Guilty

            I had a bet with my friend DC. Twenty-five push-ups per count. “Main Man, there’s no way a jury is gonna convict that man,” he said. “Just watch,” I told him. And the verdict came down: “guilty!” Eleven times the word was read. DC – and half the commonwealth – was shocked. I wasn’t. I take no glee in watching former Governor McDonnell’s life come crashing down. I’ve been there. But, having been there, I knew the result beforehand. Allow me some brief observations since I’ve gone through it.

            First, Mr. McDonnell has not honestly come to terms with his actions. Had he, he wouldn’t have put on that ridiculous defense blaming everything on Lady Macbeth, excuse me, Mrs. McDonnell. For years I rationalized and compartmentalized my wrong doing. Help in the community, work my butt off for my employer and my church, tithe to charities – all that I used to balance against my criminal conduct. Then a funny thing happened in late 2007. The rationalizations stopped working.

            I quit sleeping; I started drinking more. And, every quiet moment in my car became a conversation with God. “I’m out of control,” I’d say. “I don’t want to lose my wife and kids; I don’t want to go to prison.” For almost a year I prayed for a divine miracle all the while thinking I’d be better off dead. Then the day came and the call to the company’s president’s office and the five page letter where I was told I was being placed on “paid suspension” while an investigation was conducted over financial “irregularities.” I never read the letter. I knew what I’d done and I knew it was wrong. Then and there I admitted it.

            Gov Bob hasn’t gotten there, even now. Photos of him driving a Ferrari or smirking with Rolex blinging on his wrist and he says, “Hey, it’s ok.” No, it’s not … and he knows it. His own staff begged him not to wear the watch; his security detail tried to get him to avoid the Ferrari. And, Bob McDonnell is a smart man; he’s a decent man. But let me let you in on a little “truth” – good, smart, decent men are capable of doing wrong things.

            His defense, blaming his wife, stupid! You man-up and you take it; you stand there alone and you take the punishment. You don’t throw the woman who gave you five children under the bus to save yourself. A side story: Detective Clouseau (the investigator on my case) couldn’t believe I’d just admit everything. So, he decides there had to be millions stashed away. He teams up with a forensic accountant and schedules a “big meeting” with me. The detective tries to play “good cop” while the accountant is “bad cop.” They tell me they want “the truth” or they’ll prosecute my wife, throw her and my kids on the street. They’ll go on a hunt at work and “anyone” who received anything from me will be fired and perhaps worse. I listen to this bullshit for a few minutes and then I snap. “Leave … my wife and kids out of this! Leave everyone else alone or I swear I will fight and drag this out for years!”

            I’m red in the face; my shackled hands have slammed the table; and, I don’t give a damn what happens to me. There’s a pause, silence, and then the company President whispers to the accountant. A ten minute break and “Alright Larry. We won’t bother anyone …” I make no plea deal; I save the house and assets for my family and ironically I find my equilibrium. No one was responsible for the mess I found myself in other than me. Governor McDonnell needs to find that same honesty inside.

            Then there was the report about the Governor’s reaction to the verdict. He sobbed; he fell apart. Sentencing day. I’m alone in a basement holding cell at the Goochland County Courthouse. My wife isn’t there; she’s ready to file for divorce as soon as certain “settlement” papers are signed that day with my employer. I’m hoping for “time-served.” My lawyer says, “Prepare for two and a half to four years.” I go into the courtroom in shackles on my feet, waist, and hands. I see my parents for the first time in eight months.

            The hearing begins. The Prosecutor, who’s already told my attorney he’s being pressured by my former employer for a stiff sentence asks for thirty years. “They’ll suspend almost all of it,” my attorney whispers to me. My turn and three friends, three men who never have wavered in their belief and support for me, testify about who I really am. Other letters are read including one from a few elderly African-American women who served with me on a local food pantry board. “Jesus loves Larry and would show him mercy. Do the same for this decent man.” I fight back tears. I feel like shit about myself. They feel otherwise.

            Then, I speak. I make no excuses. I apologize to my family, my employer, my friends, and the court. I hear two young women – my paralegals – sobbing as I speak. I finish and I wait and then the Judge sentences me: “fifteen years with the Department of Corrections.” I am given more time that most child pornographers, child molesters, and second degree murderers.

            “Anything else from the defense?” The judge looks down at my lawyer and me. “No your Honor,” I say and add, “thank you.” I’m escorted from the courtroom. I won’t cry; I won’t succumb. I am alone in that holding cell and I repeatedly ask God why He just won’t let me die. An elderly sheriff’s deputy drives me back to the Henrico Jail. He is the same deputy who has driven me all four times that I’ve left the jail to go to court.

            There are no words between us on this trip. I look straight ahead and have no thoughts. We arrive at the jail and he escorts me in and signs me back over to Henrico authorities. My life feels over.

            As he is unhooking my shackles he speaks to me.” Mr. B, you are a decent man. Never forget that. You did yourself proud today. You can get through this.” I have never forgotten that deputy or his words. I’ve often wondered why he chose to speak such encouragement to me. Perhaps my behavior that day really did matter; perhaps it was God sending a message.

            The other morning, one of the teachers I work for asked me if the Governor “will be able to carry himself through this as well as I have.” I was stunned for a second. See, I know how tough this has been. And, every day I feel like I let someone down. I remembered that night after sentencing reading Psalm 27:

            “Though an army may encamp against me,

            My heart shall not fear …”

            And I thought about Hemingway – “A man can be destroyed but not defeated.”

            Governor McDonnell is a convicted felon. And, he’s a disgraced lawyer. He will, in all likelihood, go to prison. He will lose his retirement, his wealth. His marriage is over. His reputation damaged. But if he listens to the quiet voice inside he will overcome this. We are better than these convictions. We are broken, but in those breaks comes rebuilding.

            If he asked me, I would tell him this – don’t fight to save your past; move forward to save your soul.

            Perhaps, just perhaps it is in these failures that God’s true path for us comes through. Good, decent men can overcome their wrongs.

            Grace Potter, what a gorgeous woman with a beautiful voice, sings “Low Road” with this,

            But it’s a low, low road

            You’ve gotta roll down

            Before you find your way, my friend

            And it’s a high, high hill

            You’ve gotta climb up

            Before you get to the top again.

            Someone needs to let Governor McDonnell hear that song.

Isn't It Ironic

“Irony” is defined as an event or result that isn’t expected. As I watched former Governor Robert McDonnell, his ashen faced wife and daughter at his side, speak publicly for the first time about the federal government’s fourteen count indictment against him (and the former first lady-an historic occasion in American political history) I thought about irony. After all, it had been less than five days since McDonnell’s term had ended, since he had the opportunity to give dozens of incarcerated men and women the chance for new beginnings by issuing executive pardons, a power he chose not to use because the time wasn’t “quite right.” How ironic, I thought, that that Governor now faced his own – and his wife’s – legal Waterloo which could deliver the couple years of prison time and millions in fines.

            I take no schadenfreude-type glee in the former Governor’s legal problems. I know only too well the pain and trepidation that comes when the power of the government – whether state or federal – is focused on you. And yet, I am troubled by much of what the Governor is accused of because his is a crime of access and opportunity. So many of the men I’ve met throughout this prison exodus are in for crimes devoid of such wealth and privilege and yet, because of politicians like Governor McDonnell, they continue to languish behind bars with little hope of changing their circumstances upon their release. And yes, I was in the same position as the good Governor.

            Here’s what we know the U.S. Government believes the McDonnell’s did. Like many families, they were having financial trouble. The housing bubble put the squeeze on the first family. Debt service on their fashionable home in Richmond’s west end, the million dollar ski chalet at Winter Green and the $2 million ocean condo at Virginia Beach were squeezing the new Governor and his wife. So, Maureen reached out to a family “friend” who just happened to be a big campaign contributor. Did I mention the friend Mr. Williams, was a former tobacco exec who now headed “Star Industries,” a diet and health supplement company.

            And Williams did what any good friend would – he helped out with cash. The government calls the payments gifts; McDonnell says they were loans (subsequently paid back after news of the federal investigation broke). Funny, but there were no notes indicating any of these monies were loans. But hey, who needs paperwork between friends? I smiled over all this. See, at the height of my embezzlement scheme I left a blank promissory note in a folder with a copy of a $750,000 term life policy payable to my estate. During my initial meeting with my lawyer I told him, “I planned on paying it back … dead or alive.” He just smiled. You see, you can’t make something a loan after the fact.

            The McDonnell’s were in serious financial straits. Their credit cards were maxed; they had children in college and a daughter planning her wedding. And good ol’ Johnny was there. The mortgages – no problem. The credit cards – covered. The wedding reception – let Johnny pay for it. And the financial pressure eased, and the Governor became the darling of the National GOP.

            I have no doubt, as the public now sees the emails from Maureen McDonnell lamenting their money worries that Governor and Mrs. McDonnell never intended to break the law. I get that. I didn’t write that first check to rob my employer blind. I just did it to keep “us” going. I couldn’t risk losing everything I loved, everything I worked so hard to build; so I “borrowed” a few thousand. Funny how a few thousand turned into so much more, and the fear of losing it all, well my actions accelerated the process.

            The McDonnell’s found financial stability and Johnny was still there to “help out.” Why shouldn’t Maureen fly first-class to New York and Miami on shopping trips? Why shouldn’t Bob get a Rolex engraved with “71^st Governor of Virginia?” After all, they had done so much for the Commonwealth. Man, I’ve been there. I was traveling every six to eight weeks to New York, Vegas, and Atlantic City. I always flew first-class and I never went alone. There was my entourage, anywhere from three to eight other people who’d go with me, fly first class (paying me for “coach” fare – I took care of the upgrades), eat expensive meals, and stay in luxury hotel suites.

            And I justified it all – every check I wrote, every lie I told – because I was a “good guy,” I didn’t cheat on my wife, I was a good provider and role model for our sons, I did volunteer work , devoted countless hours to my church, and was a top employee at work. So what if I was “borrowing” (sounds so much nicer, “borrowing” rather than stealing. After all, I kept detailed records so I could pay it all back) thousands from work?

            And when I hear Governor McDonnell defend himself and claim everything was legit and his friend Johnny received no special access I shake my head. That’s the words of a man living in denial. He can’t believe that when he’s alone and looks at himself in the mirror. See, that’s when you’re alone and you realize all those rationalizations you’ve been uttering are bullshit. You realize you’re dirty and corrupt and all the good you do won’t clean that stain.

            I watched the former Governor and I wanted him to man up. Take responsibility, show remorse and contrition and regain his self-respect. He’s not there yet. Even worse, he’s leaving his wife in this as well.

            Wives and your failures … Bob, Bob, Bob, listen to what I’m about to write. You can’t let Mrs. McDonnell be involved in this. Even if you have to take a plea, do it. Yeah, the Feds offered to drop the Mrs. from the case in exchange for one felony plea. Don’t let your wife go to trial; don’t risk her conviction. You – and you alone – have to wear this. I speak from personal experience …

            So, it’s two weeks after my arrest and I’m in the Henrico Jail having been denied bond – “a flight risk” the Commonwealth says. “Defendant has assets and can flee the jurisdiction.” I honestly hadn’t thought about leaving. Ending it all was more on my mind. I’m in the jail and I’m falling apart. I’d received three or four letters from my better half at this point telling me, in no particular order 1. We’re through 2. I will never see her again 3. She’s praying I die. And, the police listened in on a conversation the two of us had in which she repeatedly asked me, “where’s the money?” I said “Honey, there isn’t any money. It’s been spent and we can’t talk about it on the phone.” Her response, “Don’t you ever call me honey!”

            My lawyer came to see me and told me the company had no idea how I got away with this. They couldn’t tell if it was one million or four million. “They need your cooperation, but no plea deal. They want a long sentence.” And that was when I did it. I told my lawyer the deal: they leave my wife and sons alone and let my sign over certain assets to her (house, personal effects, boys’ college funds, cash and a few accounts) and I’ll assist with the accounting and plead guilty to any charges presented.

            It was straight-forward and easily understood. And then, I was transported to a meeting at the Goochland Courthouse. The investigating detective, the company CEO, and a half-dozen lawyers representing my employer sat around a table with me, handcuffed and shackled and in a faded jail jumper. The “senior” lawyer tried to throw his weight around: “Tell us everything, Mr. B or we will go after Mrs. B. All the money that went her way, how didn’t she know?

            There are rare moments in one’s life when you say “fuck it,” when you’re tired and discouraged, and you want to quit, but self-respect won’t let you. In that instant, when that pompous lawyer tried to flex I realized I – and I alone – was responsible for everything that was happening. I slammed my cuffed hands down on the table with a thud that startled everyone in the room. My face grew crimson and I barked out as I rose to my feet, “You say anything about my wife or my sons, you make any attempt to go after them or any friend or relative and I will use every breath I have to tear your fucking case and company apart!” (Yes, I have a gift for profanity when needed).

            There wasn’t a sound in the room until the company CEO gently said, “Let’s take a break,” and everyone left the room but my attorney and me. And my lawyer looked at me and smiled and said, “You just wrapped up the case. I’ve never seen anything like that.” He was right. When they returned, we had a deal. I signed over the listed assets to her and they presented me with a six count indictment; and, four weeks later, I plead guilty just like I said I would. For the first time in years I felt like I’d done the right thing …

            The right thing Governor McDonnell; now is the time to do the right thing. Fuck your reputation, and your political future, and the money you could have made joining some well-connected law firm or lobbyist. Get your self-respect and your dignity back. And if you lose your law license, and your property, and your wife you man up and decide you’ll fight your way back. In chapter 17 of the Gospel of Matthew there is a wonderful question attributed to Jesus. “For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his soul?” What indeed.

            Governor, you know what you’ve done. Put this behind you. It isn’t easy, but it’s the only way to regain your dignity and self-respect. There are worse things than a felony conviction; there are worse things than prison. I speak from personal experience when I tell you it’s time to do the right thing. It wasn’t easy, but it made all the difference.