by Jim Geraghty
In the overflow room, Bader yelled at the television; his staff hoped he couldn’t be heard outside.
“Here it comes,” Bader said. “Here’s the scapegoat! It wasn’t me! It was the one-armed man!”
“As administrative director, it is commonly assumed that my job is to ensure that the agency does everything it needs to do. That assumption is incorrect. To do everything needed would require more staff and more hours in a day than currently exist. Requests for assistance and information come in, by the dozens or hundreds per day, each day, throughout the year. Requests from farmers, gardeners, ranchers, requests from state and local agencies, requests from experts in the field, requests from forestry experts, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.”
“Gee, if only we had spent enormous sums building a giant database network to organize all of the requests and data like Weed.gov—oh, that’s right! We did!” fumed Bader.
“Most notable are the requests that we are legally required to respond to in a timely matter—FOIA requests, budgetary requests, and perhaps most significantly, congressional requests.”
“You son of a bitch!” Bader gasped. “You’re going to blame us!”
“Put simply, we and every other agency within the federal government must respond to every congressional request and without delay; to ignore any one of them is to risk being found in contempt of Congress,” Humphrey said, pausing to shake his head in regret.
Javier Puga piped up with a line of questioning that seemed all too perfect, almost rehearsed: “Mr. Humphrey, it sounds like you’re saying that congressional oversight, designed to ensure efficiency and service to the people, is one of your primary obstacles to achieving efficiency and service to the people.”
“Absolutely!” exclaimed Humphrey. “We face severe consequences for failing to respond to a congressional request for information, assistance, or almost any other request; we face significantly lesser consequences for failing to respond to a request from a member of the general public. I wish it were otherwise, the folly of this system has been abundantly clear since my first day at the agency, but to change it, we would need to change the culture of Capitol Hill.”
“This is like watching scapegoating jujitsu,” Lisa marveled from the audience.
“Undoubtedly, our agency needs to develop a better system of processing information about invasive species,” Humphrey continued. “I would prefer a system that included less stove-piping of information through particular channels.”
Commissioner Caleb Lyon cleared his throat, and underneath the desk kicked Beane, who had closed his eyes and was not discernibly awake. “Mr. Humphrey, could you please give us a sense of how you envision a system that has less … ‘stove-piping,’ as you describe it?”
“It would be wise to think of these incoming reports of weeds, bugs, and other invasive species as intelligence, not data,” Humphrey said. “Data just gets stored somewhere; intelligence is meant to be acted upon,” and the septuagenarians and octogenarians on the commission nodded. “Secondly, perhaps we need a separate director whose job would be to focus particularly on which invasive weed species represent immediate threats to our communities.”
Puga piped up again: “It sounds like you think your agency would be helped if you had a … a director of weed intelligence.”
“Indeed, Congressman,” Humphrey smiled.
“A DWI,” Carrington scoffed.
There was an audible “OW!” from outside the chamber; no one inside the hearing room knew that it was produced by Nick Bader punching a wall and breaking a finger bone.
SEPTEMBER 2007
U.S. National Debt: $9 trillion
The Washington hearing had been of limited use to the commission—the networks cut away as soon as Humphrey began his forty-nine-minute soliloquy about the unpredictable nature of wind patterns on the U.S.-Mexican border. But the field hearing in California was, in retrospect, a mistake.
Lyon felt the commission needed to hear from those most directly impacted by the cheatgrass epidemic, so the members were flown out to Southern California to meet with farmers. He arranged so that the members would travel together as a group—even all going in the same van, driven by the commissioner himself—in an effort to build camaraderie and teamwork.
The morale of the commission had steadily declined from the beginning. Puga and Carrington treated the work as mortal combat, and could barely stand to be in the same room with each other. As commissioners, they were learning to loathe and detest each other in ways that they never had as colleagues in the House. Meanwhile, the pace and duration of the workload began to wear on the Four Fogeys; they were starting to repeat questions, lose focus, and nod off in meetings more regularly. Lyon began to wonder what would happen if one keeled over before the commission finished its work, and how to handle any 3–3 splits in their assessments.
The field hearing in Temecula, California, had started off well enough, with detailed descriptions of how the farmers had dealt with cheatgrass in the past and how and why the 2006 growing season had differed so dramatically. But only twenty minutes passed before one farmer had asked the commissioners about the possibility of a “federal compensation fund,” and with that door open, every subsequent witness followed. The cost of the cheatgrass losses described by the witnesses suddenly jumped in comparison to the written testimony submitted before the hearing.
What was scheduled to be a two-hour hearing turned into four and a half hours of farmers explaining why the federal government, or somebody, really owed them several hundred thousand dollars to make up for everything. Lyon entered the hearing with high hopes of encountering “real” Americans—humble, plainspoken, salt-of-the-earth family farmers who would be a refreshing change from the blame-shifting bureaucrats they had interviewed in Washington. Instead, he found the collection of witnesses to be surprisingly high with whiners and grifters.
The air conditioning in the van was weakening, they had made several wrong turns, and the flight back to Washington was a redeye. Puga had complained about the amenities every step of the way, and he seethed that Carrington had upgraded himself. Carrington had remarked that the exorbitant cost of the first-class ticket was worth it, just for the opportunity to remind Puga that he was not permitted to use the first-class bathroom.
“Could you please turn the vents on the air conditioning so that they reach the backseats?” snarled Puga.
Carrington looked like he was adjusting the vents, and perhaps moved them one degree closer to the center, between the front seats.
“The air conditioning is weak, it doesn’t matter which way the vents are pointing!” Carrington shot back.
“I wouldn’t know, because you’ve had the center vent pointed at yourself this whole trip!” Puga spat.
“What, are you guys twelve?” groused Lyon, fairly certain he was supposed to make that last turn to get back to the airport; he wondered why all the intersections had NO U TURNS signs.
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Puga said. “Just like a spoiled elitist to hog all of the air conditioning for himself!”
“Oh, look, the hothead full of hot air can’t take the heat!” sniped Carrington. “I’m so shocked that you’re complaining, because it’s not like you’ve spent your entire legal career complaining, and your entire congressional career complaining, and all of your time on this commission complaining!”
“I’m only complaining because of injustices perpetrated by the likes of you and your right-wing friends! If you guys hadn’t started all this by—”
“I DON’T CARE WHO STARTED IT, I WILL TURN THIS VAN AROUND RIGHT NOW!” bellowed an irate Lyon. “NOW SHUT UP, THE BOTH OF YOU, FOR THE REST OF THIS TRIP!”
The remainder of the car ride was quiet, except for the snoring of two of the Four Fogeys.
After the California trip, the draft report came about surprisingly quickly. Even Puga was willing to acknowledge a long litany of missed warnings, lackadaisical response, communications breakdowns between fi
eld offices and headquarters, and a general culture of complacency that ensured the agency’s response would not meet the challenge of the cheatgrass outbreak.
Puga argued that the solution was additional staffers to “facilitate communications and ensure proper prioritization,” while Carrington wanted to clean house as far and wide as possible.
Lyon pushed the two to adopt a multistep process: dismiss the upper management to ensure accountability; bring in new managers to audit the operations to figure out where to cut the fat and ensure the clearest, most direct lines of communication; and then possibly make staff additions based on the needs.
The receptionist at the commission offices buzzed Lyon, and told him he had a visitor.
It was Humphrey.
Humphrey entered, nodded, and stood before Lyon’s desk.
“I am … preparing my exit from the agency,” Humphrey announced.
* * *
35 “Bush and Rove and the nutzos at the White House” was how 9/11 Commission member Max Cleland, a Democratic senator from Georgia who lost his reelection bid in 2002, described the administration. Cleland left the Commission in December 2003 after many other commissioners feared his angry, partisan views about the Bush administration would erode the credibility of their efforts. In a deal quietly arranged by Sen. Tom Daschle, Cleland was appointed to a $136,000-per-year appointment to the Export-Import Bank, a nomination put forth by the very administration he so vehemently opposed. He was replaced by former Nebraska senator Bob Kerrey. Philip Shenon, The Commission, pp. 162–163.
13
JANUARY 2008
U.S. National Debt: $9.23 trillion
Budget, USDA Agency of Invasive Species: $279.5 million
Lyon stared back.
“You didn’t seem like a man eager to resign at last summer’s hearing, Humphrey,” he said, gesturing to his guest to take a seat.
“I am not, Mr. Chairman,” Humphrey said, sitting. “But a time like this makes one focus one’s priorities. I hear the rumors, Mr. Chairman. The word is that you’ll be seeking wholesale changes in management, a decision that I fear would be horrific to the operations and effectiveness of the agency I’ve spent my entire career working in. Thus, if there must be a scapegoat to be sacrificed, let it be me, instead of any of the dedicated career civil servants beneath me.”
“Right,” said Lyon, incapable of packing more skepticism into a single word.
“Mr. Chairman, I have come to accept that my departure is a foregone conclusion. But I want to do everything to ensure a smooth transition, and I was hoping the commission could assist with that.”
“How so?”
“Allow me to begin by asking whether the commission’s final report, as currently drafted, calls for my dismissal or resignation.”
“Our recommendations are secret until the report is finalized.”
Humphrey gave him a skeptical look.
“Don’t buy any green bananas,” said Lyon.
“I disagree with that, but I understand the conclusion,” Humphrey sighed. “If it is all the same to you, with my departure approaching either way, I would urge the commission to … omit that.”
“Replacing the manager who permitted the agency’s performance to reach this piss-poor level is pretty much the heart of our recommendations,” Lyon growled.
“A recommendation that is moot if I have one foot out the door,” countered Humphrey. “In fact, if I announced my resignation tomorrow, you would be calling for something already done. Suddenly the centerpiece of your recommendations would be moot, making your final report … safe. Irrelevant. Some might even dismiss it as predictable and inconsequential, an offering of window dressing from a commission that had so boldly promised true accountability. Now, if I were in your position—”
“You’re not.”
“I would focus my report on some other recommendation beyond rubber-stamping the replacement of the soon-to-depart administrative director.”
Lyon sized up Humphrey, and began to see that the bureaucrat had a point.
“We’re also recommending the creation of that DWI position,” Lyon said. “Stupid acronym.”
“Ah, the director of weed intelligence, now that is a groundbreaking reform proposal!” Humphrey replied, offering an approving nod.
“I’m so glad you approve, considering that it was your proposal.”
“Indeed, and it represents a fundamental, structural transformation of the management of the agency,” Humphrey said, realizing he had accidentally slipped into his Gingrichian buzzwords from the 1990s. “If nothing else, under a new system with one person with a clearly defined responsibility to prevent problems like this one, you know precisely who to turn to if, heaven forbid, this ever happens again.”
“Well, when you describe the DWI as a professional on-staff scapegoat, I can’t wait.” Lyon’s sarcasm probably qualified as a weapon of mass destruction. “Explain to me again why we shouldn’t call for your ass to be canned immediately.”
“Because, if you do, there will be great pressure to get me out as quickly as possible,” Humphrey explained matter-of-factly. “When a crisis occurs, there’s always a call to have heads roll. Many wanted George Tenet fired on September 12. Could you imagine the mood within the CIA if, at the precise moment they’re called to scour the earth for the world’s most wanted men, the boss was summarily fired and everyone else within the organization feared for their jobs? What did we want them focused upon, the task at hand or covering their rears?”
“The cheatgrass crisis has long since passed,” Lyon said.
“But you and I know that in Washington, another crisis is never far away,” Humphrey said. “I am an old man, with retirement in sight even before this mess began. Yes, new leadership is necessary—but don’t exacerbate the problems at my agency by throwing in some new administrative director who has to learn on the job.”
Lyon gradually nodded.
Humphrey broke the news to Wilkins in his office.
“You told them you’re leaving?” gasped Wilkins. “I mean, I knew this would come someday, but—”
“I said I would leave, but I made no promises on when. The transition is in progress. In some ways, the transition began the day you walked through the door to work with me.”
“That was 1979, Adam.”
“Some transitions are longer than others,” he shrugged. “I’ll leave … in the next year or so.”
Wilkins smirked. “Or so.”
“I’ve done almost everything I wanted to do here,” Humphrey said with a satisfied sigh. “With one exception. When I hand the baton to you, I want to do it in the new building.”
The two men met later that night at the bar at the Willard InterContinental hotel.
“To an illustrious career,” Wilkins raised his glass of scotch.
“I’m not gone yet,” Humphrey said with a smirk, drinking.
“I’m not even sure that you needed to announce your resignation-date-to-be-named-later maneuver,” Wilkins said. “I checked the legislation establishing the commission and found Congress gave it no statutory authority.”
“Of course not, that would mean Congress would be giving up some of its power,” Humphrey scoffed. “The 9/11 Commission, the Katrina Commission, the Iraq Study Group, the various Social Security and entitlement reform panels, every endlessly touted ‘blue ribbon commission’—they’re there to tell Congress what it ought to do, but not to enact the recommendations themselves.”
“Still, you don’t really have to go,” Wilkins said, feeling like he could enjoy his imminent accession to Humphrey’s job once he had given his boss every opportunity to resist the exit. “Lyon can call for you to be fired until he’s blue in the face, but—”
“Reassuring to know my protégé does his legal homework,” Humphrey smiled. “I briefly contemplated that path, but why create the headlines of an unnecessary fight to stay on for another year or two? Within forty-eight hours, my name will be out of the
headlines, and our illustrious agency will revert to its traditional level of attention, which is to say, none.”
“A shame you had to be the scapegoat, Adam,” Wilkins said.
“It does seem rather un-American,” Humphrey sighed. “When it was discovered that corporations were being given millions of dollars in subsidies to ‘promote exports’—run advertising overseas—was anyone put in the public stocks? Pelted with rotten fruit? Was anyone punished when the 1981 federal budget was so hastily and chaotically assembled that the phone number of a staffer that was scribbled on a margin ended up being printed in the final legislation?”
“I never heard that story,” Wilkins giggled.
“255-4833,” Humphrey replied. “I just wished it had been a few pages later, we could have used another two and a half million in our funding.”
“I’ll bet with inflation, today it would be $8,675,309!” laughed Wilkins, but Humphrey didn’t get the joke. “You see, it’s a phone number. In a song. It goes 8-6-7-5—oh, you know, forget it.”
“When all of those dedicated citizen-legislators from the 1994 landslide changed their minds on term limits, did anyone complain? Did their constituents rise up in outrage?”
“My new house isn’t worth what I paid for it a few years ago!” Wilkins exclaimed. “Anybody losing their jobs over that?”
“No WMDs in Iraq! We’re still in Afghanistan! New Orleans is a mess!” Humphrey continued. “Disasters all around! Why does our disaster require heads to roll when so many others continue unabated?”
“Every Middle East envoy is told to go to make peace out there, and they come back empty-handed! CEOs get golden parachutes, actors and directors turn out dreck, the press gets things wrong all the time, nothing works the way it’s supposed to, and that’s the way it’s always been!” shouted an inebriated Wilkins.
