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Republican higher ups in the Bush Department of Justice were in charge oi that task, undoubtedly trying to prove to the world that they could punish a fellow Republican.

We sat in court waiting for the arrival of Judge Ellen Huvelle. The media packed the visitors’ gallery and seemed to be having a great time, like a celebrating nineteenth century crowd at a public hanging.

The judge entered, and the hearing commenced. After the technicalities, I rose to make a statement: “Your honor, words will not be able to ever express how sorry I am for this, and I have profound regret and sorrow lor the multitude of mistakes and harm I have caused. All of my remaining days, I will feel tremendous sadness and regret for my conduct and lor what I have done. I only hope that I can merit forgiveness from the Almighty and Irom those I have wronged or caused to suffer. I will work hard to earn that redemption.”

As I finished the statement, I looked up and was a bit stunned to see sadness in the faces of the prosecutors and FBI agents. They had read thousands of my emails, not just the few parsed, stupid utterances fed to the press by McCain’s staff. I think they thought me foolish and impetuous, and at times reckless. But I never once felt they thought I was evil. The whole thing was just a tragedy to them. They had their job to do, and did it as professionally and gently as they could.

When the hearing ended, we returned to the conference room. I put on my coat and hat, and followed Abbe and Pam Marple out to the waiting car. It never dawned on any of us that what I was wearing would cause such an explosion. But as soon as we exited the court, the cameras set upon me. One of the nasty tricks ol the paparazzi is to shout to get your attention. If you turn to them, their footage is more valuable. As soon as I emerged, I heard shouts: “What’s with that hat? What, are you a mobster?”

Immediately, I knew I had a wardrobe malfunction. I had worn the hat for two reasons. First, it was raining when I left for court that morning and I didn’t want to get wet. Second, I wanted to cover my head. Throughout this traumatic time in my life, as in my past, I felt highly connected with God. In our faith, men are bidden to cover their heads.

I didn’t wish to impugn my religion more than I had already by wearing something so obvious as a yarmulke, nor did I want to be accused of playing the religious card. My whole life I had downplayed my religious

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observance in the political and business world for fear of being accused of trying to use it for gain. Now I wanted to downplay it because of the shame I had brought on my fellow Jews. I figured the hat was a good way to de-emphasize my observance and yet keep my head covered. I never dreamed it would ignite such an uproar.

After that short walk in the hat, the media unloaded on me. I was again the topic of late night monologues. Leno quipped, “Jack Abramoff pled guilty to corruption and fraud charges. When they booked him, they had to empty his pockets. Tom DeLay fell out.”

Conan O’Brien chimed in: “Republican lobbyist Jack Abramoff has agreed to cooperate with federal prosecutors. He could name up to twenty congressmen. When he heard this, President Bush said, That’s amazing. I can only name three congressmen.”

The rest of the media comments weren’t so funny.

The day after I pled in D.C., I flew to Miami to offer a plea to the charges there. The charges I pled to that day were wire fraud and conspiracy to commit wire and mail fraud. The press was all over the place. As I got out of the car to enter the court, they charged, blocking my way. I just kept walking ahead and at the last minute they stepped aside to let me through, shouting all the while. This time, much to the disappointment of the paparazzi, I wore a baseball cap without a logo. The judge set my sentencing for March, and I headed back to D.C. for my meetings with the Justice Department. I had hoped that after my plea, the media attention would wane. Instead, I soon found my pensive face on the cover of Time magazine, with the headline, “The Man Who Bought Washington.” Each day seemed to bring another dozen stories. The press was hitting me from all sides. My black hat became the most infamous chapeau in the land.

The mass circus reached its climax when George Clooney ascended the stage to accept the 2006 Golden Globe for Best Actor in a Dramatic Film a few weeks after my plea in court.

I had little interest in watching the Golden Globe awards, or anything else on television for that matter, except perhaps an occasional rerun of “Seinfeld.” But that wasn’t the case with my teenage daughter Sarah. Along with her schoolmates, she loved to watch America’s celebrities in action. That night she tuned into the awards show from my office at home and chatted happily with her friends on the phone as they watched.

Double Judgment

But as I walked by my office, I noticed Sarah was crying. With three elder brothers in the house, I assumed one of them drove her to tears. “Who did this? Daniel? Alex? Levi?’

She looked up and pointed to the television. “No, he did!”

I entered the office and saw George Clooney on stage. Immediately, I hit Tivo to rewind the broadcast and got a healthy dose of Hollywood wisdom. Instead of thanking the people responsible for getting him that award, Clooney decided to take a swing at me. “What kind of parents would name their kid ‘Jack’ when his name ends in ‘off?’ No wonder that guy is screwed up!”

With that obscene comment, the suave jester drove a little girl to tears. And he gave the newspapers a new angle of attack, which they used with abandon. After a few days of simmering, the street fighter in my father erupted with a caustic missive to Clooney, which he copied to the Hollywood Reporter. “Your glib and ridiculous attack on my son, Jack, coupled with your obscene query as to the choice his mother and I made in naming him brought shame and dishonor on you and your profession.” Clooney was lucky that this confrontation hadn’t taken place sixty years earlier when Dad settled altercations in the street without the benefit of stunt men.

While the press went on and on about me and my case, I spent every day for months on end trudging to the FBI offices in Virginia to meet with agents and investigators. All the meetings were tolerable, but going over hundreds of my emails each day drained me of the energy I needed to try to get some business going. Our finances were perilous. Pam was working full time, but not bringing in the kind of money needed to support five children. Dad helped as much as he could, but we were barely making it. And I couldn’t get anything moving myself, as much as I tried.

At the end of March, I headed to Miami for sentencing. It was the first time I had seen Kidan since Suncruz days, and he looked older and tired. We were seated apart from each other at sentencing, and while Kidan rose to make a statement, I chose silence. I did not hate Adam. I felt badly for him. Whereas I had a loving wife, children and parents to support me through this nightmare, he had no one. I couldn’t imagine how he endured, but then again, Adam had a great capacity to compartmentalize and an unlimited capacity for self-delusion. Yes, he’d do just fine.

The judge gave us each 70 months in prison, and then pronounced

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that we should report to prison in six weeks. My attorneys started to jump up to object, but they didn’t get a chance. The Justice Department didn’t want me in prison yet. They had two thousand open investigations, and they felt I could shed light on many of them. The local prosecutors in Florida didn’t want Kidan in prison just yet either. He was cooperating in the case of the murder of Gus Boulis. The judge didn’t seem impressed with either request, and admonished the prosecutors to hurry up. He announced his intention to revisit the matter in six weeks’ time. The pressure in my head was building. This was the first time going to prison became a time-sensitive reality for me. It was a crushing moment when it really hit me that I’d be taken from my family.

Pam joined me for sentencing in Miami, even though she previously hadn’t appeared in court to protect her privacy. Her presence and support was the only positive element that day. We sat in silence on the plane ride home, knowing the next few years would be the hardest of our lives.

I spent the next six months working with the Department of Justice. The entire time, I was treated with dignity and kindness. It’s not that anyone did me any favors, but they were extremely kind and understanding. That alone made a huge difference to me.

In October 2006, the judge scheduled a third conference to discuss when I would enter prison. In the past, he’d agreed to allow me more time to work with the DOJ. When Pam Marple and Abbe reached me this time, I expected more of the same. Instead, I was told I had to report to prison by November 1 5. I was floored. Wasn’t the DOJ upset by this ruling? It didn’t make sense to me. How could the DOJ allow all their political corruption cases to be compromised because their Miami U.S. Attorney decided to indict me? Why was the Florida judge so insistent on my going to prison in the midst of these investigations? 1 wasn’t a flight risk. I wasn’t a danger to society. I would never find out the cause of this inexplicable turn of events; all I knew was my days of freedom were at an end and a new chapter of my nightmare story was about to begin.

1 spent the next few weeks doing my best to prepare for prison, which meant I did whatever I could to get my finances in order so my family would survive the incarceration. But there was little I could do. I had no revenue sources, and we were already long ago drained of our funds. We were living on fumes. Pam’s income would have to carry us, along with

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help from our generous friends and family. Already in his eighties, my father helped us in every way possible. But even with the help, I knew the following years would be full of hardship. A storm tore up the roof of our home shortly after my departure. It took two years for Pam to get the money together to fix it. Daily prayer is what kept our house—and family—from collapsing.

There were few good parts in our family’s story at this point in time but, worst of all, we were losing our mothers. As our lives crumpled, Pam’s mother passed away. She had concealed an illness and died before we could even process what was happening. The loss of this incredible person in our lives was devastating for us all, but for Pam it was cataclysmic. Her mother was her best friend and confidante, other than me. Losing the two of us at the same time was a crushing blow.

At the same time, my mother was fighting for her life. When my collapse came, Mom was diagnosed with liver cancer. She battled the disease while watching my career end in infamy. I will never know if the stress of seeing me so publicly torn apart caused the acceleration of her illness, but Mom’s suffering intensified during my final months of freedom. I visited as frequently as I could, but it wasn’t often enough. I last saw her just twenty-three days before I had to report to prison. We kept trying to convince each other that she would get better and that I would get out in time to see her again. We both knew better and fought back a stream of tears. As I looked into my beloved mother’s eyes for what would be the last time, she nodded as if to say all will be all right. I cried the entire way back to Washington.

On my final Sunday of freedom, Pam and I drove to see my Aunt Bea in Southern New Jersey. Aunt Bea had just celebrated her ninety-third birthday and was still going strong. The last surviving child of my inspiring great-grandmother, and sister to my mother’s mother, y Aunt Bea is far closer to me than any aunt could possibly be. As I held her hand, I prayed silently that God would sustain her and enable us to be together again. I am eternally grateful that prayer was answered.

In the final days leading up to Wednesday, November 15, things reached a lever pitch in our home. The kids were stressed, but put on a brave face for me. We planned to go to the prison together as a family. Since the media were still lavishing their attention on me, we anticipated

a gaggle of cameras greeting us. Prisoners are required to report before 2:00 p.m., so I let leak to the media that I would arrive at noon. Then my family and I prepared to leave our house in the middle of night, so we would arrive a^ 6:30 a.m.

Pam Marple was kind enough to join us on the ride. She is a brave and kind soul, and I was sorry she had to witness the emotion and angst of our family that morning. As we pulled away from our house at 3:30 am, I looked back at our home longingly, wondering when or if I would ever see it again. I stopped the car, and spoke to my children. I hoped they could be brave and patient while I was gone. Like so many times in their past, I tried to link our present circumstances—happy or sad—to the Bible and our faith. In this context, I reminded the children of Psalm 126, which we sing in Hebrew each Sabbath during our grace after meals prayers. I noted that, like so many other things we do regularly in life, we sometimes miss the meaning of our utterances and actions. Embedded in King David’s masterpiece Psalm 126 is the line, “Those who sow with tears will reap with joy.” Now we had tears. One day soon we would have joy. I begged my five children to wait patiently for that day to come.

As I finished, my voice cracked, and my own tears flowed. I loved my family so much, and now I was about to lose them. Nothing could have been worse.

We drove for several hours and stopped at the parking lot of the Cumberland Holiday Inn for morning prayers. We shared hugs and got back into the car for the final leg of our dreaded journey.

As we rounded the bend near the facility, I saw six camera crews set up by the side of the road. They hadn’t been fooled by my announced noon arrival. I was sitting in the second row of our car, surrounded by my sons so they couldn’t film me, giving me but some slight comfort at that difficult moment.

We pulled into the prison parking lot and got out of the car. It was time to say goodbye. I had dreaded this moment lor a long time. It was like a slow motion train crash. The kids were crying, as was I. Pam tried to maintain her equilibrium, but it was hard. I kissed and hugged each child, from youngest to eldest. Neither the children nor I wished to let go. As I released each child, they turned and burst into tears. My heart tore. Finally, it was time to say goodbye to my beloved wife. It would

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be a long time before we would next embrace in freedom. Neither of us could choke out a word.

Pam Marple stood by, trying to comfort the children. When I had finished saying my goodbyes, she accompanied me into the prison lobby. Just before the door closed behind me, I turned back to look at my family once more. We waved weakly, and I nodded to them, the same way my mother had nodded to me. With that nod, I entered Cumberland Federal Correctional Institution.

CUMBERLAND CORRECTIONAL

I t’s hard to pinpoint the worst day in all of this. There are so many candidates. My hearing in the senate. Being fired from the firm. The day I realized I was going to prison. The day we ran out of money. But the day I reported to federal prison was when I truly hit rock bottom. Stripped of all worldly possessions, dispossessed of my family, shorn of all self-worth, I was clad in a prison uniform and sent into a strange new world.

I was assigned to the minimum-security facility, or camp, which was adjacent to a medium-high security prison. The medium, as we called it, housed some pretty tough guys. Murderers, rapists, child molesters, gangs, Mafiosi. The camp was mainly drug dealers, mixed in with a sprinkling of white collar offenders.

My difficulties at Cumberland were put in place even before arrived. The staff assumed I would come in and try to run the place and were on the defense from day one. They’d been instructed to deny me virtually every request, to ensure that I would not seduce them with my “devious personality.” One staff member, a pseudo-psychologist, told his co-workers that based on what he had read in the media, I was the most manipulative person on earth, that they had never had an inmate who was so capable of bending their will. Nothing could have been further from the truth. I was a broken man. I was humbled and unsure

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of myself I missed my family and only wanted to go home. They had nothing to fear from me.

Cumberland was ^grossly overcrowded. Built to house 150 inmates, it was home to over 300 of us. Six men shared 150 square feet of space in a cubicle, and there were eight cubicles in each wing. For six months, I was housed in a wing where the average age was considerably younger than mine. The lights never seemed to go out. The noise was incessant and disturbing. Sleeping was virtually impossible. The inmates in my cube were polite to me, but they might as well have been from another planet. The senior inmate in the cube introduced himself as “N.O.” Like the other four inmates in our cube, he was a drug dealer, and like the others, his tastes in music and literature, if one can call it that, were obscene. The drug of choice among these dealers seemed to be crack cocaine. Like the rest of our wing, these guys never seemed to sleep at night. At all hours of the night, they would play dominoes or Scrabble, accompanied by loud banging. Worse than the noise was the cigarette smoke. Though smoking was banned in federal facilities years ago, there was a healthy black market in tobacco and most inmates on the wing indulged in the habit. The problem was that they smoked in the stairwell only ten feet from my bed. All night the inmates would sneak into the stairwell and puff away. When the warden finally visited the dorms, she noted the strong stench of smoke. When she failed to do anything about it and wouldn't move me away from the health hazard, I contacted my attorneys to file a second hand smoke lawsuit. Within two days I was transferred to a wing filled with older, quieter men, who slept at night, and didn’t smoke. Life became a little more bearable at that point.

In almost every area of life in prison, I was stifled. Although everyone has to work in prison, there aren't enough real jobs to go around, and most men are given menial tasks to occupy their monotonous days. My first job was in the kitchen, washing dishes. For hours each day, I ran myself batty filling up utensil bins. My fellow inmates made fun of me for working so hard at something so trivial. Clearly, we had different work ethics. I was now a dishwasher, so I’d be the best dishwasher I could be. I certainly wasn’t doing it for the pay. At twelve cents an hour, I wasn’t even making enough in a month to park a car in downtown Washington, D.C.

Cumberland Correctional

After putting in my time in the kitchen, I was told a clerkship in the chapel was open. I worked hard to land that position and was able to do so thanks to the counselor in my housing unit. Working in the chapel was a choice job at Cumberland. My two co-clerks were bright and well read, and helped to fill my days with intelligent conversation. With the diversity of faiths in the prison, the chaplain had decided to hire a Christian, Muslim, and Jew to fill the three clerk positions. I was the Jew. The Christian clerk, Kehinde Oladapo, was a friendly and fervently religious Nigerian who was also there for a white-collar crime. The Muslim clerk, Ray Smith, was a member of a group called the Moorish Science Temple, which focused on connecting African Americans to Moorish roots in Africa. He was finishing a seventeen-year sentence for drug dealing. We didn’t always agree on political issues—actually we never agreed on political issues—but we got along quite well nonetheless.

Because the chaplains who served the camp spent most of their time in the medium prison, we clerks more or less controlled the chapel. In the past, this power was abused with inmates actually hiding contraband pornographic materials in the chapel ceilings, but that didn’t happen while the three of us worked there. We were all very serious about our faiths, and had no sympathy for the introduction of contraband into the chapel.

Despite the new job, and the fact that most of my days were free of harassment from the staff, for the first eighteen months at Cumberland I was constantly singled out. Once, I was berated by a staff member for having seven books in my locker, instead of the prison limit of five. “Yeah, that’s the problem here,” I thought to myself. “Too much reading!” Those inmates who did read had scores of books in their lockers, but I was the one who got in trouble for breaking the rules. At first, these scoldings were frightening. I didn’t want trouble and tried to follow every rule carefully. Eventually, I realized that the main goal was just to disorient me. There would soon be bigger things to worry about than having extra books taken away.

Eight months after my arrival in prison, in June 2007, my mother’s health took a final turn for the worse. I called her as frequently as I could while she withered away at the hospital, but we were limited to 300 minutes of phone time each month, and very soon my minutes for June were gone. Fortunately, our prison was the first to test a new inmate

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email system, which enables incarcerated men to stay in touch with their families electronically. The system is onerous, requiring email be sent to the prison authorities, who review and possibly reject it, and then sent to a Web site where family members can access the email and reply. The prison officials also filter the replies before they’re sent back, so what takes a few moments outside the prison takes hours inside, but it was the best means of communication I had.

On June 26, 2007, Pam emailed me that my mother had passed away. I was devastated. I had applied to the prison to visit Mom on her deathbed, as many other inmates had been granted these final visits with their parents and immediate family, but they never replied. My last image of my mother was that compassionate nod she gave me as I left her for the final time nine months earlier.

Since I wouldn’t qualify for new phone minutes until July 1,1 tried to find out if I could purchase next month’s minutes for immediate use. No one could answer that question. In a daze, I walked to the administration building, only to see the staff member who had castigated me for having too many books. With no confidence that he would help me, I started, “Sir, my mother just passed away and...’’

“I know, Abramoff. I am very sorry.’’

It was the first decent thing a staff member had said to me. I asked about purchasing next months’ minutes in advance, but he said that wouldn’t be possible. Disappointed, I was surprised when he offered to take me to his office and let me call from there. I was grateful and relieved to speak with Pam and my kids. I tried to reach my father, but with no luck. He was probably making arrangements for Mom’s funeral. The staffer told me to come back tomorrow, and he’d put me on the phone with my father. I decided to push it and ask about the funeral.

“I see that other inmates have been allowed to attend their parent’s funerals, and I was wondering whether I might be able to attend my mother’s?’’

“Abramoff, if it were up to me, I would send you right now, but I have to be honest with you. They aren’t going to allow you to go. They’re scared to death of being seen as mollycoddling you, and you know that the press would be there, at your mom’s funeral. You can request it, but they’ll almost certainly turn you down. I’m sorry.”

Cumberland Correctional

In the midst of utter despair, this one man’s kindness meant the world to me. I was crestfallen that I couldn’t go to my own mother’s funeral, but at least, for the first time there, someone had shown a sense of compassion and understanding.

I returned the next morning, hoping to call my father. Unfortunately, instead of this officer who had been so kind the day before, a cold and nasty female staff member we referred to as “the Witch” was manning the administration office. (Actually, most inmates called her something which only rhymed with “witch.’) We had started off on the wrong foot when I first arrived at the prison. She was the one who asked where I would like my dead body shipped. I didn’t have much hope that she would help me out now, but I had to try.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am, but my mother passed away the other

day.

“Yeah, I know... And?” she glowered at me.

“Well, uh, I’ve used up my phone minutes this month and...”

“You should have planned ahead.”

“Yes, ma’am, you’re right, but I was trying to speak with my mother every occasion I had, since it was her final time ...”

“You still should have planned ahead. What do you want, Abramoff?”

“I was hoping to be able to call my father. You see, yesterday I was allowed to call my wife and children and...”

“You got your calls yesterday. You can call your father when your minutes renew.”

“Yes, ma’am, thank you, but I was hoping to call him before my mother’s funeral and...”

“This conversation is over. Out.”

Yes, ma am.

With that, I returned to the unit to mourn my mother alone.

Two months later, more trouble came my way. There were a small number of Jewish prisoners at Cumberland. I was the only religious Jew, but the others participated in the variety of events I organized as clerk of the chapel. I spent my time at Cumberland teaching introductory classes in Judaism to the Jewish inmates, as well as typing, public speaking, and business to the general population, beaching gave me a sense of purpose

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in an environment which does little to encourage enterprise and ambition.

In Judaism, communal prayer is only possible with ten men, a minyan. Without this requisite amount, there can be no communal reading from the Torah, nor a variety of other prayers, including the mourner’s prayer, kaddish. As our numbers grew to eight men, I approached the volunteer local Reform Rabbi, Steven Sniderman, who would visit us on a biweekly basis, and asked if we could borrow one of his community’s Torah scrolls, should we wind up with a minyan. He agreed to provide one, if his board concurred, and asked that I just give him some advance notice.

By Labor Day 2007, another three Jews arrived at Cumberland, and we had our minyan. I approached my boss, the chaplain, and related my conversation with the rabbi to him. He was supportive of our having a Torah scroll, and told me to raise it with the rabbi when he was next visiting. I mentioned that the rabbi was coming that Thursday, but if he was unable to bring the Torah with him that day, we would not have it in time for the Jewish high holidays, which were starting that next week. I asked the chaplain to call him, but he demurred, saying he was very busy that week. Then I remembered that the rabbi was not the only visitor from the local Jewish community. Every week, two lovely elderly ladies would visit us. We had converted those sessions into Bible classes, which I led, and they were enthusiastic and regular attendees. I mentioned to the chaplain that the ladies would be at the prison the next day, on Tuesday, and that I would ask them to contact the rabbi. The chaplain agreed to the plan, and went over the steps I would need to take to get us the Torah. I jotted them down and returned to my workstation.

On Tuesday morning, before the ladies arrived, I typed up the notes from the chaplain so the instructions were clear. I didn’t want anything to prevent our getting the Torah. When the ladies arrived, 1 mentioned the plan and gave them the typed instructions. They were enthusiastic, noting that the local synagogue had more Torahs than members. All the guys were elated at the prospect of our obtaining a Torah scroll. Most of them had never seen one before, and now we would be able to read from the Torah when we prayed.

That Thursday afternoon, the rabbi arrived for his regular biweekly session. He had nothing in hand. I asked about the Torah, and he abruptly and firmly said he couldn’t bring us anything. We were all bewildered.

Cumberland Correctional

Why? Did his board reject it? He wouldn’t answer. When he left, I called Pam and asked her to have one of our local orthodox rabbis call the chaplain, to see if we could have one of their Torahs sent to us. I knew that the prison was listening to the call, as they recorded every call made in the institution, and mine were favorites among the staff.

The next day, Friday, the assistant Chaplain came to the camp in the afternoon. That was rare since the Chaplains only visited us on the weekends and Mondays. He called me into his office. “Abramoff, what’s going on with this Torah situation?”

I explained what was happening. He looked at me suspiciously.

“Then why would the associate warden be talking about shipping you to another prison?”

My eyes widened.

“What?”

“They are saying you are harassing a rabbi and that you might be shipped. This sounds very odd.”

I explained what happened and asked whether I should be worried about this. He said not to worry about it, that it was likely a misunderstanding, but of course I was concerned. That evening, the guard told me I had to go to the medium prison to see the lieutenant. I was handcuffed, which he assured me was standard procedure, and taken to the lieutenant’s office. There sat a dour faced, middle-aged officer.

“You are under investigation for violation of prison rules,” he said, “and are going to be placed in the Segregated Housing Unit.”

The hole.

“You’re accused of sending a letter to volunteers outside the normal prison mail system. This is a serious violation of security,” he continued.

“Do you mean the letter to the rabbi about the Torah?”

Correct.

He picked up a piece of paper—my letter. The rabbi ratted me out!

I was stripped of my clothing, given a tightly fitting jump suit, and put into the hole. It was cold. The lights were on all the time. The noise from the other inmates in that unit never stopped. There was no view from the window, so you wouldn’t know if it were day or night, let alone what time it is. The guards shine a light in your face every two hours to see if you are still there. Or alive. One can pace the entire cell with no more

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than Five steps. Five small steps. There was nothing to read. Nothing to hear except the shouting of the other inmates. Months later I read that after more than three days in the hole, one can lose one’s sanity. Three days? More like three hours.

The witch showed up to pay me a visit, just when I thought it couldn’t get worse. “Abramoff,” she started, “I am here to check to see if you need anything. Do you?”

I was thrown off by her humane tone. “Yes, thank you so much. I need my prayer book and my religious items. They are in my locker at the camp. If you could arrange to have them provided, I would be most grateful. ”

“OK, I’ll see what I can do.”

The next morning, I received a visit from one of my conservative movement friends. They chained me and brought me to the visiting room. My visitor was aghast, having previously visited me in the relatively pleasant visiting room of the camp. Now I was in the medium prison and obviously under tremendous duress. I asked him to let Pam know about this turn of events. Maybe she could call my attorney.

Soon after I was returned to my cell, the witch showed up again. And again she said, “Abramoff, I am here to check to see if you need anything. Do you?”

“Yes, please, I need my prayer book and other religious items in my locker,” I repeated the request from her previous visit.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The next day, Sunday, I was still in the hole when Pam arrived to the visiting room with another friend. She had called my attorneys, and they were working on getting me back to the camp. We tried to have a pleasant visit, but I was nervous about being shipped to another prison, and didn’t do a great job hiding that fear.

Upon arrival back at my cell, I heard the unmistakable footsteps of the witch yet again. By now I knew the drill. “Abramoff, I am here to check to see if you need anything. Do you?”

“No. I am fine.” I finally got the joke.

I had spent every waking moment since I arrived at Cumberland praying to God to get me out of the camp. As soon as I was put in the hole, I spent every moment praying to get back into the camp. The next day, I finally got my wish, with no explanation. But the matter wasn’t over.

Cumberland Correctional

I was brought before a small panel of officials, led by the witch herself.

Abramoff, now that you have been found guilty of circumventing the mail system, we have to administer your punishment.”

Wasn t the three days in the hole punishment? Apparently not.

“We are going to recommend that you lose thirty days of your good time, thirty days of your access to the commissary, and thirty days of phone use.”

‘ Good time” was the days by which your sentence is reduced for good behavior. I didn t want to stay in that place one more minute than necessary, but it wasn’t the good time that bothered me.

“Ma’am, my mother passed away two months ago,” I started, as she rolled her eyes. And, well, I have been calling my father as often as possible, since he is now alone, and I want to comfort him. Please don’t take my phone use away.”

Ignoring me, she continued.

Since we can’t take your good time away on our own, we have to refer the matter to the Disciplinary Hearing Officer, who will decide.”

1 he DHO is not part of the prison chain of command, but rather an outside arbiter of fairness. I didn’t care about the good time. It was a badge of honor to me to endure another month in prison for having tried to secure a Torah scroll for prayer. But the phone restriction depressed me. I had let my father down by not being there for Mom and him, and now I couldn’t even call him. I knew he’d understand, but I couldn’t get around this. Plus, I would now be cut off from calling my children and Pam. This couldn’t possibly get any worse, I thought. And yet it did. A few days later, I got the verdict.

“Abramoff, the DHO refuses to allow us to take away your good

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time.

Of course not, I thought. He probably read this so called “case” and tossed it out. I had no ill intent. I didn’t know that you can’t give a volunteer a note. Plus, this note was about getting a Torah scroll with the chaplain’s instructions. Harmless.

But she wasn’t finished.

“Since we can’t take away your good time, we’ve decided that your punishment is to lose your phone privileges ... for ninety days.”

What an idiot I was. I should have begged her not to take my com-

Capitol Punishment

missary use. As soon as I mentioned the phone, I cut my own throat. And that was that.

Two months into the ninety-day phone suspension, my Nigerian coworker Kehinde asked me for a favor.

“Jack, I saw on the television a most beautiful Bible called the Rainbow Bible. I want to order this Bible, but to do so I would need the address and phone number of a bookstore that carries it. I don t have any friends or family in this area, since they are all back home in Nigeria. Could you ask one of your friends to get me this information so I can have the prison issue a check from my commissary account?”

I sent an email to my old pal Paul Erickson. I knew he’d come through. But, instead of sending the Bible ordering information, Paul did what any decent person would do: he just went out and bought a Rainbow Bible and sent it in. In our email exchange, I thanked Paul, but cautioned him that prison rules forbade me from giving the book to another inmate. It would have to be Paul’s gift. Naturally, he agreed.

A week later, the Bible arrived. I didn’t suspect anything when I was called to the front to receive the package, but I should have. All the other packages were distributed through the regular mail system. Inmates would place mail on beds at night, but this time I had to sign for it. The guard made some excuse, and I didn’t think anything about it.

As I walked to the chapel, I opened the packet and saw the Rainbow Bible inside. As I entered the clerk’s office, Kehinde was seated at the desk reading. I cautiously placed the Bible on the shelf and withdrew from the office to another chapel room. All of a sudden I heard an exclamation of delight, “The Bible!”

He took the Bible back with him to the housing unit and read until he fell asleep. Our cubicles were across from each other. At 10:00 pm, I heard the guards coming into our wing. You could always hear them at a distance, their key chains echoed like Jacob Marley’s chains in A Christmas Carol. Kehinde never broke the rules—he was a model inmate—so when the guards roused him from bed and took him away, I was shocked. Usually, when the guards came to arrest an inmate from bed, it was because of contraband, and we would never see that inmate again. But around midnight, Kehinde walked back into the wing.

Cumberland Correctional

“Jack, we’re in trouble,” he whispered from his cubical. “They accused me of receiving the Bible from you and are going to be questioning you tomorrow. They wanted to throw me in the hole, but since I wouldn’t admit you gave it to me, they couldn’t do anything, yet.”

“But I didn’t give it to you! I put it on the shelf, and you just took it.” Yes, I know. I told them that, but they don’t believe me. They said that they wouldn t care about it, but you’re involved. Are you in their bad graces?”

That was the understatement of the year. “Yes, they seem to think that they need to keep me under their yoke. I am sure we’ll be OK.”

That wasn t an understatement. That was a lie. I thought we were both in trouble, but why worry the guy?

The next day, I was called to the administration building. An investigator from the medium security prison was in the conference room ready to see me.

Abramoff,” she began, “You are accused of a Series 328 violation, giving something of value to another inmate. From what we can determine, you received a book in the mail and gave it to one Kehinde Oladapo. Is this correct?”

No, it is not. I received the book—a Bible—in the mail and put it on the shelf in the chapel. Mr. Oladapo retrieved it from there, as inmates do all the time. I work in the chapel, and whenever an inmate wants a Bible, they get it from that shelf in our office.”

“Well, that’s what Oladapo said as well. But we don’t believe you. And, in any case, why would you give away the Bible. Why not just keep it and use it yourself?”

“I’m Jewish and that’s not our Bible.”

“Jews don’t believe in the Bible?”

“Yes, but we don’t have the Christian scriptures in ours.”

“You don’t believe in the New Testament?”

“No, ma’am, just what you call the Old Testament.”

“You mean you don’t believe in Jesus?”

This was the investigator assigned to ferret out the truth in Bible-gate. My fate was in her hands.

“I find you guilty,” she pronounced. Why was I not surprised?

The punishment phase would be administered by another panel of

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officers. Fortunately, the witch was not among them, or it might have been worse. They took away my commissary and email for sixty days.

I pleaded with them.

“You’ve already taken away my phone use. Removing email will cut me off from the outside world entirely. I have two sons studying in Jerusalem, where there are terrorist incidents regularly. Without any form of contact, I won’t be able to know if they’re safe.”

They stared at me in silence. They didn’t even blink. For the first and last time in the prison, I lost my temper with the staff.

“You know, the last time I was involved in an incident where someone got punished for giving someone else a Bible was twenty-five years ago.” They perked up. Was I about to admit to another infraction? “It happened in a place that reminds me of this one: The Soviet Union.”

With that, I excused myself and stormed back to the chapel to calm down.

I was utterly cut off from the world. Except for Sunday visits, I had no contact with anyone other than through unreliable and slow snail mail. One day, an inmate came running to tell me he had just watched a report about a terrorist attack in Jerusalem. Arabs had shot and killed a number of young boys studying in a yeshiva. My heart sank. I was in a panic. There was no way to find out what happened. I ran to the administration building, praying there would be a staff member there willing to help me. Fortunately, I encountered a guard willing to find the name of the attacked yeshiva on his computer. It wasn’t where Alex and Daniel were studying. I was grieved for the other families, but relieved that at least my two boys were not among them.

After about eighteen months at Cumberland, the harassment stopped. I don’t know why exactly. Maybe they realized I wasn’t trying to run the prison. Maybe they decided I wasn’t the arrogant jerk they thought I’d be.

When I entered prison, I had high hopes that I wouldn’t have to stay for more than a couple of years. Based on a sentence ol seventy months, I anticipated a reduction based on my cooperation. Plus, 1 took part in the programs that provided for early release. Those hopes, like so many others before them, were dashed when I was finally sentenced in the D.C. Court.

The Florida judge moved the Suncruz case at record speed, including

Cumberland Correctional

sentencing and incarceration. The judge in Washington was more sensitive to the scheduling requests of the Department of Justice, since those cases were likely to be brought in her court. As a result, my sentencing in D.C. didn’t occur until I had already been in prison for almost two years. After months of preparation and the submission of a brilliant sentencing memo crafted by Chris Man at Abbe’s firm, I was taken by the authorities to the federal court in Washington on the day of sentencing, September 4, 2008. The Department of Justice requested a sentence of sixty-four months, with credit for the twenty-two months I had already served. Abbe proposed a sentence of forty-four months. I was hoping the judge would just send me home that day.

Pam and the kids all attended the sentencing, and we were all hopeful that the nightmare might soon come to an end. I tried to glance at them, sitting bravely in the first row, but the marshal behind me admonished me to keep my eyes on the judge. I knew there was trouble when the judge incorrectly—or so I thought—declared that my base sentence range started at 120 months. I had always been told it was ninety one months. Where did 120 come from?

After Abbe did a masterful job in pleading my case for a reduced sentence, the court heard testimony from several tribal members, including the provocateurs from Saginaw Chippewa and Coushatta. As one can imagine, they were not arguing for a reduced sentence. My hope rose as the judge seemed to castigate the Saginaw Chippewa member, noting that his tribe was not in complete agreement with his harsh comments about me.

The final witness the court heard was Delores Jackson, former council member of the Saginaw Chippewa tribe. Delores had been a constant supporter of mine. She came to the senate hearings to protest what she felt was unfair treatment at the hands of the committee, and she came to visit me in prison. She wrote strong letters attacking those who she felt brought this destruction to my life. Although wracked with an illness which would soon end her life, this angel and friend came to defend me in the court, recounting how much I had done to help the tribe, and how the accusations against me were totally unfair. I wanted to hug Delores, but since the marshal wouldn’t even permit me to look at my family, I might have been shot had I tried to embrace my dear friend from the tribe.

Finally, I was given a moment to speak before the judge. I was so

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overcome with emotion that I could barely articulate my thoughts. I told the judge that I was a broken man and that additional lengthy incarceration would serve no purpose other than to cause my family to continue to suffer. I had difficulty holding back my tears as I expressed my deep regret for what had become of my life. When I finished, I prayed to God that He would move her heart and soon put an end to the terror of these past few years.

The judge then proceeded to read her sentence. My knees started to weaken as the judge continued to address me. “You’ve impacted seriously the public confidence in the integrity of the government,’’ she said. “These activities corrupted the political process and deprived the public of the honest services of their own public officials, both in the legislature and executive branch.”

Then the judge declared that she was going to give me forty-eight months, starting that day. At first, all I heard was “forty-eight months.” I had already served twenty-two. This was good news, wasn’t it? Then I realized that the forty-eight months would be in addition to the twenty-two I had already spent in prison. My total sentence was to be seventy months, eight months more than Justice had requested. I was discouraged and confused.

Before I had a chance to ask Abbe what this all meant, and with no chance to communicate with my family, I was whisked out the side door of the courtroom, into a holding cell. I was then transported immediately to the car that returned me to Cumberland.

CONCLUSION

PATH TO REFORM

I tried to make the best of the rest of my time at Cumberland, enduring life in such a coarse and isolating place. I worked in the chapel, exercised, read, taught, and wrote. I continued to worry about my children and Pam, but, other than pray and offer love and encouragement, there was little I could do to make their lives easier from prison.

Friends and family made my stay in prison tolerable. I was blessed to have regular visits from almost 150 friends and relatives during my incarceration. The sacrifice of these steadfast supporters in making the long drive to the western tip of Maryland was appreciated more than I could ever express. I was in the prison for 185 weekends, and had visits for all but one of them. Being able to leave the environment of the prison to spend time with loved ones in the visiting room kept me sane and focused on getting through the ordeal. No one visited me more than my beloved wife, who frequently made the hours-long drive alone.

I was fortunate to have some intrepid public officials make the trek to Cumberland, including Congressman Dana Rohrabacher, his wife Rhonda, and their adorable triplets, but the visit which sparked the most interest among the inmates took place in in the spring of 2009 .

In March of that year, the former managing partner of Preston Gates, and my long-time racquetball partner, Larry Latourette, came for a visit. Larry was kind enough to make the trip to the prison several times during

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my incarceration, but this time he had a mission. Through a mutual friend, Larry had become acquainted with George Hickenlooper, a motion picture director. Hickenlooper was making a feature Film called “Casino Jack , about my lobbying^activities. He very much wanted to meet and introduce me to the actor playing my part in the Film—Kevin Spacey. I told Larry I would agree to the meeting, but only after I had read the screenplay, which I received a few days later.

I read the screenplay twice and was not impressed. It was disjointed and boring. It was hard for me to believe that Spacey—one of the world s great actors—had signed onto this project. I communicated with Larry that I would see Hickenlooper, but he should come alone. The last thing a director wants is for his actor to hear that the screenplay stinks.

Larry brought Hickenlooper to see me that next weekend. As I entered the visiting room in the prison, I saw Larry sitting with the large, bearded George Hickenlooper. He could barely contain his enthusiasm that he was meeting with me in a prison—a real Hollywood moment, I guess. The visiting room at Cumberland was normally a bustle of activity, with small children running about and inmates loudly conversing with their visitors. We sat in the midst of this ruckus, talking about George’s Film and comparing notes on our various entertainment acquaintances. Finally, George asked how I liked the screenplay.

“Frankly, George, it stinks.”

“But Jack, you have to understand. We can’t make you out to be a hero.”

“I get that, and don’t expect to be made a hero. I’m not a hero. But even if I am to be a villain, why must I be a boring villain? You have to have a main character that audiences will want to spend two hours with. I don’t want to spend two hours with him, and he’s me!”

Hickenlooper stared at me, perplexed.

“George, a screenplay must have three acts. This has one act and then a jumbled bunch of scenes. Your set up in the First act is clumsy and you don’t pay off even the awkwardly set up premises in the end. 1 he main character—my character!—is not only boring, but there is no character arc. There is no danger. There is no redemption. There is nothing. It’s a flat line screenplay which wouldn’t get made at any studio. Right?”

His eyes widened. He wasn’t expecting a critique like this from me. I reminded him that I’m not without experience in Film, and that, in

Path to Reform

prison, I had been reading every filmmaking book I could get my hands on. It was always a topic that fascinated me. George stammered that they were still working on the screenplay and that perhaps I read an early draft.

I interrupted him, “George, perhaps the worst thing, from a film maker s point of view, is that your screenwriter made up things which were far more boring than reality. He obviously did almost no real research in putting this film together, other than trolling the Internet, but even there he could have found some better scenes.”

George asked if I would be willing to help them, to give them some scenes which would really work. I explained that it was their film, not mine. I was a prisoner, and was not permitted to work on their film with them, but even if I did wish to work on a film, it wouldn’t be this one. George was disappointed. I told him that I wanted to see him alone, because I could not imagine he wanted his actor to hear these things, and I had no reason not to be honest about it. George insisted that he did not want to shield Spacey from my opinion and asked if I would meet him. We agreed to meet that next Friday evening, when visiting would resume. I told George that the condition of my meeting was that the meeting could not be leaked to the press. He had revealed they were not yet fully funded, and I didn’t want them using a meeting with me for their fundraising purposes.

When I was called to the visiting room late Friday afternoon, April 24, 2009, I was redirected into the administrative offices of the prison instead of the visiting room. There I was greeted by the Camp Administrator Duwayne Hendrix, who told me that my visitors were moved to his conference room to avoid any situations in the visiting room. He feared the other visitors, not used to seeing a Hollywood star in their midst, might cause a disturbance by asking for a photo or autograph from Spacey, so we were moved to his offices.

In my days as a lobbyist, I would give tremendous thought to the location of meetings. I always wanted an advantage in the discussions or negotiations, and would often place meetings in locations where I could dominate, such as Signatures. As I walked to the conference room to meet Spacey, I thought about my old ways. Obviously I was now a prisoner, not in command of much, let alone meeting locations, but had I the choice and need for advantage, I would have put the meeting in the visiting room. That room was disorienting for visitors. I was used to it. It didn’t matter,

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though, since I had no agenda for this meeting, or much else at that point.

As I entered the room, I saw Larry and George, and turned to see Kevin Spacey. He was wearing a baseball cap and casually dressed. He greeted me with a handshake and a wry comment, “I am to play you.”

“Well, I guess that’s the end of your career,” I responded with a smile. He laughed, and I knew we’d get along fine. Our conversation was wide ranging. He struck me as incredibly bright and kind. His questions were sensitive and uninvasive, but he clearly wanted to know more than the media had portrayed. He asked what it was like to go through my situation. I tried to tell him, though how can one really describe all of this properly? We talked about Reagan and Clinton—and exchanged impressions of the presidents we held in the highest esteem. Finally, he asked about the screenplay. Did I like it?

“I only have one question, Kevin. Why are you doing this?”

“Well, I think your story is interesting and...”

“I guess my story might be interesting, but that wasn’t my question. Why are you doing this screenplay?” With that darted probe, I saw George’s face turn white. I had warned him this would happen.

Spacey stared at me perplexed. I launched into the same screenwriting 101 speech, and watched Kevin smile.

“Jack, these are good points. George?”

Hickenlooper’s started bumbling, but I intervened with another question: “When are you planning to commence filming?”

Hickenlooper estimated filming would commence in six weeks. With that response, I realized they had no intention of fixing the film. They had to be deeply into the pre-production phase of their project, and major alterations to the shooting schedule were unlikely at this point. Politely, but without enthusiasm, I said that they should keep me posted. Hickenlooper asked whether I could help promote the film when 1 was released. I reminded them that I was more than a year away Irom leaving the prison, and, if they were filming in June of 2009, the film would be in the theatres prior to my exit from the prison. Even I didn’t count on the subsequent delays because no major distributor wanted the project. In fact, I was released before the film, but still I was not involved in helping their efforts.

Before they left, Hendrix reminded them that the condition of the visit was that no publicity about their trip to the prison would be allowed.

Path to Reform

George enthusiastically nodded his assent. Spacey affirmed they had no intention of violating that pledge. Little did he know that Hickenlooper had already violated the pledge before they arrived. His interviews about the visit to the prison were updated as he sped away from the gates of Cumberland. Hendrix and I were furious, but there was nothing we could do at that point. Spacey sent an apology for George’s perfidious conduct. Hickenlooper denied he broke his promise. He might have been more adept in the lobbying world than he realized.

There was a second film called Casino Jack released about my case—a documentary—but it, too, was poorly done and grossed even less than the Spacey film. In fact, the combined box office grosses of these two pathetic efforts paled even in comparison to the box office receipts of Red Scorpion. Spacey turned in a stellar performance, as did Jon Lovitz, who played Adam Kidan. Barry Pepper, a fine actor, played Mike Scanlon, though the character concocted by the screenwriter and director had little resemblance to the real Scanlon. The film benefitted from the Golden Globes nomination given to Spacey, but his defeat meant I wouldn’t witness a second actor ascending the platform to thank me at that awards ceremony.

Spacey continued his graciousness in the interviews attending the film’s release. After enduring the feckless Clooney, my daughter Sarah— and our entire family—had an actor we could admire and a friend to whom we were grateful in Spacey.

Often I would sit alone by the prison camp ball field, or walk the uneven and unpaved perimeter track in solitude. I had a lot of thinking to do. How had I wound up in this place? Why had I not seen where I was headed? After I crashed, I began to see the road signs that might have warned me of the dangerous cliff I eventually drove off, but why was I so blind at the time?

I believe in the Almighty, yet my arrogance led me to try to play God. In order to get the outcomes I desired, I found myself ignoring the rules—the laws—and rationalizing away my offenses. I couldn’t accept defeat. Raised on the inane cliche that the only real loser is a good loser, I set out to win everything. In doing so, I won many battles for my clients, for my firm, and for myself, but I lost the war.

My mantra during the go-go years of my lobbying life was, “If it’s

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worth doing, it’s worth overdoing.” That, too, was immature, selfish, and foolish. Human beings have limits, but I refused to recognize mine and, instead, used my creativity, intellect, work ethic, and the power of manipulation to get what I wanted. It didn’t matter that I believed my actions were for the good of my clients; they were wrong—I was wrong. Moreover, not only were some of my actions illegal, many of them were corrupt despite their legality.

The lobbying business isn’t very popular in America. That was true even before I walked out of court one rainy day, wearing a black hat. But I wasn’t the only villain in Washington. If that had been the case, all political corruption would have disappeared when I walked through the gates of Cumberland.

For at least eighty years, the most consistent urge in Washington has been to accumulate power and sanctimoniously proclaim you are doing so for the good of the nation. Sometimes it’s true. More often it’s not. But regardless of whether one is using power for good or ill, the potential for corruption is always present, as I painfully learned.

Americans rail against the special interests. They decry the number of lobbyists in Washington. But are the lobbyists really the only problem? Are they the only ones with special interests?

Think about it this way. Say you own a small factory in the Midwest that makes picture frames. The company has been in business for one hundred years. It was started by your great grandparents, and handed down generation after generation. You take pride in what you do and have built the company into an international competitor.

One day, a U.S. Senator from New England goes to Target and buys a picture frame. While hanging it on the wall, his frame breaks, falls, and crushes his big toe. That representative shows up on Capitol Hill with a bandaged foot and a distinguished cane. But he also arrives with something far more destructive: legislation. He’s not going to let the picture frame industry get away with this indignity. No sir. He informs his staff that he wants a bill drafted, before the end of the day, regulating the picture frame industry and imposing federal construction standards. Senator Yankee’s legislation is born in secret, but eventually starts to leak out.

As you stroll through your factory, the phone rings. Your uncle tells you that his bowling buddy’s cousin’s daughter’s college roommate knows

Path to Reform

a guy who works on Capitol Hill, and he told her about the Omnibus Picture Frame Act, which you best look into. You rush to the Internet and pull up the proposed legislation. If passed, it will force regulations on your company, which will make it economically impossible to continue doing business.

Now you have a few options: 1) You could rummage through your attic to find your lucky rabbit’s foot, ignore the legislation, and hope it goes away; 2) You could convene a meeting of your family, friends, and employees and tell them that it has been a pleasure making picture frames all these years, but you are going out of business; 3) You could pack your bags, move to Washington, D.C., and rush about Capitol Hill full time telling anyone who will listen that this bill is a bad idea; or 4) You could hire a lobbyist to make sure the bill never becomes law.

Obviously, your best choice is to hire a lobbyist. No one is likely to give up on his or her cherished business, and moving to Washington is not practical or wise.

Once you decide on the lobbying route, you have to decide which lobbyist to hire: The lobbyist who knows about picture frames, or the lobbyist who is golfing buddies with Senator Yankee. If you’re being honest with yourself, you know the right choice is the golfer who will have the best chance of influencing the Senator whose legislation threatens your business.

Who is the immoral one in the above scenario? You, the owner of the picture frame factory, for bringing in a lobbyist and pushing your special interest? The lobbyist because he plays golf with the Senator and can presumably stop the bill before it becomes law? Or is it Senator Yankee, who yields far more power than the Founders of this nation ever intended?

No one in their right mind would blame you for doing everything you could to stop the destruction of your company. Few would think Senator Yankee was using his governmental power properly. But the lobbyist confuses us. We resent that there is someone with such a strong connection to those with power, but without him, the picture frame factory would most certainly be shuttered.

The fundamental problem in this scenario, and in too many similar and far more egregious cases in Washington, is that Congress has the power to destroy the picture frame company in the First place. Hundreds of members and thousands of staff, along with thousands more in the

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executive branch of our government, have too much power over our lives. Our wise Founders created a limited federal government, restrained by a thoughtful system of checks and balances. Their successors replaced it with an all-encompassing state. The reason there are tens of thousands of lobbyists is because the ever-expanding federal government creates ever-increasing opportunities for abuse.

There is no way to eliminate corruption in human endeavors, but the removal of temptation is always a good place to start. In the case of the federal government, that means paring back the size and scope of its activities. The more the federal government does, the more lobbyists there will be to protect special interests at the expense of the common interest. A federal government actually limited to the functions set out in the Constitution would offer far fewer opportunities for special interest chicanery. But that’s not going to happen any time soon.

In poll after poll, Americans express their exasperation with unconstitutional federal spending and infringement of our liberties. Yet when the time comes to cut back, Americans are irresolute. They want someone else’s program cut, not theirs. They want the federal government to defund someone, just not them. As the late 18th Century historian Alexis DeToqueville foretold, our Republic would be doomed once the “voters discover that they can vote themselves largesse from the public treasury.” It seems we have long passed that threshold.

If our society is unwilling to return to a limited, Constitutional government, what can be done to diminish the corruption tarnishing our nation? The usual answer is reform.

But reform can be an illusion.

Each year, the congressional high priests offer a sacrifice to the idols of change. They pass reform bills or change the rules in Congress. These alterations are supposedly done to fix the system, yet nothing seems fixed. Is corruption in Washington really ended by forbidding representatives from accepting free meals and, instead, permitting them to gorge to their heart’s content, as long as it’s at a fundraising event—where they’ll also pocket thousands of dollars in contributions? This is the kind of reform Congress proposes, passes, and then congratulates itself about?

What if Congress were forced to enact real reforms? What would those be?

Path to Reform

As I paced the track at Cumberland, day after day, this topic consumed me. I relived my career, recalled those of others, and slowly assembled a list of changes that would bring real reform to our political system. This list might not seem remarkable to the average American, who would in fact be surprised that most of its elements weren’t already in place, but the necessary changes aren’t always the most showy.

Inevitably, I decided those who rail against the connection between money and politics were right. But in order to fix the problem, they brought an axe to do the job a scalpel would have done more efficiently. Instead of limiting the size of every American’s political contribution, we need to entirely eliminate any contribution by those lobbying the government, participating in a federal contract, or otherwise financially benefiting from public funds. If you get money or perks from elected officials—be you a company, a union, an association, a law firm, or an individual— you shouldn’t be permitted to give them so much as one dollar. It does no good to ban Jack Abramoff from giving $2,000 to Congressman Badenov, but allow the members of his law firm to pick up the slack. If you choose to lobby, if you choose to take money from our nation, if you choose to perform federal contracts, or if you draw your compensation from any entity which does, you need to abstain from giving campaign contributions. It’s your choice either way. But you have to choose one, not both.

Not only should lobbyists be banned from contributing to officials’ organizations and campaign funds, they should be banned from gift-giving as well. Instead of limiting the amount of money a lobbyist may spend on wining and dining congressional members and staff, eliminate it entirely. No finger food, no snacks, no hot dogs. Nothing. If you are going to lobby the federal government, take from the treasury, or work as a contractor, you shouldn’t be permitted to give one penny to any elected official or staff, including the executive branch. Remove all temptations. Eradicate even the scent of impropriety.

Next, the lure of post-public service lobbying employment needs to be eliminated. The revolving door is one of the greatest sources of corruption in government. If you choose to serve in Congress or on a congressional staff, you should be barred for life from working for any company, organization, or association which lobbies the federal government. That may seem harsh—and it is. But there’s a reason. Congressmen know better

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than anyone how to get around a ban on lobbying. They “consult. What s the difference? If you lobby, you officially try to persuade a representative or staff. If you consult, you call the representative to say hello and ask that representative^ to meet with your new partner at the law firm. You don’t lobby. Your partner lobbies. Does anyone believe the representative doesn’t get that joke?

If you choose public service, choose it to serve the public, not your bank account. When you’re done serving, go home. Get a real job. Washington is not a safe place to live.

When I was a lobbyist, I opposed term limits for representatives. I truly believed it was wrong for the voters to be limited in their choices. But that wasn’t the only reason I opposed them. Like almost every lobbyist I knew, I didn’t want to have to build relationships with new members constantly. A representative who stayed in Washington lor decades, and was a friend, was worth his weight in gold. But permitting people to rule for decades is a recipe for disaster. Is there really a difference between a permanent Congress and a president for life? Representatives should be allowed to serve for three terms of two years, senators for two terms of six years. Then they should get out of town.

Another bullet point on my wish list is to do away with what we call “bringing home the bacon.” For most representatives, the metric of success is how many federal tax dollars they can bring back home beyond what their district contributes. One need not be a certified public accountant to see how dangerous that is. Many times the federal funds are directed to companies, unions, and organizations close to the representative. Furthermore, the so-called “horse trading,” which stains the congressional appropriations process, only serves to increase the federal budget. It’s not uncommon to hear, “If you support my train station, I’ll support your research experiment.” Or, “Congressman Obi Wan asked for funding for a new federal recreation center in his district so he can win re-election.” Multiply that by almost 435 representatives and one hundred senators, and you can see how things can quickly spiral out of control.

But what if representatives were barred from proposing, lobbying for, and perhaps even voting on projects in their districts and states? This

Path to Reform

may sound crazy, but is it any crazier than the system currently destroying our economy?

Here’s a simple idea: Apply every federal law enacted by Congress to the Congress itself. Currently, Congress exempts itself from a myriad of strictures they blithely place on all the rest of us. Let’s see them live under the very same laws they create. That should help stop more of the nonsense.

Less than a hundred years ago, U.S. senators were elected by their state’s legislature. They represented the interests of their state in Washington, and provided a nice balance to the directly elected representatives. With their representatives in Washington, the states were able to preserve some of their powers and prerogatives. In 1913, that changed. From then until now, senators have been elected directly. Instead of having to secure the support of other elected officials with a specific interest—their state— they were now open for business nationwide, seeking votes and funds from every party with an interest. Repealing the 17th Amendment to the Constitution would restore the election of senators to the state houses, and probably ensure that some of the jokesters who can marshal funds and media will not join the most exclusive club in the world.

The conclusions I came to in prison will not be popular with my former colleagues in the lobbying world, or with the Congress. I might dream, but I am no dreamer. I know that, barring a torch and pitchfork uprising, no real changes will occur. Still, as I sat in prison, the world changed and the seeds of uprising took root. The rebellion coalesced into the Tea Party. Among the hundreds of letters I received while in prison, many were from citizen-activists who helped form this indigenous movement. In the last election, these citizens rose up and threw the bums out, again. But will these new reformers stay the course? Will they enact the kind of real reform noted above? For the sake of our nation, I can only hope they do, before the next man in a black hat emerges.

But what steps can Americans take, today, to get a real reform process going? In my view, only the creation of a new organization dedicated to a serious agenda of reform can push the legislative changes which must be enacted to clean up our system. The organization should be modeled like the effective and powerful group Grover built, Americans for Tax Reform, and hold Congressional feet to the fire in the same, forceful way ATR does it. Candidates seeking federal office should be asked to sign a

Capitol Punishment

pledge to clean up government—and that pledge should include a promise to resign their position should they fail to do their part.

It won’t be easy to clean up the swamp we call our nation’s capital, but il America is serious about change and reform, the effort must start now. It is a mistake to view the financial and debt crises striking our nation as disconnected from the corruption epidemic plaguing Washington. Our debt crisis was created by a spending crisis, and the spending crisis results from a federal government trying to do too many things. Each spending program has a champion in the Congress, and often these champions are created and nurtured by special interests and lobbyists. The only permanent way to stop the special interests and lobbyists who control so much of our federal government and budget—and who exacerbate, il not cause, the crises which threaten to bring down this great Republic—is to return the federal government to its constitutional boundaries. That is a long and difficult fight, but the only way to guarantee this nation endures. In the meantime, though, even the most ardent defenders of state spending and control would have a hard time rebuffing the reforms enumerated above.

On June 8, 2010, I was released from Cumberland Federal Correctional Institution. In those forty-three months behind bars and the years since my career as a lobbyist ended, I had endured more unpleasantness than I could have ever imagined possible, but as a result I had come to a new approach for my life.

When the day of my release arrived, my family came to bring me home. They arrived in the same car and parked in the same space as they had that horrible day in November 2006, when we had to say goodbye at the prison gate. Our separation was hard on all of us. Our children were fatherless during critical years of their development. They suffered from financial, emotional, and spiritual deprivation. My beloved wife endured loneliness for 185 weeks. I lived for 1,299 nights in misery and pain. And all because of my decisions.

Waiting to be discharged, I sat in the same holding cell I occupied on the day I was admitted to Cumberland. With my head bowed, I thought about my journey, and the lessons I learned. I pondered how a person with every opportunity in life—unlike so many of my fellow inmates in the prison—could have veered off course so dramatically. Life is always

Path to Reform

complicated, and mine was probably more complex than most, but, ultimately, I was the cause ol my difficulties. Regardless of my rationalizations, I was the one who didn’t disclose to my clients that there was a conflict of interest in the arrangement I had with my partner to split the profits from the programs they funded. I was the one who lavished contributions, meals, event tickets, travel, golf, and jobs on innumerable federal public officials with the expectation or understanding that they would take official actions on my behalf or on behalf of my clients. I was the one who diverted income from those activities to non-profits and other entities thereby evading federal income taxes. These activities added to the corruption which engulfs our nation’s capital, and I’m not proud of my part in it. Sure, I did a lot of good during my years as a lobbyist—for my clients, my firms, and many needy people—but I also broke the law, for which my family and 1 paid a dear price. I continue to pay that price every day of my life.

In prison, I had an epiphany. Languishing at rock bottom, I was finally able to look up and examine myself. I wasn’t the devil that the media were so quick to create, but neither was I the saint I always hoped to become. I was somewhere in the middle, but no where near where I wanted to be. I decided that, in order to move myself closer to the angels,

I would take what happened in my life, try to learn from it, and use it to educate others. My long journey is not over and it will continue to be arduous for a long time, but it is the journey I must take and this book is an important part of that voyage.

After what seemed to be an eternity, I was brought to the front door of the prison and allowed to leave. I restrained my instinct to run to the waiting arms of my family, and my feet were only outpaced by my beating heart. I fell into the arms of my beloved wife and children and we cried and hugged and kissed.

Thanks to the grace of the Almighty, we had somehow survived the ordeal.

Now it was time to rebuild our lives.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

In the Hebrew language, the word gratitude is rendered hakaras hatov, the literal translation of which is the recognition of the good. Our lives are made meaningful in this world by acts of kindness and by recognizing the acts of kindness of others. For my family and me, there is so much kindness to recognize and acknowledge.

With gratitude for the inestimable assistance in preparing this work for publication, I thank my brilliant and sensitive editor, Alys Yablon Wylen, as well as her most patient family. I thank my publisher, WND Books— Joseph and Elizabeth Farah, the incomparable Megan Byrd, Mark Karis, and my dear friend, Janet Fallon. I thank my e-book team, including my lifelong friend and partner Ben Waldman. I also thank Monty Warner, Paul Rosengard, Ralph Benko, Vicki Herson, David Altschuler, Jeff Schechter, Chris Man, and our dear friend Augusten Burroughs for valuable input and suggestions. I thank David, Giliah, Moshe and Maury Litwack, one of the world’s most creative families and dearest friends.

With gratitude for the unbounded generosity and assistance our family received during the years of privation and travail, I thank our dear friends Stanley and Joyce Black, Steve Markoff, Neil Sunkin, Ronnie Rosenbluth, Mike Herson, Vincent Vanni, Jerry Wachs, Hyam Singer, Jimmy and Ita Mond, Ellen and Leon Taksel, Ian Goldman, Jared and Livia Dunkin, Dennis Berman, Jeffrey Cohen and our beloved friends Irom the Wood-side, Kemp Mill, Potomac and White Oak communities.

With gratitude for the boundless and everlasting kindnesses that kept my family and me believing better days were just ahead, 1 thank Rowena Akana, the Aleph Institute, Bill Anderson, Dave Barron, Rabbi Moshe Bleich, Paddy Bowie, Rabbi Yitzchak and Sally Breitowitz, David Brog, Harry Brown, David Butler, Rabbi Raphael Butler, Rabbi Yitzchak Charner, David Cohen, Ed and Ginny Cook, Freddy deFreitas, Roger Engone, Paul Erickson, Governor Ben Fitial, Kevin Fowler, Allan Franco, Vic Frazer, Adina Gewirtz, Rabbi Jonah and Blanche Gewirtz, Rabbi Zvi Gluck, Ohran and Ashira Gobrin, Michael Goland, Eitan Gorlin, Yossi Green, Josh Gross, Father John Guiliani, Shoshanna Hannah, Jason Hickox, Lior and Janet Hod, Adonis Hoffman, Dov and Fraidy Hook,

Acknowledgments

Dave Jackson, Gil Kapen, Jay Kaplan, Rabbi Mendy Katz, Rabbi Zev Katz, Shraga Kawior, Eric and Peggy Kerbel, Uri Kerbel, Becky and A1 Kotz, Rabbi Hertzl Kranz, Rocky Lang, Uri Landesman, Rabbi Yehudah Lapian, Rabbi Daniel Lapin, Larry Latourette, Fred and Dina Leeds, Buddy Lichter, Nachman Lichter, Larry Loigman, Jim Lucier, Jodi and Fred Mailman, Dick Morris, Evelyn Scruggs-Murray, Stephen Nemeth, Jason Osborne, Dave Parent, Howard and Peggy Phillips, Elie and Judith Pieprz, Jim and Barbie Prince, Adam Rishe, Congressman Dana and Rhonda Rohrabacher, Avi Rosenbluth, Desi Rosenfeld, Allen Rothenberg, Brian and Chaya Rozen, Howard Sabrin, Sue Sabrin, Jerry Saunders, Rabbi Mayer Schiller, Rabbi Shmuel Spritzer, Ken Sragg, Chris Stahl, Rabbi Yossi Stern, Robert Stroud-Hinton, Mary and Lee Swaboda, Rabbi Zvi Teitlebaum, Christine and Sea Thomas, Jeremy Vallerand, Philip and Laura Vallerand, Michael Waldman, Lance Waller, Donn Weinberg, Jack Wheeler, Rabbi Kalman and Rivka Winter, Adam Zagorin, Mike Zapolin, Richard Zaremba, Eli Zicherman and Frank Ziezeula.

With gratitude for unimaginable courage and unflinching allegiance, I bless the memory of my good friend Delores Jackson, may she rest in peace, and thank Chief Maynard Kahgegab, Velma Kyser, Anne Peters, Gary Sprague, and all those members of the Saginaw Chippewa tribe who risked everything to stand by me in the darkest of hours, as well as the many Native Americans who have written expressing their support and faith in me. Few things have ever meant more.

With gratitude for the years of hard work and dedicated effort to getting me through the crucible years, I thank my sagacious and venerable teacher, Rabbi David Lapin, and my sapient, generous and dependable attorneys, accountants, advisors, doctors, and representatives. I thank Abbe Lowell, Pam Marple, Chris Man, and Peggy Creason for leading me through the confusing maze that had become my life. I thank the brilliant and patient Lou Ruebelmann for his guidance. I thank Fred Adams, Roy Bank, Dr. Tim Brown, Dr. Kenneth Friedman, Bill Gladstone, Dr. James Gilbert, Scott Goldschein, Bruce Goldstein, Dr. Steve Horwitz, Dr. David Jacobs, Dr. Alan Kermaier, Barry Krost, Rabbi Avrom Landesman, Marc Levin, Judith Regan, Dr. Ira Reiz, Herman Rush, Steve Sadicario, Christopher Schelling, Bill Sheinberg, Dr. Paul Silver, Neal Sonnett and Jon van Horne.

Capitol Punishment

With gratitude for a life made more complete thanks to a loving family, I thank my beloved Aunt Bea Reisman. I thank my Aunt Bernice Abramoflf, as well as my cousins Steven and Jeri Abramoff; Janet and Abe Gol; Shirley Milgrim, ]oyce and Bob Lempert; and Ruth and Ron Mutchnik. I thank my dear in-laws Tom Olsen; James and Liz Alexander; and their children Morgan, Marie, and James, as well as Patty Alexander and her children Meg and Andy. I thank my sister Linda Rosenblatt, her husband Mike, and sons Matt, Jordan, Zack, and Dillon. I thank my faithful brother Bob, his wife Rene, and their daughters Hayley and Melanie.

With gratitude for sustaining and nurturing me from the day I was born until this day, I thank and bless my dear father, Frank Abramoff, and his new wife, partner, and beloved friend, Barbara Miller Abramoff. My gratitude to my dear mother, Jane Abramoff, may she rest in the Lord’s abode, knows no earthly bounds. I miss her every waking moment.

With gratitude and unlimited love and devotion, I thank the children who have given my life purpose and meaning. Levi, Alex, Daniel, Livia, and Sarah—you mean more to me than it’s possible to express. Thank you for being my inspiration and light in these dark days.

With gratitude to my partner and wife, with whom I have laughed and cried for over twenty-five years, I thank my sweetheart, best friend, and most beloved of all, Pam Abramoff.

And finally, with full recognition of my shortcomings and failings, and with hope for redemption, mercy and salvation, I express my gratitude to the Master of the Universe for blessing us and sustaining us and permitting us to reach this season of renewal.

I pray that those steadfast friends whose names should have been included above but were not will attribute these omissions to my memory lapses and not to my lack of gratitude for their kindnesses.

APPENDIX A: WHERE ARE THEY NOW?

Todd Boulanger left Greenberg Traurig to join Cassidy & Associates, a rival lobbying firm, after the scandal commenced and proceeded to rebuild his lobbying career. He resigned from Cassidy November 21, 2008 and pleaded guilty to bribing public officials.

Ben Nighthorse Campbell left the United States Senate in January 2005 and became a lobbyist with the firm Holland and Knight.

Tom DeLay was indicted in Travis County, Texas and resigned as Majority Leader of the Congress on September 28, 2005. Tom was convicted of money laundering and conspiracy on November 24, 2010 and remains free while he appeals what are widely seen as politically motivated convictions. When interviewed by Brian Ross of ABC News in August 2010, DeLay reaffirmed our friendship.

Christopher Dodd left the United States Senate when polls showed he was heading to certain defeat in the 2010 elections. He is one of Washington’s highest paid lobbyists at the Motion Picture Association of America.

Ben Fitial became governor of the Northern Marianas on November 6, 2005 and was re-elected for a second five-year term in 2009.

Since resigning from the Congress, Newt Gingrich has made a fortune as an author and political contributor for Fox News. In 2010, he published his seventeenth book, and on May 11, 2011, he announced his bid for the Republican nomination for the Presidency.

Bob Goodlatte still represents the sixth Congressional district of Virginia and is now chairman of the Judiciary subcommittee on Intellectual Property, Competition and the Internet in the House of Representatives. After I went to prison, Goodlatte was finally able to sneak his anti-Internet gaming legislation through the Congress in a midnight session, crushing the market value of virtually every company engaged in that enterprise. He had by then labeled his bill the “anti-Jack Abramoff measure.”

Appendix A: Where Are They Now?

Richard Gordon served for forty-one years as one of Georgetown Law Center’s most popular and distinguished professors before succumbing to cancer in 2003.

Steve Griles resigned as Deputy Secretary of the Interior December 7, 2004. He pleaded guilty to charges of obstruction of justice on March 23, 2007, and was sentenced to ten months imprisonment. He served his time at the federal prison camp in Petersburg, Virginia.

George Hickenlooper died on October 29, 2011, before his opus magnus directorial project Casino Jack could be released into theatres.

Adam Kidan was indicted in 2003 on bank fraud and conspiracy to commit bank fraud in connection with his Suncruz activities. He pleaded guilty and was sentenced to seventy months in federal prison, but saw his sentenced reduced to thirty-five months. After Suncruz, Kidan continued to pursue the cruise casino business in New England, but his entrees were rebuffed. He remains a witness in the investigation into the murder of Gus Boulis. The production team of Casino Jack, starring Kevin Spacey, reported receiving numerous importuning phone calls from Kidan that his character in the film did not convey the dignity and grandeur that the real-life Kidan possesses.

Dolph Lundgren continued his acting career after making Red Scorpion , starring in almost fifty motion pictures. He is also a celebrated author and fitness and nutrition expert.

Imelda Marcos continues to live free in the Philippines, where she continues in her efforts to have her husband’s remains returned home to be buried with military honors.

Chief Phillip Martin served the Choctaw nation for over fifty years before being defeated for re-election in 2007. He died on February 4, 2010, after suffering from a stroke. Since the Chief lost his position, the Choctaws have suffered from internal political scandal and economic difficulties, leading many in the tribe to question the wisdom of removing one of the greatest leaders in American Indian history from his position as Chief.

Capitol Punishment

John McCain continues to serve as U.S. Senator from Arizona, though a serious party nomination challenge confronted him in 2010. On September 4, 2008, the day I was sentenced in federal court for the charges related to the lobbying scandal, John McCain accepted the nomination for president at the Republican National Convention in St. Paul, Minnesota. He continued to milk the scandal he helped ignite, even interjecting into his speech that night the self-congratulatory encomium, u I’ve fought lobbyists who stole from Indian tribes.”

Lloyd Meeds retired from Preston Gates Ellis & Rouvelas Meeds after a long career and passed away at the age of seventy-seven on August 18, 2005.

Bob Ney resigned from Congress on November 3, 2006, several weeks after pleading guilty to federal corruption charges. On January 19, 2007, he was sentenced to thirty months in prison, but served less than a year before being released. In April 2009, Bob began broadcasting the “Bob Ney Radio Show” in West Virginia. In 2010, it was reported that Bob had moved to India to study meditation techniques with exiled Tibetan monks.

Grover Norquist weathered a barrage of media attacks over his ties to my scandal but has emerged more powerful than ever and was never charged with any crime or improper action. As politicians grapple with the debt crisis, some have tried to renege on the Tax Payer Protection Pledge, but Grover isn’t allowing these members to easily break their promise to their constituents. Americans for Tax Reform continues to grow and Grover continues to organize conservative voters and organizations - always cheerfully making strides to the goal of drowning the remnants of the federal government in a bathtub.

Howard Phillips was the Taxpayer Party’s presidential nominee in 1992 and 1996. Today, he continues to lead the Conservative Caucus and is a prolific writer and publisher.

Appendix A: Where Are They Now?

Kevin Ring was arrested on September 8, 2008, on conspiracy, fraud, and obstruction of justice charges. On October 15, 2009, a mistrial was declared in federal court when jurors could not agree on a verdict. He was convicted in a second trial on November 15, 2010, of five counts of conspiracy to corrupt public officials. In their sentencing request, prosecutors asked the judge to imprison Ring for seventeen to twenty-four years, far in excess of anyone else involved in these cases.

Ralph Reed lost his bid to secure the Republican nomination for Lieutenant Governor of Georgia in the 2006 primary elections. He has recently re-entered public life by creating a new Christian political organization, the Faith and Freedom Coalition. He was never indicted on any charge related to his involvement with the tribes or me.

Scott Reed benefitted from the scandal to secure a representation of the Saginaw Chippewa Indian tribe, but never became the “king of Indian gaming” as he hoped.

Dana Rohrabacher continues to serve the people of the 46 th Congressional district of California and the American people as chairman of the House Foreign Affairs subcommittee on Oversight and Investigations. Dana has championed the average citizen with his efforts to control the size of the federal government and his focus on patent reform.

Karl Rove resigned from the Bush White House on August 31,2007, and has since worked as a contributor for Newsweek , the Wall Street Journal , and Fox News. Through his organization American Crossroads, Karl raised more money and had a more powerful impact on the 2010 Congressional elections than any political consultant in America.

Tony Rudy left Greenberg Traurig on August 1, 2002, to join Ed Buckham, DeLay’s former Chief of Staff, at Alexander Strategy Group. In the wake of the lobbying scandal, the company folded, and Tony plead guilty to one count of conspiracy related to his participation in my facilitating the hiring of his wife to consult for a non-profit, funded by my clients.

Capitol Punishment

David Safavian resigned as chief of staff of the General Services Administration and was indicted October 5, 2005, on charges of making false statements to fedetal investigators and obstructing investigations. David was one of the few defendants in the scandal to go to trial. On June 20, 2006, the jury convicted him of three of five charges, but David appealed and successfully overturned all convictions on June 17, 2008. He was retried and convicted a second time on October 16, 2009. Sentenced to serve a year in prison, David reported to Devins Federal Medical Center, a minimum security prison in August 2011.

Mike Scanlon kept a low profile in the wake of the scandal which destroyed our political careers, quietly cooperating with the investigation. On November 21, 2005, Mike pleaded guilty to one count of conspiracy and, on February 11, 2011, was sentenced to twenty months in federal prison. Mike commenced serving his sentence at the Pensacola Federal Prison Camp in March 30, 2011.

Froilan Tenorio continued to run for governor after his defeat at the hands of Pedro P. Tenorio in 1998, but was unable to retake the position. In 2009, he switched his life-long affiliation with the Democratic Party to join the Covenant Party. With the support of former rival Governor Ben Fitial, Froilan won a seat in the legislature and was subsequently elected Speaker of the House in the CNMI.

William Worfel, having escaped the threat of violence from rebels who took power at the Coushatta tribal council, disappeared from the public eye, only to emerge during the McCain hearings. Notwithstanding his public condemnation of McCain and his methods, at the hearing he was effusive in his praise of the senator and his role in the scandal. His rivals at the tribe thanked him for joining their side by banning him from ever running for tribal office again. He currently lives in proximity to the Coushatta reservation.

APPENDIX B: TIMELINE

Appendix B: Timeline

November 1980

May 1981 June 1981

September 1981

December 1981

January 1981

January 1982 July 1982 June 1983 September 1983

July 1984 August 1984

November 1984

Ronald Reagan elected 40 th president of the United States

Jack Abramoff and college republicans credited with winning Massachusetts

Jack Abramoff graduates Brandeis magna cum laude with degree in English and American Literature

Jack Abramoff elected Chairman, College Republican National Committee

Meets Ralph Reed

First Fieldman Program for CRNC launched

Poland Will Be Free petition drive launched

Jack Abramoff and Grover Norquist brief Ronald Reagan in Oval Office

White House dinner and movie about Polish Solidarity Union

Second CRNC Fieldman program launched

CRNC 90 th Anniversary conference

Jack Abramoff re-elected CRNC Chairman

Jack Abramoff hires Adam Kidan to produce student radio program, “Fall Out”

Fritzbusters campaign launched

Jack Abramoff speaker at Republican National Convention, Dallas, TX

Ronald Reagan re-elected to second presidential term

Appendix B: Timeline

Appendix B: Timeline

August 1999

October 1999

November 1999 November 1999 November 1999

November 1999

January 2000

February 2000

March 2000

March 2000

April 2000

May 2000

July 2000 August 2000

Todd Boulanger joins Team Abramoff at Preston Gates

Landmark Choctaw “Land in Trust’’ legislation passed

Ben Fitial wins seat in CNMI legislature

Jack Abramoff invests in Riverjet

Art Dimopolous proposes Suncruz purchase to Jack Abramoff

Kevin Ring joins Team Abramoff at Preston Gates

Ben Fitial elected Speaker of the House in CNMI

South Carolina Republican Presidential Primary Election

Michael Scanlon joins Team Abramoff at Preston Gates

Rep. Bob Ney enters attack on Gus Boulis into Congressional Record

Jack Abramoff hired by e-lottery to defeat Internet Gaming Prohibition Act

Jack Abramoff meets with Avery Ellis, executive recruiter representing Greenberg Traurig

House Resources Committee holds hearing on OIA Scandal

Tom DeLay trip to Scotland

Capitol Punishment

Appendix B: Timeline

Capitol Punishment

Appendix B: Timeline

November 2006 September 2007 December 2007 September 2008

March 2009 June 2010

Capitol Punishment

Jack Abramoff enters Cumberland Federal Correctional Institution

Jack Abramoff placed into segregated housing unit (“hole”) for “Torah incident”

Jack Abramoff punished for giving Bible to another inmate

Jack Abramoff sentenced to serve an additional 48 months for honest services fraud, tax fraud and mail fraud at federal court in Washington, D.C.

Actor Kevin Spacey visits Jack Abramoff in prison

Jack Abramoff released from Cumberland

Abramoff, Alex: 135, 159, 171, 236, 239,

245, 262, 280

Abramoff, Bob (Brother): 46, 48, 49, 57, 240-241, 280

Abramoff, Daniel: 135, 159-160, 236, 239, 245, 262, 280

Abramoff, Frank (Dad): 1-3, 15, 42, 67, 79, 197, 203-204,245

Abramoff, Levi: 53, 135, 140, 159, 239, 245, 280

Abramoff, Livia: 135, 239, 280

Abramoff, Pam (Pam Alexander): 28, 45-47, 51-53, 57, 61, 127, 137, 223, 235-236, 245-248, 254, 257-259, 263, 265

Abramoff, Sarah: 135, 239-240, 244 269, 280 Alabamas: 184, 189, 195-198,233 All Things Considered: 14 Alvidrez, Albert: 196 American Samoa: 71, 82 Americans for Tax Reform (ATR): 65, 66, 83, 87, 88, 275

Americans for the Reagan Administration:

27, 34

Angola: 37, 38, 40, 45 Antosh, Steve: 10 Archives: 167, 169-172 Armey, Dick: 72, 88, 89, 100, 101, 107, 111, 131

Armstrong, Neil: 3 Arnold Palmer: 2, 3, 104 Atlantic City: 1, 23, 25 August Entertainment: 56

Babauta, Juan: 110, 132, 134 Balitzer, Fred: 27 BarMitzvah: 5, 140, 141, 171 Babour, Haley: 191 Beirne, Jim: 76 Bell, Jeffrey: 34 Berlin Wall: 18 Black, Stanley: 15 Blackwell, Morton: 10 Blanche, Maison: 68 Blank, Jonathan: 60, 153 Bonzai Cliff: 75

Boulanger, Todd: 93, 154, 166, 176, 218-219, 221-223, 225, 282, 293

Boulis, Gus: 138-144, 217, 246 Bradley, Bill: 34 Brandeis: 7-12, 288-289 Buchanan, Pat: 35-36

Buckham, Ed: 70, 86, 89, 100, 101, 104-107, 129, 132, 133 Bush, Barbara: 23, 24 Bush, George: 13, 24, 25

Bush, George W.: 29, 84, 133, 152, 155-160, 181, 184, 190, 224, 243, 244

Bustamante, Albert: 35-36

Calero, Adolfo: 38, 39, 40

Campbell, Ben Nighthorse: iii, 233-234, 282

Capitol Hill: 1,18, 34, 36, 81, 82, 85, 99, 109, 112, 133, 136, 146, 149, 154, 175, 177, 191, 195, 205, 212, 215, 226, 233, 270,271

Carter, Jimmy: 9, 14, 131, 156 Cascante, Gregory: 56 Casino Jack: 1, 145, 146, 266, 269 Cassidy Associates: 227 Cassidy, Gerry: 227, 230-231 Chasidic: 12-14

Choctaw: 83, 91,96, 161-162, 164, 173-178, 181, 185-188, 190, 192, 195, 217

Citizens for America: 34, 35, 37, 39, 40, 43, 65

Clinton, Bill: 64, 65, 82, 107, 113, 131, 134, 150, 157, 158,268

Clooney, George: 244, 269 CNN: 236

Cochran, Thad: 176-178 College Democrats: 20, 32

College Republicans: 9, 10, 15, 16, 18, 27,

28, 30, 31, 32, 34, 35, 43, 68, 71, 72, 101, 114, 145, 149, 155, 157

Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands (CNMI): 66-69, 71-79, 81-82, 89,91, 109-112, 114-116, 124-135,286, 291-293

Congressional Hearing: i, ii ,97, 128, 161, 224

Conservative Caucus: 27-28

300

Copley Plaza: 1 5 Cosby, Bill: 7

Coushatta: 179-184, 181-192, 195-196, 198, 217, 220, 222, 224, 238, 263

CSPAN: 32, 127

Cumberland: 1, 248-253, 255-256, 258, 262, 264-266, 270, 273, 276

Davis, Angela: 8 DeBorchgrave, Arnaud: 38

DeLay, Tom: 59, 65, 70, 72, 86-90, 99-108, 111-114, 129, 131-133, 136, 143, 154, 244, 282, 286, 291-293

Deroy: 8

Diner Club Franchises: 4 Dodd, Christopher: 206, 210 Dunham, Duwayne: 50-51 Dwyer, Randy: 28

Eisenhower, Dwight D.: 12

Endres, Rick: 10

English, Phil: 16, 114-115

Erickson, Paul: 16, 17, 20, 31, 48, 260, 278

Factor, David: 3 Factor, Max: 3 Fahrenkopf, Frank: 33-34 FDR Democrats: 2 Fennell, Randy: 67 Fiddler on the Roof: 5 Fieldman Program: 17

Foster, Mike: 178-183, 187, 189-191, 195,

220

Fourgis, George: 4 Friedman: Rob: 55 Fritzbusters: 31, 32, 34

Gaddafi, Muammar: 3 Gates, Bill: 61, 64, 123, 124 General Cinema Corporation: 7 Georgetown Law School: 27, 43, 45, 137 Gibble, Steve: 16

Gingrich, Newt: 71-72, 99-103, 107, 282,

291

Girsky, Steve: 32 GOP: 2, 93 Gordon, Jack: 187

Gordon, Richard: 43-45, 137 Gower, Peter: 49 Graham, Phil: 197

Greenberg Traurig: 152-155, 161-162, 166, 179, 181, 193, 197-198, 205, 214, 219, 221,224-229, 282, 286, 293-294, 296 Griles, Steve: 191,221 Groves, Phil: 8, 31 Guam: 71, 82, 116, 133, 136, 157 Guevara, Che: 9

Hall, Robert: 47 Hart Senate Office: i Harvard Business School: 11, 27 Hawthorne Elementary School: 3 Heiman, Bruce: 63

Help America Vote Act (HAVA): 204-206 Hendrix, Duwayne: 267 Hickenlooper, George: 266, 268-269, 283 Higgens, Ted: 34 Hispanic Caucus: 36

House Resources Committee: 70, 72, 154

Indian Affairs Committee: iii, 173, 211, 214, 230, 231,233,238

Indian Child Welfare Act: 173, 175

Indian Gaming Regulatory Act (IGRA): 176-

177

Inouye, Daniel: 230 Intertax: 49-50, 54-55 Intuit: 64, 184

Israel: 14, 38, 43, 137, 155, 157, 228

Jackson, Delores: 263, 279 Jackson, Jesse: 32 Jamba: 38, 39, 41, 45 Jena: 190, 191, 195, 220, 222

K Street: 60, 66, 68, 86, 95, 97 Kahgegab, Maynard: 219, 227, 229 Kennedy, Ted: 3, 35 Kerry, John: 230 Kickapoo: 183, 210

Kidan, Adam: 137-144, 167, 208, 240, 245-246, 269, 283, 289, 291-292, 294

Kildee, Dale: 177-179

30 I

Capitol Punishment

Kingfisher Golf Club: 79

Labor and Immigration Department: 74

Lafayette Park: 18, 154

Larry King: 20, 21

Lassiter, April: 70

Lavin, Frank: 15, 16

Lehrman, Lewis: 34, 37-42

Lenin: 9

Lesotho: 53-54

Lilpfer, Verner: 69

Limbaugh, Rush: 20

Los Angeles Rams: 7

Lowell, Abbe: 226, 228-229, 231-232, 234-235, 237-238, 240, 242-243, 246, 263-264, 279

Lundgren, Dolph: 47-48, 51-52, 54-56, 283

Man, Chris: 263, 278

Marcos, Imelda: 117-124, 283, 291-292

Maritime: 63

Marple, Pam: 231, 234, 235, 240, 242, 243, 246, 248, 249, 279

Martin, Philip (Chief Martin): 84-85, 88, 91, 174-175, 185, 187, 227, 230, 283, 292

Marx (Marxist): 9, 53, 71

McCain, John: 158-159, 173-175, 186,214, 224, 226-230, 234, 236, 243, 284, 286, 296

McCarthy, Charlie: 3 McCarthy, Eugene: 3

Meeds, Lloyd: 62, 69-70, 72-75, 77, 126, 284,291

Meese, Edwin: 24 Meese, Ursula: 24 MGM: 46, 49-50 Microsoft: 61, 63-66, 70

Miller, George: 78, 114-116, 127-128, 131, 133

Mondale, Walter: 31 Moynihan, Patrick: 64 Mugabe, Robert: 53

Murkowski, Frank: 72, 76, 77, 129, 133 MX Missile: 35-36

National Indian Gaming Commission: 176-179

National Public Radio (NPR): 15 National Treasure: 220 NBC: 3, 15, 237, 238 New York Times-. 94, 143 Ney, Bob: 133, 138, 205-210, 215, 284, 293, 295

Nicaraguan Contras: 38 Nixon, Richard: 3, 13, 27

Norquist, Grover: 10-11, 13-16, 19-23, 27,

29, 34, 37, 41-42, 65-66, 71, 83-84, 87-89, 156, 275, 284, 288-289

Nurnberger, Ralph: 60

O’Brien, Conan: 244 O’Neill, Thomas P. “Tip”: 18

Occupational Safety and Health Administration: 73

Odessa, Ukraine: 1 Olsen, Arne: 47 Out of Africa: 49

Pacific Theater: 5 Palmer, Arnold: 2, 3, 104 Petras, Chris: 219

Phillips, Howard: 27, 34, 42, 47, 64, 157,

279, 284

Polin, Abe: 227 Pollock, Sidney: 49

Preston Gates Ellis and Rouvelas Meeds

(Preston Gates): 61-64, 66, 68, 70, 82, 86, 91-93, 95-96, 123, 126,

131-132, 135-136, 138, 151-154, 173, 183, 228,265

Quicken: 64

Rabbi Daniel Lapin: 59-60, 70, 279

Rabbi Levi Yitzchok Horowitz (Bostoner Rebbe): 12

Ratliff, Bill: 188 Reagan Doctrine: 37 Reagan Youth: 10 Reagan, Maureen: 13-14 Reagan, Nancy: 22, 29

Reagan, Ronald: 10, 12, 13, 15, 17-29, 31, 33-35, 37, 39-40, 42, 44, 60, 71, 92, 100, 156-157, 268

Red Scorpion: 47-50, 53, 55-57, 147, 261

Reed, Ralph: 16, 21, 28-30, 60, 128, 145, 149-150, 157-159, 185-186, 188-189, 195, 206-209, 228, 278, 285, 289, 294-296

Reed, Scott: 174, 224, 285 Reid, Harry: 154, 211, 220

Republican National Committee (RNC): 16, 19-20, 29

Richards, Dick: 15, 17, 48 Richards, Mark: 45-46 Ring, Kevin: 164, 168, 223, 242, 285 Rite Aid Drugstores: 34 Robinson, Sugar Ray: 7, 8

Rogers, Nell: 83, 88, 90, 91, 96, 162, 179, 185-186, 196, 217, 224, 225

Rohrabacher, Dana: 39-40, 42, 49, 59, 81-82, 93, 127-129, 131, 164, 265, 279, 285 Rosenzweig, Allan: 49

Rouvelas, Emmanuel (Manny): 61, 63, 91, 126, 152-153

Rove, Karl: 29, 155-158, 285, 294 Rudy, Tony: 129, 154, 285

Sabbath: 5, 38, 39, 60, 79, 80, 97, 107, 117, 119, 122, 124, 137, 241,248

Safavian, David: 215, 242, 286

Saginaw Chippewa: 217-220, 222, 224, 227, 263

Saipan: 73-75,77, 79, 81, 109-110, 115-116, 125, 133

San Luis, Rob: 30 Santorum, Rick: 16 Savimbi, Jonas: 38-39

Scanlon, Mike: 133, 136, 138, 141, 153-154, 179, 181-193, 195-197, 199-204, 206, 210, 213, 218-219, 223-224, 229, 234, 236, 242, 269, 292, 294, 297

Schwartz, Marc: 196, 213

Senate Environment and Public Works Committee: 76

Shapiro Glickenhaus: 50, 55

Signatures: 170, 171, 205, 206, 207, 211,

214, 220, 221, 223, 228, 231, 267

Slade, Jonathan: 20 Stalin: 9 Smith, Al: 12 Soviet Embassy: 18 Spacey, Kevin: 266-268

Stanford University: 7 Stephens, Dennis: 72, 86, 92 Students for a Democratic Society: 17 Suicide Cliff: 75

Suncruz: 141, 143-145, 151-152, 167, 181, 205,217, 240, 245, 262

Swaziland: 50-54

Tan, Willie: 78, 112, 116, 131, 119 Tenorio, Brenda: 68-69, 73

Tenorio, Froilan: 67, 73, 109-111,114-116, 125, 132, 286

Thune, John: 160

Tigua: 183, 184, 195-198, 206-207,210-211, 233, 236-238

Time magazine: 16, 244 Trotsky: 9 Tyco: 211-214

UCLA: 3, 7

Van Hoof, Kathy: 180-181 Van Horne, John: 198, 205, 223, 279 Vanger, Lawrence: 54 Volz, Neil: 133, 205-207

Waldman, Ben: 27, 44, 144, 278 Walesa, Lech: 18 Walmart: 65 Wanniski, Jude: 19 Warduk, Gholam: 40-41 Warner Brothers: 46, 49-55

Washington Post. 67, 75, 131, 143, 197, 222, 223, 225, 121, 229, 231

Washington Times: 38, 131 Wheeler, Jack: 37-40, 279

White House: 18, 20, 21, 23, 25, 27-29, 35, 36, 39, 40, 44, 133, 154, 156-158, 160, 171, 227

Woodstock: 3

Worfel, William: 182-184, 189, 217, 222,

286

World War II: 2, 75, 118,132 Young, Don: 70, 72, 130, 131 Zito, Joseph: 51, 52, 55, 57

303

INSIDE THE U.N. & OBAMA'S SCHEME TO DESTROY THE SECOND AMENDMENT

WAYNE LAPIERRE

DISARMED

WND Books

WND Books

a WND Company • Washington, DC • www.wndbooks.com

CATCHING

our

FLAG

BEHIND THE SCENES of a PRESIDENTIAL IMPEACHMENT

WND Books

-g^WND Books

a WND Company • Washington, DC • www.wndbooks.com

JACK ABRAMOFF got an early start in politics.

A Magna Cum Laude graduate of Brandeis University and Georgetown University Law Center, he was national chairman of the College Republicans and leader of President Reagan’s grassroots lobbying organization.

He joined K Street in 1994, signing on with the lobbying division of Preston Gates where he built one of the nation's most prestigious and profitable lobbying practices. When a corporation, Indian tribe, or foreign nation needed to win, they went to Abramoff. His team of lobbying guns didn’t lose, and clients reaped billions.

Abramoff had it all. Then it was gone. His disgraced name became synonymous with government corruption. The fall from grace was Jack’s wake-up call. Now, Abramoff is determined to do all he can to help end the corruption of the system he played so well. His saga will serve not only as a cautionary tale, but as a historic platform for reform.