The people who have a legislator’s ear or who agree to give him donations don’t necessarily pull the strings, but they garner more attention—“face time” in the parlance. They make deals, forge alliances, and their pet issues get remembered, unless the booze makes everyone forget last night’s conversation, which is a very real occupational hazard in Washington. Those who attend these intimate gatherings get just a little more consideration than you do.
Even before the general election, those of us likely to be in the freshman class in Congress were told what the party’s legislative agenda would be—as my predecessor, effective eight-term Congressman and Southern gentleman Jeff Miller, had told me would happen. As he also told me, one of the first suggestions we got from the party was the strong hint we should donate to other candidates, even if donating this late in the race might make little practical difference. It was a show of mutual support. We would be beholden to each other, and to the party, in ways difficult to forget or ignore later on.
Donations to the party do not officially determine which committees you’ll sit on or how prestigious your spot will be, but unofficially money sure seems to make a difference. I won’t pretend I walked away from the game. On the contrary, I was playing to win, and I did. I was eager to meet with Leader McCarthy in hopes of getting a spot on the Armed Services Committee, which is very important to decisions that affect the lives of many military personnel and veterans in Florida’s First District. I expected that when I did meet with him, I’d have to explain the potential impact on my constituents, my relevant experience with military issues, and the ways in which I was (or was not) in sync with the rest of the party on military and foreign policy issues.
To my shock, he looked me straight in the eye and said it would be helpful if in the next ten days I could direct $75,000 “across the street,” which meant into the coffers of the National Republican Congressional Committee. I frankly told my supporters back home about how things apparently work in D.C., and they agreed I should try rolling the dice. I quickly ponied up $150,000, twice the ask, and ended up not only on Armed Services but the Judiciary Committee as well. They even asked if I wanted anything else. If you “moneyball” it out, it sure makes sense for an ambitious member to participate in the system, whether or not he likes the system as a whole. But there is a difference between being of the system and playing the system.
Once given, they’ll rarely take away your committee assignment, unless they really think you’re a troublemaker. I hope mine aren’t revoked when this book is published!
The big annual March dinner becomes a first assessment of how much you, the new member of Congress, owe the party bosses. Fortunately, since I had donated that $150,000 on the way into office, the party assessed my likely future contributions at $490,000, which is what the parties call your “leadership potential” in coded D.C. parlance, just as in Congress “compromise legislation” and “stakeholder consensus” are often code for “special interests teaming up across the aisle to screw Americans.” I did bring in the expected amount that first term, but I’m unlikely to meet their expectations again, for reasons I’ll explain at the end of this chapter.
Once you’re in a position of prominence and power, there are always parties you can attend where you’ll rub elbows with movers and shakers from various industries and pressure groups. But I don’t know that I’d call those parties themselves much of a temptation for me. They’re no “reward” or “pot of gold” I’m looking for, not some big pleasure-orgy—more like a very awkward and phony speed-dating session. For many people, though, events where they can meet the money-givers and other power brokers are the alpha and omega of the whole D.C. experience. Tedious and boring for most people, these events become the great aspiration for certain Washingtonians. Some people really do sell out through their stomach and liver.
Arizona’s Rep. Andy Biggs, a great guy and chair of the House Freedom Caucus, does not have my anti-PAC rule but has his own balanced way of avoiding too much interaction with some of the people who surround them. He hosts his PAC fundraisers as concerts by his Mormon family band, in which he and some of his relatives sing, so you can attend those performances and not even talk to him. The donor types show up, pay, and leave. Hats off to him for making this excruciating process something where he doesn’t have to be too phony face to face. What Andy lacks in tone and pitch he more than makes up for in volume and enthusiasm.
As for me, I’d rather be reading, talking to my constituents, or going on a date with someone who sincerely cares than dining with some of the money/power people, but members who reject that scene completely won’t ascend the ranks of power. Committees are rated A, B, and C based in part on how much fundraising you have to do to get assigned to them. Freshmen are virtually never assigned to an A committee right off the bat. And you’re liable to end up on a B or C permanently if you aren’t up for playing the game.
What is likely more corrupting than all the literal money sloshing around, though, is the array of “lifestyle enhancements” available to those who hang around with the lobbyists and industry people: Super Bowl tickets, hunting trips, research junkets to glamorous locations, the sorts of things that can stealthily turn what is officially a $10,000 donation into something more like $100,000, all technically within the
