Jack Abramoff - Capitol Punishment: The Hard Truth About Washington Corruption From America’s Most Notorious Lobbyist

This book made available by the Internet Archive.

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to the memory of my beloved mother, Jane Abramoffmay her soul be elevated in Heaven.

To my gallant and inspiring father, Frank Abramoff

To my precious and cherished childrenLevi, Alex, Daniel,

Livia, and Sarah.

And to my true love, my dear wife, Pam Abramoff.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 278

appendix a: Where Are They Now? 282

appendix b: Timeline 288

INDEX

PROLOGUE

I was scared. Real fearthe kind which paralyzeshad taken over. I was about to experience the same pain I had helped inflict on others. As I walked into the Hart Senate Office building on Capitol Hill, I knew I was stepping into the torture chamber of American politics: the congressional hearing. Being the subject of a congressional hearing is a lot like being tossed to the lions in the Roman Coliseum. You know that, no matter what, you will soon be eaten alive.

On September 29, 2004, I was to be that lions main course.

The air was thick with tension. Passersby gawked. My attorneys led me inside with great dignity and compassion, but to me it felt like a death march. We neared the hearing room, and encountered the one senator most responsible for this day of reckoning: Senator John McCain. He was his usual sanctimonious, preening self, the embodiment of everything I loathed in a politician. But here he was, sneering, with his foot on my throat, and the entire national press corps helping to keep it in place.

McCains staff member directed us to a hallway outside the hearing room, and pointed. Wait here, he said. My heart was pounding. Suddenly, the booming, self-important voices of the worlds great deliberative bodythe United States Senatewere audible and mordant. The grave sins of one Jack Abramoff were the topic, and there were no boundaries. On and on they droned, spewing searing accusations, including

Capitol Punishment

some new ones I hadnt yet heard.

Who was this villain they so contemptuously described? Had I met this Abramoff guy, I would have hated him, too.

I stood and listened to the castigation. The crowd, mainly consisting of disgruntled Native Americans, could barely contain their animosity. And then they brought me in to look that lion in the eyes. There I was, Jack Abramoff, about to be slaughtered. My attorneys and I moved in what seemed to be slow motion through the throng of cameras and the pulsating crowd. They had come for the show of the year, and they werent going to be disappointed. The senators had stacks of my personal files at the ready. My tax returns since I was a fetus. Emails foolishly written in what seemed to be another era. For all I knew, they had my old football helmet, stained with the paint of some poor victimized linebacker I had smash-blocked in high school.

They were the Senate. They made the rules. They decided when to follow them. They kept the score, and it had already been decidedthis was not going to be very pleasant.

As we crossed to the witness table, I noticed the hardened, hate-filled faces in the crowd. There was a murmur of displeasure as they laid their eyes on me. My head was pounding.

I was told to stand and be sworn in. My right arm cocked at an angle, I affirmed that I would be telling the truth. But would I really be telling the truth? Technically I would, but the only truth they would be hearing that day was a recitation of my constitutional rights. This hearing was not designed to get to the truth. It was staged to give these high-flown senators some good campaign sound bites. But I was done with helping politicians get good sound bites. Or at least thats what 1 thought.

My game plan was simple: dont create any problems by being stupid. Its execution was complicated, since the aim of these kinds of congressional hearings is getting you to commit perjury. I had to be disciplined. No problem, right?

I stared at the senators through the sea of paparazzi crouched on the floor between the senatorial presidium and my chair at the witness table. Most of these legislators had taken thousands of dollars from my clients and firms, and now they were sitting as impartial judges against me. Washington hypocrisy at its best.

Prolog u e

Senator Ben Nighthorse Campbell was to be first. A Native American senator from Colorado who had switched parties years ago, he was given the choice job of heading the Indian Affairs Committee in the Senate. He was a nice guy, but didn't quite fit in with his bolo tie and folksy demeanor. He seemed to prefer riding his Harley Davidson to being a senator. We got along well in the past, particularly when I delivered campaign cash to him. But today was different. The Senator Campbell I knew was gone. In his place sat an angry man.

Mr. Abramoff, why would you want to work for people you have contempt for?

Mr. Chairman, I replied, I respect the committees process. Thats why I am here today. But I have no choice but to assert my various constitutional privileges against having to testify. I hope that sometime soon I will be able to do so in order to present all of the facts.

Mr. Abramoff, do you refer to all your clients as morons? Senator, I respectfully invoke the privileges previously stated.

Mr. Abramoff, do you refer to your clients as monkeys?

Mr. Abramoff

Mr. Abramoff

It went on and on. It didnt really matter. In my mind, I had already left the building.

How had it all come to this?

YOU DONT KNOW JACK!

T he second question the intake officer at the Federal Correctional Institution in Cumberland asked me was whether I had a happy childhood. The first question was where I d like my body shipped should I die there.

I found the query about my childhood to be strange. I was ensconced in a facility with life-long criminals. Did those guys have blissful upbringings? I imagined not. I, on the other hand, had a wonderful childhood.

Perhaps appropriately for someone burdened with the nickname Casino Jack, I was born in Atlantic City, New Jersey. Of course, this was before there were any casinos. At least before there were legal ones. My grandfather was a wholesale produce broker who immigrated to the United States from Odessa, Ukraine, where his grandfather was manager of the opera house. My mothers family came to America in the last years of the nineteenth century from Grodno, which was then in Lithuania or Poland depending on what time of day it was. Moms family included scientists, mathematicians, concert pianists, artists, and authors. Dad and his brother were the toughest street fighters in Atlantic City. I guess I got my genes from both sides.