by Alan Huffman
What to do? Michael and I never lie; finding and furthering the truth is our guiding light, the very purpose of our mission. We are not above being cagey or creative, but both are tactics that reporters are adept at identifying—and quickly. When the friendly journalist pressed me for answers, I could neither refuse nor tell the whole truth and risk blowing my and our campaign’s cover. My search itself would be the fodder for a story.
I had, by this point, revealed the newspaper I had once worked for on a daily basis, which prompted the reporter to suggest the names of other reporters whom we might know in common, and as it turned out, one of my former colleagues worked at that very paper. Oh, hey! I had answered truthfully right up to the point that I realized I was in a conversational box canyon, so I closed my notebook, looked the reporter in the eye and said, “I’m working on my own now, and I can’t really talk about the story. But if I find anything, I promise to share it with you.” She was satisfied, and in fact the campaign did share my findings with her, but it was a near-miss just the same.
5.If the person in charge attempts to stifle you, perhaps by speaking in an unknown tongue, or implying that what you’re asking for is unreasonable, stand quietly and say nothing. Let them work through the possibilities. If necessary, act stupid. You’d be surprised how easy and fun this can be, once you overcome having been trained to pretend you know things when you don’t. Look down at your shoes and say, “I don’t understand” at least twice. Scratch your head, even.
Sometimes Michael and I really don’t know; we’ve been given a specific assignment, such as to get copies of a lawsuit, and we have no idea who, ultimately, wants the information or why. But more often we merely imply that we’re dumb, when doing so will play on the sympathies of a clerk who holds the power to make our job far more difficult, perhaps by imposing long wait times for document request reviews and the like. We might start out by saying, “Is it possible to find out whether another person pays his taxes?” Of course, we know it is, but are also aware (based on office atmospherics) that immediately launching into a request for a well-known candidate’s tax history could cause resistance. For the moment, we’re just guys who have no idea how anything works, who are at the mercy of strangers, who need help.
So, after we ask if it’s possible to get a person’s tax history, the clerk will say, “Sure, you can do that. You just give me the name and I can call it up.” Then he or she smiles as one might smile at a slow child, and says, “What’s the name?” You blurt out the well-known candidate’s name; the clerk looks up at you; you retain the blank, helpless look. Everyone knows the clerk has been trapped, and can’t refuse or even complicate the request now.
6. Try not to be a nuisance—right up to the point when it becomes apparent that anything you say or do is considered a nuisance. When that happens, go ahead and become a serious nuisance. Run with it. Ask endless questions. Make clear that you have all the time in the world. But again, be careful never to completely cross the line into assholedom. Allow them to hate you—hate is corrosive, and wears them down—but let the decision to hate be theirs alone. You can influence the timing, and you should, in subtle ways. If they hate you too soon, they may manage to gain an edge on you.
In a New Jersey township where I’ve done oppo numerous times over the course of many years, I have become acquainted with two archetypal public employees. One was a supremely nice woman who quickly figured out what I was up to when I asked for a slate of candidate’s voting records. She actually seemed to appreciate what I was doing. She was charged with maintaining public voting records, after all, and no doubt felt that asking whether candidates voted themselves was a valid question.
Then there was the clerk in the criminal records division across town who invariably reacted with disgust over whatever request I made, no matter how routine. After appearing at their counters for several years in a row, both women began to recognize me, but for the criminal records czar, familiarity had bred contempt—beyond, even, that she routinely mustered for anyone who walked in the door. It was written all over her face. Sometimes, just to fulfill her need to hate me, I would ask her to check the criminal record of a candidate, and after she returned to say, in a borderline vicious tone, “No, there’s nothing in their name,” I would depart, walk down the hall and then pause and return with another request, sometimes for a name I’d made up; once I even used my own. “Nothing on Alan Huffman? OK, thanks! Have a nice day!” The truth is each time I arrive in town I look forward to seeing both of these public servants, for different reasons.
7.If nothing you do dislodges them, mention the open records law, making sure to use the correct title, which varies from state to state. Even if the clerk is being adversarial, use a thoughtful tone, as in, “Oh, is this not a public record?” as if you don’t know for sure but you assume they do. If that doesn’t work, say simply, “I know this is a public record.”
Each state has an open records law, though they vary to some degree. In one race, a records clerk refused to give me a copy of a tax lien filed against a candidate. “Is that not a public record?” I asked.
“It is,” she said, “But it contains some information that is protected by privacy laws.”
“Well, then,” I said. “How does that work? It’s a public record, but it can’t be viewed by the public?”
She stared at her computer screen. “I can read the parts to you that aren’t private,” she said.
“OK,” I said. I ended up taking notes as she read to me. It was a little unnerving when the campaign used the information in an ad, knowing that I couldn’t produce copies of the document, but I knew where to send anyone who might challenge the claim.
8. If you encounter a particularly skillful opponent and he or she gets the best of you, owing to their vast insider knowledge of bureaucratic operations and the ability to frighten children too much on Halloween, move on to another task in another agency office, then return during lunch when someone else is at the window. The chances are they can’t stand that person, either.
9. Admittedly, there are times when you may want to throw your laminated sheet to the side and say, “Listen, this isn’t the CIA and I don’t have time to stand here while you figure out ways not to do what you’re paid to do. So here’s a novel idea—just do it!” Michael loves this option, though I should point out that he uses it judiciously. Before you reach this point of no return, you should make every effort to exhaust all the possibilities and avoid a showdown, particularly in a building with guards, and when drawing too much attention to your request will ensure that someone will alert the politician, who will immediately start doing damage control.
10. When all else fails, ask to see the person’s supervisor. Bonus points: Know the supervisor’s name beforehand. You can find it on the office website or by scanning the room for photographs, employee-of-the-month awards or desk nameplates. Forcing the supervisor into play means bad internecine publicity; it indicates failure on the clerk’s part.
If, by chance, you’re fortunate enough to encounter a particularly helpful public servant, call back later, ask for the supervisor and tell them what a gem of an employee he or she has working for them. Few people ever do that, and they should.
Chapter 10
Michael
The last time I had the crap kicked out of me was in college. I don’t remember exactly what precipitated the altercation that night, but I do recall being a tad drunk outside a convenience store, holding a bag full of greasy potato logs and shoving a finger in the guy’s face. The only difference between then and right now is that I’m not drunk, I don’t have any logs and I’m standing inside a county courthouse.
It’s midsummer and I’ve been trying for a month to get my hands on one court file. I’ve had enough. Government offices, whether local, state or federal, can be difficult to navigate. If you’re lucky you can just walk in and ask for the information. In other cases you have to fill out forms and come back a day or two later. In some
instances you have to write letters, officially requesting the information under the state and federal open records laws that allow for its release. Sometimes, however, no matter what route you take, nothing works.
The file I’m seeking, which I’ve been told holds information about an infidelity committed by the candidate we’re researching, is supposed to be stored in the county clerk’s office along with every other court file. The case has long since been resolved, but this particular file has been “checked out” by the attorney who handled it. Why? Because he wants to protect his client from the damage it could cause. Over the past four weeks I’ve called and sent letters to no avail. The clerks don’t know when the file will be returned and have so far not been inclined to retrieve it themselves. Even my phone calls to the attorney’s office have proved fruitless. So, on this morning, I tell Alan I have no option but to drive to the courthouse and confront the bureaucracy in person.
“I’m going to spend an entire day on this bullshit,” I grumble.
“Remember to smile,” Alan says as I walk out the door.
It’s a painstaking drive down rural highways and one-lane back roads to the small-town courthouse that is the source of my irritation. When I enter the clerk’s office, I introduce myself as the guy who’s been phoning and writing about the file that’s not there.
“Still hasn’t been returned,” one of the clerk’s says quickly.
“Tell me,” I say. “If it were here, where would it be?”
She leads me back to a records room, points at rows and rows of shelves crammed with folders stuffed with legal papers, and tells me that what I’m seeking would be there, if it were there, which it’s not. She asks if I need the case number to search for the missing document. I already have it, I tell her, and she leaves. I thumb through the files one by one in sequence until I get to the spot where it should be. There, in its place, is a small note card indicating that, indeed, the candidate’s attorney removed the file some months earlier. I take it out, walk back to the clerk and set it in front of her.
“Exactly how long can someone ‘hijack’ a court file?” I ask. “I mean, it’s county property, right? Do you have any interest in getting it back?”
The clerk starts to formulate a response when she looks over my shoulder through the door of an adjacent courtroom, points and says, “Ask him. He’s the one who has it.”
There, standing among a roomful of court personnel wrapping up some hearing, is an average-looking man in a dark suit packing up his briefcase.
“That’s this guy?” I ask with my finger on the name scrawled on the note card. “That’s the attorney?” She nods.
The object of my ire is preparing to leave, or so he thinks.
Housed directly behind the forehead of every human are chunks of brain called the frontal lobes. These lobes are chock-full of dopamine-sensitive neurons that help control our emotions. Their functions, according to medical books, are to recognize future consequences resulting from current actions, to choose between good and bad conduct and to override and suppress unacceptable social responses. In humans, the frontal lobes reach full development in our twenties as we reach the cognitive maturity associated with adulthood. I can only assume, however, that sometimes, on some days, the frontal lobes simply decide to take a snooze.
Our conversation begins nicely enough. I introduce myself to the attorney, describe my problem and ask if I might see the court file that he possesses. He says nothing for several moments, goes back to his briefcase and then asks, “Why do you want it?”
My frontal lobes are apparently sound asleep. “First, it’s none of your business why I want it. Second, it’s not your file to keep. Third, as far as I’m concerned, you stole it,” I tell him.
The others in the courtroom, including the judge, are now listening. The rage I’m directing at this attorney is surprisingly fulfilling after a month of being stonewalled. He tells me he’s not sure he even has the file. I show him the card with his name on it and he just smiles. This guy is a classic dick and all I want to do is keep going. I also realize that I’m in unfamiliar territory and, on one level, I understand the perils that can arise from starting trouble in a place where you know no one.
In the movie Chinatown there’s a scene in which Jack Nicholson’s character, Jake Gittes, a private detective, is tailing a man on behalf of his supposed wife, to see if he is having an affair, not knowing that he’s been tricked. At one point in his investigation, which includes researching land and water rights records in the county courthouse, Gittes realizes that he may be bumping up against something bigger than one man’s infidelity—something that involves political corruption, the swindling of farmers and a conspiracy to control the flow of water to the thirsty, growing city of Los Angeles. If there were any doubt about it, his suspicions are confirmed when a thug slices his nose with a knife for being “a very nosy kitty.”
Neither Alan nor I had ever been subjected to physical assault, but we’ve received our share of threats, and we take note of episodes involving others who encounter trouble on similar quests. You’ve probably never heard of Ajay Kumar, but he lives in New Delhi, India, and, like me, was just asking questions and digging for the truth. In India, any citizen is entitled to ask for information from any level of government under the nation’s Right to Information Act, adopted in 2005. So when Kumar (not to be confused with Ajay Kumar, the world’s smallest actor) discovered that private buildings were encroaching on government land under the protection of a local politician, he asked the Municipal Corporation of Delhi why these homes and shops were allowed to be built on property not zoned for private construction. At first he was denied, ignored by the public information officer. But he persisted and took his questions to a higher-level public information officer and then to the federal government’s central information commission. Success at last, Kumar must have thought, when the commission ordered the local government and the police to inspect the property about which he had inquired. He must have felt a sense of vindication and pride that he had taken on the powers that be and won a victory, not only for himself, but also for his neighbors and the citizens of his city. He must have believed that the system had worked.
Unfortunately for Kumar, when he returned to the property a few months later, he was savagely attacked and beaten bloody with an iron rod by an angry mob of two dozen people who backed the politician he had crossed.
“Neither the police nor the people helped me,” said poor Kumar in a Time magazine article.
Miles from home, I wonder who’s going to help me if this thing goes south. I don’t know how many friends this attorney has or who they are. Maybe the sheriff? Maybe the judge? Here I am, standing in a courtroom, half shouting at a man I’ve never met before, all because he has a file I want to see. Is it worth it?
“I’ll bring it back when I’m ready,” he tells me.
It’s worth it.
“No, here’s what you’re going to do.” My right index finger is now about two inches in front of his face. “You’re going to go to your office, get the file and bring it back to the clerk where it belongs. You don’t own it and your client doesn’t own it. It belongs to the county. So go get it.”
In poker, when players make mistakes because something has upset them emotionally, it’s called “being on a tilt.” A player becomes so upset that he begins to make poor decisions. A player can sometimes go on a tilt simply because his opponent is obnoxious or rude. And a player on a tilt may begin betting with weaker hands than usual. While it’s important to recognize when your opponent is on a tilt, it’s even more vital to understand when you may be going on a tilt and figure out how not to let your emotions get the best of you. I’m definitely on a tilt, but it’s too late. I’ve already laid down my bet and called his hand.
The attorney looks away and glances briefly at the judge, who, I’m relieved to see, has a hint of a grin on his face and a look that says, “Hey, don’t ask me to help you.” It’s just me and the at
torney—no angry mob. Everyone still in the courtroom knows he’s purposely hiding information he is not entitled to keep.
With few options except to continue ignoring me or hit me on the head with an iron rod, he finally agrees to have someone from his office return it and tells me I can get it from the clerk. A few days later I do, and it contains the information I am seeking. Though it was never used in the campaign, it was nonetheless a victory, the payoff for a well-played hand.
Things don’t always end that well. Sometimes you meet assholes along the way. But fortunately it’s rare for anyone to be killed or beaten in the United States today for merely asking questions, for seeking information to which we are entitled. Whether it stays that way in these volatile political times is anyone’s guess.
Chapter 11
Alan
On May 14, 1993, XXXXXX advised the president that XXXXXX had participated in a meeting during which XXXXXX, XXXXXX and XXXXXX reviewed the XXXXXX of the XXXXXX (relative to the Clean Air Act Amendments of 1990) and concluded that XXXXXX would cause XXXXXX to XXXXXX.
All true statements! It happened during the administration of President George H. W. Bush.
OK, so it’s not a verbatim transcript. Michael and I long ago disposed of our copy of the original presidential memo, but such are the kinds of political “bombshells” we find among the files we receive from the Bush Presidential Library in response to our voluminous Freedom of Information Act request. The memos, covering the activities of a former presidential aide we’re researching, are so heavily redacted that they contain few complete sentences. Scanning them for anything of value is a dizzying, futile exercise.