Not since the Stealth Pay Raise of 1989, when Congress was caught finagling a 51 percent wage increase without even voting on it, had there been such a panic on Capitol Hill. Once again, editorials were thundering scorn; worse, the radio call–in hosts who had killed the pay raise were beginning to whip up their troops. Speaker Tom Foley moved last week to shut down the exclusive House bank and crack down on the worst offenders. But the pigs-at-the-trough image seemed likely to endure.
The scandal had been a long time growing. It began with the House bank, a convenience for lawmakers that has been tucked into a corner of the Capitol for nearly a century: members can have their paychecks deposited in their accounts and draw checks, as they would at a commercial bank. The bank pays no interest on deposits and charges no interest for an overdraft–and no fee for writing checks past the current balance. In the real world, as voters know all too well, banks refuse to pay bad checks and tack on a penalty of $15 to $25. Members tend to grow careless under such rules, and what started the scandal was a report from the General Accounting Office last month disclosing that the 435 House members had kited more than 8,000 checks in a single year.
What was worse, at least some members were going well beyond careless overdrafts. Fully 134 congressmen had written 581 rubber cheeks for $1,000 or more, and 24 members had overdrawn by at least $1,000 a month all through the first half of 1990. In each case, the bank covered the check from its pool of deposits (no public funds were involved). A member could even cash additional bad cheeks as long as the total deficit didn’t exceed the next paycheck–about $5,000. A legislator could thus enjoy a permanent revolving loan, interest-free, of as much as $5,000.
Congress began hearing ominous mutters from the districts, and two weeks ago Foley ordered a halt to the check-bouncing. But that only fueled a rising clamor for the names of members who had tapped the honey pot. Inevitably, names began to come out , and the panic was on. Some members refused to comment; others, led by a group of Republican freshmen, clamored for full disclosure. “We’re the laughingstock of the country,” said Rep. Scott Klug of Wisconsin. “You’ve got to be up front about this.” Jim Nussle of Iowa complained that “It may be easier to find out what’s going on in the Kremlin than the House of Representatives.” In dubious symbolism of a Congress ducking responsibility, Nussle made repeated appearances with a paper bag over his head.
For many, the first instinct was denial. Foley himself, asked if he had bounced any checks, said no: “I do my banking at the United States Bank in Spokane.” It turned out that the speaker had written at least one check on the House bank, for $540, that exceeded his balance. Others, like Republican Vin Weber of Minnesota, tried modified limited hangouts. Weber said he had written “some” bad checks and would pay interest, but insisted he had done no wrong. Some tried to defuse confessions by pleading their joint accounts, and some opted for contrition. “I made a mistake and it’s wrong,” said Democrat Peter Kostmayer of Pennsylvania, the champion so far.
The bank was so casual about rubber checks that many members hadn’t been told they were overdrawn. Klug himself, leading the charge for disclosure, was chagrined to find he had bounced checks for $30 and $20. By one count, 47 members had admitted overdrafts. But nobody owned up to being among the 24 who had kited $1,000 a month or more.
Then the next shoe dropped: at least 250 current or former members of the House owed more than $300,000 for meals and catering services from Capitol restaurants. More than $47,000 of the bills dated back as far as 1986, and more than 50 congressmen owed $ 1,000 or more. Much of the debt was traced to organizations that had used lawmakers to arrange receptions or other functions for them in the Capitol, and then neglected to pay the bills. Still, a member signing for such a function is responsible for the debt. Kansas Republican Pat Roberts, who proposed that the delinquents’ names should be posted, said the huge tab “adds to the feeling of people that we’re all a bunch of thieves.”
With that, the scandal achieved critical mass. At KTAR in Phoenix, Ariz., radio host Preston Westmoreland said callers were outraged. “They feel Congress has lost control,” he said. “Rubbergate is the kind of topic you can jam every line with.”
Foley took to the floor again, this time to close the bank for good and announce that the House ethics committee would take up the issue. On its face, that seemed a joke: the committee is widely regarded as relatively toothless, and its chairman, Louis Stokes of Ohio, himself was one of the check-kiters. But insiders said the big bouncers would be publicly named in coming months. “The committee has been given a hunting license to politically execute a dozen members before the next election,” said a Democratic leadership aide.
The long-term impact of the controversy was anybody’s guess. Some, like columnist David Broder and California pollster Mervin Field, saw it as deadly serious for Democrats, who are identified with Congress, and a potential boon for George Bush. “It’s not good for Congress, it’s not good for government and it’s not good for incumbents,” said Field. Similarly, many observers saw the scandal working to help the emerging drive to limit the number of terms members of Congress may serve.
But in the long run, it seemed at least as likely that this scandal, on top of so many others, would merely reinforce public cynicism. From the tone of the talk shows, people seemed less eager to throw the rascals out than dismayed by the evidence that rascals are inevitable. “The reaction here is, well, what else do you expect from members of Congress?” said political writer Jim Camden of the Spokane Chronicle. It is that feeling that produces apathy and voter turnouts heading for the 30 percent range. The danger was not that voters would rise in revolt, but stay home in disgust.
Members of Congress no longer charge speaking fees or take home campaign funds when they retire, but the Hill remains the home of the $4.50 haircut.
House members make bothersome parking citations disappear by having the sergeant-at-arms call D.C. police.
Health care and prescription drugs are provided free at Walter! Reed Army Medical Center.
Both the House and the Senate operate members-only health clubs. Annual dues: $0.
The leaders of Congress burn free gasoline in their chauffeured cars and all members park gratis at Washington’s National Airport.
Caught bouncing checks on the House bank, members offered varying excuses–from limited hangouts to outright contrition. Among them:
Denial, then confirmation: “It is not a violation of ethical standards for members to have had an overdraft.” $540
A spokesman said one check had bounced and was covered within two days. $200 +
“Unintentionally on several occasions, my wife and I have not kept track of each other’s check writing.” $?
The crusader for full disclosure hadn’t been told that the bank had covered his own two rubber checks: “Guilty as charged.” $50
Wrote 19 overdrafts totaling $9,000, but made a deposit to cover a $23,000 check before it was cashed. “I don’t think I or anyone else should get away with it.” $9,000
