a station recently bruised by bankruptcy and an ownership shakeup. Reporters started hearing from editors: go easy on the political stories, maybe focus on “good news” or “human interest” pieces for now. Some noticed that stories referencing Trump or immigration seemed to vanish after heavy internal review.Doug Sovern, a well-regarded political reporter, didn’t mince words when describing the sudden shift: “ ‘Chilling effect’ doesn’t begin to cover it.” He retired not long after, making it clear the timing had nothing to do with this controversy... but for many, the optics were hard to miss. At least one veteran anchor, Bret Burkhart, found himself nudged off his usual slot after reading the immigration agents story. Not that anyone in the newsroom got a satisfying explanation.Management insisted—on the record—that “nothing has changed” about KCBS’s editorial priorities. News would remain “balanced and objective.” But privately, staff began tiptoeing around anything smelling of political heat, and not just because of the FCC.Attorneys representing the station’s parent company showed up. They closed doors. Pulled employee social posts. Even asked reporters bluntly about their political leanings. Nobody said this outright, but the implication was clear: avoid anything that gives Carr or federal regulators a reason to dig deeper. Jennifer Seelig, the station’s news director, met with staff and—according to those in the room—told them they had to stay “careful” to avoid risking an FCC penalty. She didn’t reply to follow-up questions.It wasn’t just KCBS catching heat. ABC found itself on Carr’s radar too—ostensibly for airing a Jimmy Kimmel monologue that poked at the sudden death of conservative activist Charlie Kirk. Kimmel’s show went dark for a few nights, and when ABC and CBS settled open lawsuits filed by the Trump administration, both parent companies also happened to have important business pending before the FCC. Even NPR and PBS, often considered above the commercial fray, found their accounting practices under review.When regulators finally approved a key merger that changed the ownership atop CBS, there was a wave of new corporate pledges: new management, new standards, more “accountability.” Carr publicly approved. To no one’s surprise, he also amplified Trump’s own call to remove Seth Meyers from NBC. The atmosphere among journalists watching all this—especially those who’d survived previous swings in media freedom—grew more uneasy.Al Sikes, himself a Republican and once chairman of the FCC, summarized the moment: Lines that once separated politics from regulatory power, he warned, were getting blurry. “We’re seeing a new exercise of authority—reinforcing allies, punishing critics.”KCBS, for its part, has always played survivor. It’s outlasted storms, bankruptcy deals (including a high-profile investment from George Soros’s fund—approved under the Biden administration, to groans from some conservatives), and the everyday grind of digital disruption. Lately, their sprawling office felt like a ship riding out a squall, especially as newsrooms everywhere wrestled with new economics and layoffs.In one of the stranger footnotes, the White House briefly barred Associated Press reporters from official events unless they agreed to call the Gulf of Mexico by the newly designated “Gulf of America”—a Trump diktat that led AP to file a lawsuit, still crawling toward resolution. It’s a minor episode, and yet, emblematic.KCBS’s old guard likened the change in newsroom mood to a cold snap. Interviews with certain political figures—like California gubernatorial candidate Katie Porter—were canceled over fears that open criticism of the president might provoke more regulatory headaches. Sovern, whose reporting long defined KCBS during crises, lamented what had happened. “For a station built on truth and accountability, letting fear or financial anxiety dictate coverage is anathema.”Gradually, over several months and several cautious stories, the clamp seemed to loosen. New coverage returned: protests, local and national, even a “No Kings Day” rally, made it on the air. It wasn’t carte blanche, but in the shadows, some reporters called it “a return to something like normal.”Still, the sobering fact remains: when the U.S. government can threaten, warn, or fine broadcasters—and, if determined, revoke their licenses—the balance between reporting and institutional survival is never as straightforward as pundits would have you believe. KCBS’s recent ordeal stands as living proof of just how fragile the old norms have become. It’s a reminder to anyone who values open reporting: the boundaries are always being redrawn, sometimes quite suddenly, and not always by those most invested in telling the facts, come what may.