Shed no tears for Bruce Bereano. He earned his reputation as a super-lobbyist by living on the edge. Sooner or later, he was bound to fall off.
Test pilots have a term for such behavior -- "pushing the envelope." Pilots force their experimental aircraft to fly as high and as fast as possible, pushing the machines to exceed prior levels of performance. Of course, there's always the chance a pilot can push too hard and wind up crashing.
That's what happened to Bereano. Having lived on the edge so long, having pushed the envelope of lobbyist influence so dramatically over the past decade, having achieved wealth, success and enormous prestige among politicians, he felt invincible. Brashness turned to arrogance. He prided himself in taking lobbying to new, creative levels without breaking the law.
But he continued to steer perilously close to disaster. He finally got tripped up when federal investigators came across a suspicious pattern of campaign contributions to state legislators from his office workers and relatives. Digging deeper, prosecutors uncovered an illegal scheme to defraud Bereano's clients, with the lobbyist's parents, ex-wife, children and office workers serving as fronts to hide wrong-doing.
Still, the always-clever lobbyist almost beat the rap. The federal judge trying the case said it was "thin." He nearly threw it out of court. But once the case went to the jury, Bereano's fate was sealed. Ordinary people were presented with a case of a powerful, wealthy lobbyist using relatives and employees for his own advantage to evade the law. It was the type of behavior none of the jurors would condone in their own lives. They refused to condone Bereano's behavior, either.
Even the timely amnesia of a key Bereano employee -- who might now face criminal charges herself -- couldn't save him. The jury saw through her faulty memory and concluded that Bereano was manipulating people and campaign contributions to an extent that could not be tolerated.
Still, we have not seen the last of Bruce Bereano. Not yet, anyway. His pride alone will drive him to maintain his lobbying practice during the next General Assembly session. But then, the lobbying profession in Annapolis already has its share of suspect operatives, including an ex-felon and a fellow twice charged with drug violations.
What a tawdry situation. No wonder the public has such a low opinion of politicians and lobbyists. For years, the growing power of lobbyists has threatened to undermine the integrity of the legislative process. And for years, lawmakers resisted a crackdown. Too many of them fell prey to the Bereanos of the State House, who ingratiate themselves with lawmakers to such an extent that a quid pro quo is inevitable.
An old saying reminds that there's no such thing as a free lunch. And yet there are dozens and dozens of legislators who still believe you can get something for nothing, that all the gifts and free tickets and free gourmet meals and all the booze they can consume and all that help solving their personal and business problems comes without strings.
Lobbyists hone in on the weaknesses of legislators, especially those who like to live the good life in Annapolis for 90 days each year, who enjoy being treated like VIPs, who revel in the skybox tickets, Streisand tickets and Superbowl tickets. Is there a price to be paid? You'd better believe it. No wonder some lobbyists quietly brag about controlling the votes of enough legislators to kill or pass certain bills.
It wasn't always this way. There was a time when a lobbyist
would simply show up at a hearing and present a well-reasoned case on behalf of a client. Some legislators got an occasional good meal, but that was about the extent of the extracurricular activities.
Then came Bereano, with contacts developed while working for two Senate presidents. He spent a fortune influencing legislators. He became their best friend and counselor. He'd do anything.
He re-wrote the book on funding political campaigns. He bundled contributions from his 50 or more clients, then got other lobbyists to do the same. Pretty soon, legislators were deeply indebted to lobbyists for their campaign money. They came to expect this as part of the quid pro quo.
Bereano also plowed new ground in administrative lobbying, burrowing into the Schaefer administration to "break the egg," as he put it, and win the hugely lucrative lottery contract for his client. He followed up with another coup in the controversial no-bid Keno contract. He showed that any government decision, be it executive or legislative, can be influenced by strong, savvy lobbying. He broadened the base for his profession by a country mile.
Now, though, the new terrain Bereano helped explore and discover is being seized by his competitors. Like hungry vultures, they are eyeing his client list as he tries to hang onto his customers tenaciously while awaiting sentencing in April on eight counts of mail fraud. The latest big-money game is casino-gambling. Lobbyists are scrambling to sign up clients.
Bruce Bereano won't be among the lobbyists stalking this fascinating new prey. He's fighting to overturn the verdict and stay out of prison. His legacy, though, is clear: He's the man who transformed lobbying in the state capital from a gentlemanly, honorable profession of modest fortune to a high-stakes, high-rewards occupation that is a booming growth industry but of low repute. He pushed the envelope to new heights -- and then crashed and burned.
E9 Barry Rascovar is editorial-page director of The Sun.