Does this guy, one of the best lawyers in DC, actually spend time...you know...with his paying clients?
From his Soft Money Hard Law website:
Requiem
It was getting late, really late. I had filed my story for the day, and now I was off to an evening engagement, even though I wanted to sleep so badly that I could have used a porcupine for a pillow and not noticed. A light rain had been falling on the streets of the Capital for some hours -- for days, it seemed.
As I was looking for a cab on K Street, I saw him, a shadowy mass of man slumped in the doorway of a restaurant closed long ago.
He was soaked through: he clutched a ratty overcoat to his throat with one hand and, in the other, he held a cup, the kind kids get in their Happy Meals, in the hope of catching a coin or two from the passers-by.
It was clear: he was -- no, he had been -- a lobbyist.
You could always tell. The story was the same every time.
"Hey, please: I haven't had a meal since I won a free one at La Colline in a business card drawing."
You had to be careful how you answered: you might be overheard, and there would be hell to pay for fraternizing with these down-and-out influence peddlers. You had to be tough:
"Not my problem, bud. I have a zero tolerance policy on gifts, and I'm not making an exception for you." I spit out something like a laugh, launching it like a snake's tongue.
He stood, trying to retrieve and show me some of the old pride. "Look, I'm not asking for a weekend at the Greenbrier. Just enough for a cup of coffee and a donut."
It was too much: the very nerve of it. "Why should you live better than a Member of Congress?" I shot back. "If they can't accept even the froth off of the top of a cappuccino, what entitles you to a hand-out?"
I knew that I was confusing the issue, but I could not escape the effects of years of Times editorials.
He bowed his head: "Have it your way. I make no apologies for how I earned a living: everyone has to make a living." He paused, and then: "I don't know what happened. I never cheated any Indian tribes, but somehow...."
He was now silent, and I could not help feeling sorry for the guy. Times had changed; he could not change with them.
Once, his kind ran the show: lobbied with style, ferried the powerful in low-fare charters, monopolized the skyboxes, stood shoulder to shoulder with the elect at receptions where you could have damned good grub so long as you followed the rules by staying on your feet and spearing the food with toothpicks. He had been the Man to See; and now, if you were smart, you were not seen with such a man.
"Hey," I said, laying my hand on his shoulder: "You had a good run. It's all different now. And it's not all bad: the Congress can figure this stuff out on their own. The meals are gone, but so is the pressure: the outreach, the phones, the mail, the trips, the negative ads -- all those thousands of distractions are out of the way now, and everything is simpler, clearer."
This didn't seem to help, and so I reminded him that he was not alone. "Look, they're all gone now: the PACs, the 527s, the Pioneers, the grassroots lobbyists, all of them. Hell, things have been cleaned up so much that we have the strongest disclosure laws but not much left to disclose. We've gone five years without an op-ed by Norm Ornstein or Tom Mann. Pew is only funding real charities now."
I stared into the night: "You guys, the lobbyists, were the first to go, but you were not the last. And now government can do its work in peace."
He sat back down, and his last words seemed suspended, hard and cold, in the night air: "Yeah, government of the government, by the government, and for the government."
As I walked away, tossing a quarter into this cup, I thought: he didn't learn a thing.
I checked my watch and picked up the pace: at this rate, I would be unacceptably late to the White House Correspondents' Dinner, and I did not want to arrive after my Congressional guests. And afterward would come the Bloomberg party: not to be missed.
Bob Bauer