Into the Sun: A Memoir

By Neil Volz

Into the Sun puts a human face on the business of American politics. It also makes you rethink what you believe about Washington.
When Neil Volz moved from small-town Ohio to Capitol Hill he was a young idealistic college student. Twelve years later, he was a high-profile symbol of Washington corruption.
A former lobbyist and public official, Volz paints a vivid and disturbing picture of his rise and fall. He ushers the reader in to the clandestine world of congressional deal making and special interest lobbying, all the while telling of his journey down the slippery slope of personal corruption. The book describes first-hand what it was like to be a target of a Justice Department investigation, as well as a government witness during the worst political corruption scandal since Watergate. The author outlines important life lessons he learned from the experience. And raises fundamental questions about the role of money of politics.
How do people become corrupt? Is it an individual failure? Or the result of a failed political system?
While Into the Sun is a personal story about hope, failure and faith, it also a larger story about how Washington works - and how it doesnt.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 22, 2011
• ISBN: 9781467868143

Neil Volz

Neil Volz was a Chief of Staff for a Member of Congress, a Staff Director for a full Congressional Committee, and a Washington lobbyist who represented a variety of clients. Volz now lives in Fort Myers, FL, where he works as a homeless advocate and public affairs professional.

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Prologue 

IN CONTRAST TO THE YEARS of deliberations concerning whether to write a book or not, my decision to move to Washington wasn’t a choice at all. Looking back, moving to Capitol Hill after the historic elections of 1994 was something I had to do, a flight I needed to make. The first day of the rest of my life, friends and family would say when they heard the news.

Years later, Congressman Bob Ney and I would joke incessantly to anyone who would listen about the process of how I got to Washington. One week I was signing up for classes, ready to begin my senior year at The Ohio State University. The next I was speeding toward the Capital Beltway in a rental car with a firm grip on the lifetime lottery ticket it appeared I had just won. Falling upstairs was how I described my good fortune.

Little did either of us know back then, when Bob offered me a job in his Congressional office, of what was to come. Over time, I would be named the Congressman’s Chief of Staff and assume the role of both roommate and confidante. From there, I joined others in helping Bob earn a powerful Committee Chairman position and watch as he became a major player on Capitol Hill. After leaving his office, I continued to be one of his most important political allies, as well as one of his largest campaign contributors. In the process, I became a major player too. It was a Washington life.

My time in what many of us called Ney World ended when I decided to help the Department of Justice put the Congressman in jail for his role in the Abramoff lobbying scandal. Having also played a role in the scandal, I knew the corruption far too well. To those of us closest to the flame, the stories have lost some of their humor and light-heartedness along the way. Nonetheless, there is much to learn from this cautionary tale.

Bob called me on a Thursday afternoon in late December to offer me the job of press secretary in his office. It felt like I was dreaming. He said they needed an answer by the end of business the following Monday. I had one hundred hours to decide. During that time, I faced two very different futures. On the one hand was the known. Staying the course. It consisted of family, friends and a potentially promising new career as a statehouse staffer for the Ohio Senate President.

On the other hand was the unknown. The only thing I really knew about Washington before 1995 was what I remembered from my junior high school government trip, and what I had read or seen in movies. Since all I could recall from our visit was a scant memory of boys in parachute pants trying to impress girls wearing Madonna-style dance clothes as we paraded from museum to museum, there wasn’t a whole lot to go on.

I knew even less about some of the people I would end up working with at the time. Though I volunteered vigorously on the campaign, had been an intern in Bob’s Columbus-based State Senate office and wrote several press releases during the election, numerous members of the Congressman-elect’s incoming senior staff worked in parts of the operation with which I was not familiar. Many I had never met. Therefore, it was a bit nerve-wracking to hear the job offer included living with the Congressman, his chief of staff and several other staffers.

Our house would be just up the street from the Capitol Building. There was a lot of opportunity tied into such an offer. "But what if I don’t like my colleagues or the dynamic of living with the boss?" I asked myself. Washington is a long way away.

Additionally, the deal consisted of a $15,000 yearly salary, which was less than what I was making at my two part-time jobs as a college student. Combined with the fact I had just signed a one-year rental agreement I couldn’t get out of for the next year, I remember thinking the money picture looked pretty bleak.

Finally, the offer to take a slot in Bob’s Washington office required me, at least initially, to drop out of college. In a family of teachers and people committed to higher education, this was yet another serious obstacle. On its face the deal included several gaping holes. But none of that mattered. Like Icarus naively climbing into his wings or a moth flying uncontrollably in the night, the pulsating lights of history were calling. Moving to Washington to join in the glory of a political revolution was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

My mother initially opposed the idea. I couldn’t blame her. Here was a woman who years ago, along with my dad, made a commitment of saving enough money on her high school teacher’s salary to pay for both my and my brother’s college tuition. Amazingly to those who don’t know her, she and my dad met that goal. And now her youngest wanted to run off and play politics without finishing his degree. This was considered heresy in our house. But she could see it in my eyes. Like breathing air or eating food, I needed to go. For the first time, a major decision impacting every aspect of my young life was mine and mine alone.

Before heading East I promised that I would eventually graduate. Almost six years later my degree from Ohio State arrived in the mail. By that point, I was starting my second full year as the Congressman’s chief of staff. After attending night and weekend courses with three different universities, it was finally done. Taking more than a decade to graduate was not a normal flight plan. But then again, no one has ever accused me of taking the path most traveled.

I’m not the first to make such a trek to our nation’s capital riding an election-year wave of promise, purpose and aspiration. Far from it. It happens year after year. Just as many more are building on what we did during our tenure, I was merely following in the footsteps of the countless others who came before me.

At the time, though, to me, it was big. Really big. My family is the farthest thing in the world from political royalty, and working on Capitol Hill seemed exquisitely extravagant. I mean, I was just some regular kid from Cincinnati who had lived my entire life in Ohio. And then suddenly I found myself part of something larger than anything I lived through before. Playing a role in the first transfer of power in the United States House of Representatives since before my parents could vote was an awakening of sorts for me. We were going to change things. Make lives better. It was even bigger than really big.

Despite the gravity of how the elections would impact our country, not to mention how idealistically I attached myself to their political meaning, I still look back on those one hundred hours more as a time of personal growth and priority making than some sort of career advancement or ego boost. Future internal struggles about ambition, power, greed, loyalty and survival were nowhere to be found. Important late-night negotiations over life-impacting legislation remained but a dream. Since the right choice was never in question, what took up most of my focus, and quite frankly scared me more than anything, was trying to figure out whether I really had what it took to swing for the fences and chase my dreams.

Looking back on that fateful choice to join Bob’s Congressional office, I am always stunned by my unyielding focus and willingness to think through every aspect of the decision. During the years ahead, I would meet Presidents, CEOs and world leaders, while engaging in decision making that to some would make my little 1994 decision pale in comparison. Yet, for those one hundred hours, I thought of almost nothing else.

After I got off the phone with Bob, visions of a new life danced in my head. The opportunities seemed endless. Part of me was troubled, though, by the instant urge to join the Congressman’s Washington team sight unseen. Those impulsive thoughts represented the sort of childlike flight of fancy which had failed me in the past. Neil, it is time to grow up, I said. People in the real world don’t get to run off with Don Quixote to chase windmills or join the Knights of the Roundtable in their quest for the Holy Grail.

On the other hand, I knew the side of me where fear lived always argued against any yearning I had for meaning and adventure. Luckily, at the time, I also knew not to listen to that part of me for too long.

How will I look myself in the mirror years down the road knowing you chose to just sit back and pay the mortgage when you had a shot at the big time? I would ask, re-balancing my internal debate. I mean seriously, what would your pals from the old neighborhood think if you chickened out now? I continued. In the end, this was more than just my ticket to join the action on the ultimate stage. It was about taking part in something larger than myself.

Every road led to the same destination. Get in the ring. Even if I would never be more than a bit player, I knew there was no other choice.

Life sure was simple back then. Such a statement sounds like it should be coming from a person in line for the blue plate special instead of someone much younger like me, I know. But it is true.

As I told friends and family members of my plans to move to Capitol Hill, there were no lawyers or federal prosecutors to check in with. Packing everything I owned into a two-door sedan, there was no worrying about the media rummaging through my trash, the FBI recording my conversations or dealing with an identity in crisis. And as I hit the road, instead of being tormented by thoughts of jail, divorce and bankruptcy, my mind was filled with optimism, a commitment to our cause and dreams galore. More than a decade later, I was forced to pack up many of those same dreams no longer meant for me, and watch a political revolution I identified so strongly with sputter to an unknown conclusion. Yet, I couldn’t help but constantly reflect on that brief snap shot in time.

Even the directions given to me before leaving Ohio were simple. I met my new boss in Columbus. He told me the address of our Capitol Hill group house. While I wrote it down, he then said simply, Drive to DC, from there, if you are facing the Capitol Building, the street is on the right hand side of the building. With that, he was done and I was ready. Several days later, embracing the quintessential American concept of chasing a dream, I took off. Nothing would ever be the same.

SEPTEMBER 12, 2007

WASHINGTON, DC 

Judgement Day 

MY LONG AWAITED SENTENCING DATE had finally arrived. Not a day passed during the previous few years when I hadn’t contemplated the possibilities. Would the Judge put me in jail like she did the Congressman? Or would my punishment be something else? Time in a half way house? A hefty fine? I would find out soon enough. Though prepared to go to prison, I desperately hoped for a lesser sentence.

Because of my decision to cooperate with the Department of Justice’s public corruption investigation, the prosecutors managing my case went to bat for me. In paperwork filed with the court, they requested a punishment of home detention. It was the best possible sentence the department could legally request from the Judge. Recognizing that I would likely have been facing multiple years in prison without their assistance, I was comforted by their proposal.

But the government’s input would only go so far. As Judge Ellen Segal Huvelle had shown months before when she sentenced Congressman Ney to three months more time in jail than what the prosecutors had requested, their suggestions were not binding in her courtroom. Combined with the fact that the high-profile Abramoff lobbying scandal remained very much in the public eye, anything seemed possible.

Whatever the outcome, it was a relief to know the uncertainty of my future would soon be over. Yearning to move forward, I viewed my sentencing like a lighthouse during a dreary, fog-filled storm.

For almost four years, life as I knew it was turned upside down by the far-reaching tentacles of Washington scandal. Bit by bit, the slow grind of the Justice Department’s inquisition had taken over my life. I became a professional pariah to avoid at all costs. Relationships were lost. Lawyers, prosecutors and FBI agents slowly replaced clients, consultants and constituents as constants in my day. Opportunities disappeared. Not a day passed when I didn’t think I was going to jail. Fear permeated my every move. And with the media’s relentless focus on the worst side of me, in many ways, even my identity stopped being my own.

Deep down, though, I knew that facing Judge Huvelle would at last give me a chance to break through that stuck-in-the-mud feeling of the previous few years. No matter what she decides, there will at least be certainty, I told myself. Solid ground under my feet. Still, I was scared to death.

Months earlier in the same courtroom, my two former bosses, lobbyist Jack Abramoff and Congressman Bob Ney, had also faced Judge Huvelle. And both were sent to prison. Now it was my turn to accept the consequences for my involvement in our criminal conspiracy.

Pundits called our crimes a lobbying scandal - and debated its significance and root cause. For those of us involved, however, it was much more personal. Our greed and unchecked ambition represented individual failings that went above and beyond the admittedly serious crimes of trading political favors for extravagant trips, high-priced sports tickets and free meals. They symbolized a spiritual corrosion. Failures that needed fixing. Something I was finally aware of as I walked into the Judge’s chambers.

Reporters and law enforcement sat on the left side of the room, family and friends on the right. Having been through numerous gut-wrenchingly raw conversations in private with my attorneys during the scandal, our small talk at the witness table seemed somewhat superficial. I nervously went through the motions. It was just another day in the fishbowl. People were watching my every move.

Nonetheless, I remained a very lucky man. In the pews behind me sat my loving family - many of whom had flown in from all over the country to provide their support. Friends in the District took the day off work to attend the hearing. Others had written letters to the Judge on my behalf. Anxiously awaiting the verdict, they had seen it all, the rise as well as the fall.

Slumping over in a courtroom chair more than a decade after idealistically flying off to Capitol Hill in an effort to fix a broken government, I sat at the bottom of an incredibly slippery slope. Originally intent on changing the corrupt ways of Washington, I instead had allowed myself to become a poster child of the very corruption I had pledged to help change. It was obvious to all that I had lost my way. Looking around the assembled crowd, I felt extremely ashamed.

Wanting to run, I incessantly stared down at my watch. Time sped up, then slowed down. As if I were trapped in a Salvador Dali painting with melting clocks and faces on the walls, minutes suddenly seemed like hours. And vice versa.

Why are you here? How did this happen? I asked myself for what seemed like the millionth time. What has become of your life?

Such questions haunted me daily. Deeply. Like an archeologist inspecting the dig of a lifetime, I sifted through the rubble. Despite the non-stop introspection, I still couldn’t fully grasp why I had participated in such corrupt activities.

I mean, when exactly did that young purposeful kid who moved to Washington morph into the criminal who is on trial today? I asked as my demeaning and harsh inner dialog continued. It remained tough to know for sure.

What was clear, however, was that much had changed. I was different. Washington was different. When the Abramoff scandal became public in early 2004, Republicans dominated every aspect of the federal government. It was a high-water mark of our political revolution, the Republican Revolution.

By the time a series of Washington Post stories surrounding our lobbying team’s work captured the attention of official Washington in late 2004, however, the narrative had already begun to change. Outsiders no more, we Republicans had become the establishment. And we were behaving like it. With corruption in the air, investigations into Team Abramoff, the name for the lobbying team I was a part of, started in Congress, the Department of Justice and the U.S Attorney’s office in South Florida. The glare of the media followed.

During the fall of 2004, just days after I helped President Bush win re-election, the growing scandal turned even more personal for me when I was officially contacted by Senator John McCain’s staff to discuss my relationship with Jack and Bob. McCain’s committee staff specifically wanted to talk about my efforts to attach a provision to a piece of legislation that Bob was in charge of managing for the House of Representatives. The provision would have opened a casino on tribal land for one of Jack’s American Indian clients. McCain’s staff also wanted to know how Jack’s all-expense paid golf trip to Scotland had impacted Bob’s decision making.

Within days, the vice of scandal gripped me tighter. A skyrocketing career became unglued. Finally, after more than a year of leaked news stories and legal innuendo, my lobbying career came to an abrupt end when I was publicly named a target of the investigation in Jack’s high profile plea agreement.

At the same time, in the political arena, the Democratic Party was successfully rallying public opinion against what they called a Republican culture of corruption on Capitol Hill. Because of mistakes occurring on our watch, the Democrats were ultimately able to win back control of Congress for the first time in twelve years. By convincing voters it was time for a change, they helped put a stake through the heart of the very political movement that brought me to Washington in the first place. And now I was in a federal courtroom, steps from the Capitol Building, facing prison.

Having spent much of the previous evening reading through my statement to the Judge and answering potential questions, I thought I was ready for what was to come. Then Judge Huvelle walked into the courtroom. Her swift entrance created an emotional tsunami that shook me to my core. I quickly assumed the worst.

She is going to throw me in jail, I thought as adrenaline surged through my veins. Panicking, I thought, Not only is she going to throw me in jail, she is going to throw me in jail today.

Huvelle’s presence quickly and irrevocably changed the dynamic in the room. There was no doubt who was in charge. She was. Her long black robe, lofty perch and domineering demeanor made me feel like I was, well, being judged. At which point, the proceeding began.

Criminal case 06-119, United States of America versus Neil G. Volz, the courtroom clerk announced in a squawky monotone manner. Having merely whispered those horrible United States versus Neil Volz syllables quietly to myself before hearing them officially read aloud, I felt like a traitor. It was horrible.

Judge Huvelle jumped into the fray, and began talking to my attorney and the Department of Justice prosecutors. The government has filed for the reduction, she said, referring to the prosecutor’s request to put me in a lower sentencing guideline range. Since judges generally follow the guidelines when issuing an offender’s punishment, her view on whether to grant the request for a reduction would be telling. My future hung in the balance.

That will be granted, she said. I sighed with relief.

Because I was a co-operator, such a reduction was assumed. Part of the deal. Of course, I never completely believed it would really happen. Until it did.

Her decision didn’t give me a get-out-of-jail free card, but it did immediately lessen my fear of spending a year or more in prison. For that I was grateful, even jubilant. Worries of a disastrous sentence began yielding to the hope of a lenient one. Maybe I will be walking out of the courtroom with a punishment of probation or a few months of home detention after all, I quietly thought, as the importance of her decision began to sink in.

It appears from what you have told me that you view Mr. Volz in a slightly less culpable category than Mr. Heaton, whom I have already sentenced, Huvelle continued in her conversation with the prosecutors.

Her comments struck a nerve. Will Heaton, the man she mentioned, had succeeded me as Congressman Ney’s chief of staff after I left to become a lobbyist. Like me, Heaton pleaded guilty to criminal conspiracy charges in the Abramoff scandal. Also like me, he had cooperated with the Justice Department’s investigation. His assistance included wearing a wire and taping conversations for the FBI, conversations he and Bob had had about the relationship between Abramoff, the Congressman and myself.

Unlike me, however, Heaton was never a lobbyist or a member of Jack‘s lobbying team. Therefore, since I was involved in both sides of the conspiracy, namely giving as well as receiving things of value in return for official Congressional actions, Judge Huvelle couldn’t really think I was less culpable than Heaton could she? Likewise, I had violated the one-year ban, a law that requires certain government employees who become lobbyists from lobbying their former employers for at least a year. Her statement made me very nervous.

Kendall Day, a prosecutor for the Justice Department, stepped to the podium to respond. Your Honor, I would phrase it just a little differently. We view him as someone who has given more substantial assistance and therefore is worthy of a greater 5K departure than Mr. Heaton, he said using the legal term for how law enforcement bargains on behalf of people who cooperate in their investigations.

It was the best answer he could have given, I thought. By emphasizing my cooperation instead of my culpability, Prosecutor Day was playing to my strengths. Since I knew more about the inner workings of the Abramoff and Ney relationship than Heaton did, due to the fact I worked for both men, the prosecution’s emphasis on that side of the equation had to be helpful, I assumed. Or hoped.

Since I was already intently focused on every angle of the proceeding, the comparison of my situation to Heaton’s had me watching even closer. I was convinced that every raised eyebrow by the Judge or muscle twitch by the prosecution meant something. Nothing was unimportant.

After all, in July, Heaton had received a sentence from Judge Huvelle of probation, community service and a fine for his role in the conspiracy. For him, it was the perfect outcome. For me, it was the perfect marker. A ray of hope. No jail time, no halfway house and no home detention. Instead of increasing Heaton’s sentence from what the government was requesting like she had done for Bob, Judge Huvelle had actually reduced it. For the preceding two months, I had considered it a positive reminder of what was possible.

Whether she reduced Heaton’s punishment because he was a smaller player in the conspiracy, had cooperated in the investigation or because she found him to be a good guy caught up in something bad, I didn’t know. But my mind raced trying to figure it out.

All right, Judge Huvelle replied noncommittally while continuing to outline my assistance in the case. You’ve set forth his cooperation. He has provided substantial assistance and will get a lot of credit for that obviously, she continued. You also seem to imply that his activities, while he violated the one-year ban as well as gave and received things of value, is somewhat less egregious than some of the cases we’ve seen before. Is that fair?

That is fair, Your Honor, Day replied. I guess the one thing I would emphasize that we’ve already touched upon is that, in our view, we could have successfully prosecuted Congressman Ney with the assistance of Mr. Volz, but without his assistance we could not have brought a successful prosecution, he continued, going back once again to my cooperation in their case against my former boss. That is different than the assistance Mr. Heaton gave, he said. His assistance alone wouldn’t have allowed a successful prosecution.

Okay, Judge Huvelle replied .

Staring blankly ahead, I beamed internally with joy. Day and the team of prosecutors were going to bat for me.

From your point of view, she asked him, if one of my goals as a judge is to have a certain equity or parity among those in similar situations, if I take into consideration the sentence I gave Mr. Heaton, is there any reason in your view to deviate in any substantial way?

Did she really just say that? I asked myself incredulously. Is there any reason to deviate in any substantial way?

Knowing the dream outcome was to get the same sentence Heaton had received, I let her words fuel my growing excitement. Everything seemed to be falling into place. All I needed now was for my colleagues over at the prosecutor’s table to tell the Judge there was no reason to deviate from Heaton’s sentence.

Unfortunately, my secret celebration didn’t last long. Instead of just saying no, Day went into a thorough dissection of Heaton’s punishment in comparison to what they were requesting for me. As a substitute to my previous impulse of wanting to high-five my Justice Department teammates, Day’s statements served as a harsh reminder that the folks with the badges weren’t there to help me get a good sentence. They were there to administer justice, as they envisioned it.

We do feel that it’s important that there be some deprivation of liberty, Prosecutor Day said, regarding my impending punishment. Given the crimes to which Mr. Volz pled guilty and in which he participated, some restriction on his personal liberty is necessary.

Watching the words deprivation of liberty spill from Day’s mouth, in his slow Kansas drawl, was like getting kicked in the chest by a mule. Wanting to feel betrayed, I knew better. He was doing his job. And his words were now out there.

Like earlier, Judge Huvelle’s reaction to her give and take with the prosecutors was muted. Whether any of their comments would make a difference or not, I would just have to wait and see.

From there, it was my attorney’s turn to address the Judge. Right on cue, Tim Broas rose from the chair next to me. His movement provided a much-needed break in the action. A collective sigh rose from the room. Reporters’ pens scribbled. The team of prosecutors and FBI agents, sitting to my right, quietly but knowingly spoke to one another through their subtle facial expressions and body language. Everyone else’s attention was focused on my attorney. Everyone but the Judge. The intense glare of Judge Huvelle bore down on me like she was inspecting my very soul. Her eyes never wavered.

Tim began to speak. One cannot grasp the circumstances of the offense without understanding the history and character of Neil Volz, he said, commanding the attention of not only the audience, but finally, Huvelle as well. Mr. Volz grew up in a small town in Ohio - Finneytown, Ohio, living in an apartment.

Both parents were school teachers, and his older brother, who is here with us today along with his parents and other members of his family and his wife’s family, is a teacher at that school now, he continued.

The mention of my family immediately triggered within me the ever-present demons of shame and embarrassment that came to life whenever I thought about my family having to live with my well-known criminal status back in our hometown. In Finneytown, the dialog had changed. Gone was the source of family pride who bounded into his old classrooms to regale students with stories of political intrigue and hard work on behalf of the people of Ohio. In his place was a corrupt former Congressional staffer, greedy lobbyist and convicted felon. My heart broke for them.

I felt as if I were watching my own funeral. Tears welled up in my eyes. Looking back at my wife, my brother, my parents and the support system I was lucky to have, I wished from the bottom of my heart that none of their support was needed. It infuriated me knowing that they were being buried by my past few years of baggage, baggage that was continuing to pile up. I wanted it all to end.

In many ways his story is a classic American story, Tim said plainly. A small-town boy goes to a big state university, gets an internship with a rising political star, and before you know it, they are on their way to Washington. Very, very heady stuff for a young man who is still in college. But for Mr. Volz, this was a dream come true.

And despite the doubts and fears of his family and friends in Ohio, they all supported him and wished him well, he continued. Mr. Volz worked hard and rose to be Mr. Ney’s chief of staff, and then staff director of the House Administration Committee. As the Republican Revolution unfolded, Neil and his boss were among the rising stars.

Judge Huvelle’s watchful gaze followed my every move. Since she undoubtedly had read the reams of paperwork on the case already, I presumed that she wanted to get a better feel for who I was with her own eyes.

Included in the judge’s pre-sentencing documents were 61 letters written on my behalf by family members, friends, neighbors and colleagues. Assuming she had read through each one of the letters, Tim directed much of the opening part of his presentation to them.

The letters describe a wholesome upbringing in a supportive and loving family, imparting values to their children, he said. These letters provide the context, the history, the blood lines, if you will, to understand how Neil Volz came to commit these offenses, accept responsibility, and seek to atone for them through his cooperation with the Justice Department and his enduring character and generosity of spirit and commitment to serving the public good, he continued.

On a roll, Tim said, He is a good man who committed a serious error in judgment. Neil found himself in a sort of moral vertigo, he went on, outlining the pull I felt between loyalty to my bosses and doing the right thing.

He trusted the integrity and judgment of two highly respected and powerful men who, unbeknownst to him, were corrupting themselves, stealing from clients, and cheating the American public of honest services.

Naïve? Yes. Excuses? No. Mr. Volz has accepted responsibility, and in the face of ridicule, loss of employment, public humiliation, financial despair, and shame among those near and dear, he boldly stepped forward and chose to admit his errors and to pay his debt to society by helping the Department of Justice conduct this investigation and bring other wrongdoers to justice.

Despite the fact that his words were coming from a person getting paid hundreds of dollars an hour to say them, they were still nice to hear.

Unlike many others, Mr. Volz did not publicly protest. He did not enter a joint defense agreement. He did not choose to be a victim. He came forward in April 2005, before anyone else had pleaded guilty, and began cooperating with the Department of Justice. And in the process, he led the Department of Justice to three major convictions, not including his own.

The more Tim spoke the more I began to feel like my entire life itself was on trial. Mr. Volz is a young man with potential to recover, and has a bright future, he continued. He has suffered immeasurably already. He is a convicted felon. He cannot find employment. His reputation is forever soiled and tarnished. His good name will always be associated with this scandal.

Looking back at my family, I saw that they were now the ones fighting back tears. His cooperation has been so valuable that the convictions he has helped DOJ obtain will undoubtedly deter public officials and lobbyists from committing similar crimes in the future, he said, subtly making the argument that a lenient sentence for me could encourage other potential cooperators in the case to come forward.

Can anyone doubt these convictions - and no doubt there are more to come - have put all of official Washington on notice? my attorney asked. Putting Mr. Volz in jail will not advance the course of deterrence, Your Honor, nor would it advance the respect for the law. In fact, it would have just the opposite effect.

Judge Huvelle sat expressionless, listening to my defense with her arms crossed.

Last and quickly, Your Honor, with respect to Mr. Volz’s cooperation, he testified as the government’s main witness in the Safavian trial. He was the first and only cooperator in this investigation to testify. He described Mr. Ney and Mr. Heaton and Mr. Safavian’s conduct on the infamous Scotland golf trip, complete with photographs and bar receipts, all provided by Mr. Volz.

People took notice immediately, my lawyer continued. Mr. Heaton began cooperating shortly thereafter, in June 2006, and ultimately pleaded guilty to a felony. Mr. Ney began discussions with the Department of Justice, and he ultimately pleaded guilty and is now serving a 30-month sentence in jail. And it’s not over. Your Honor, Mr. Volz has promised to continue to cooperate, and is doing so literally as we speak.

As planned, my attorney’s presentation was short. His was just the beginning of the conversation. Like Tim had told me days before, I am not the one the Judge wants to hear from. It is your story that she wants to hear.

***************

NOVEMBER 8, 1994

ST. CLAIRSVILLE, OH 

The Revolution 

THE FRENZIED CROWD IN THE main ballroom of Undo’s Restaurant, in the Appalachian region of Ohio, leapt to their feet at the first appearance of State Senator Ney. The screaming lasted for several minutes as Bob slowly headed toward the podium. He shook hands while he walked. Flash bulbs lit up the room.

Interrupting the Senator’s victory speech with loud non-stop chants of All the way with Bob Ney, our passion filled the hall. I stood right behind him, amazed. Bob could have been a rock star on stage or a professional athlete who just won a big game, the crowd noise was so earsplitting. The adoration was palpable. For the future Congressman, his constituents, his staff and his country, it was an historic moment. Change was coming to Washington.

For 40 years, the Democrats had run the House of Representatives. With an iron fist, they monopolized the legislative branch of government, the branch responsible for managing the nation’s checkbook. On their watch, from 1954 to 1994, Washington transformed from a sleepy federal city along the Potomac River to the bustling capital of the world.

All that influence came at a price. Wielding unchecked power for so long, many became corrupt. A bank scandal crippled Capitol Hill. The Speaker of the House resigned, and elected officials were sent to jail. Also, the Democratic Congress, along with Republican Presidents, were responsible for creating a massive national debt with huge annual deficits. The nation’s budget had not been balanced since the 1960s. Still, for more than a generation, imagining a Congress run by anyone but Democrats was like imagining a New Year’s Eve party without Dick Clark. It just didn’t seem possible.

Then along came the 1994 congressional elections. Pitchforks in hand, We the people rambunctiously stormed the castle. It was like a tea party on steroids. Seeing the impact motivated people could have on our government was empowering. Decades of entrenched, one-party rule melted away with each election night announcement, swinging the proverbial pendulum of history in the process. Bob joined a rapidly growing band of Republican candidates who were winning seats that had been held by Democrats for decades. Hope pumped through our veins.

The party went late into the evening. Many of us couldn’t help but pinch ourselves - and drink celebratory whiskey shots - while we talked about the ongoing turnover. Since before my parents could vote the Democrats had been in charge of Congress, I remarked to some fellow staffers. Naming the Presidents who resided in the White House during the Democrat’s one-party reign resulted in yet another round of drinks, high-fives and hugs. We ticked off the names, Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush, and Clinton. It had been a long time.

Celebrations like ours were not just taking place in the foothills of Appalachia. From the banks of the Hudson River, the beaches of the Pacific, and especially in the bastions of the old Confederacy, Republican candidates for Congress were sweeping into office all over the country. Real power was changing hands and a new direction was being set. Dethroning such an institutional behemoth seemed to verify our self-described revolution. We called it the Republican Revolution. To us, it was nothing less than American renewal. A changing of the guard.

For me personally, the 1994 elections were also a milestone. After volunteering on Governor Bill Clinton’s 1992 presidential campaign, I soaked up political principles and economic ideas of every stripe for the next two years. During that time, I turned into a true-blue American conservative. I spent hours reading. Ayn Rand. George Will. Adam Smith. Additionally, I devoured biographies of our movement’s icons. Goldwater. Buckley. Reagan.

If radio commentator Rush Limbaugh wasn’t blaring through the car speakers on my way to work at the Capitol building in downtown Columbus, then certainly some other conservative commentator was outlining our plan for a political uprising. In thought and action, I was a radical. An early 90’s college revolutionary. And I wasn’t alone.

Those of us riding the wave of ballot-box driven euphoria in the fall of 1994 were the missionaries of our movement. Purity of purpose permeated the election night air. Our mission was clear. We were going to create a better country by restraining the spending and runaway encroachment of Washington’s influence in the lives of everyday Americans.

We intended to balance the federal budget for the first time since Neil Armstrong walked on the moon, cut taxes for families and small businesses, and replace a broken welfare system with an opportunity society. A new Republican Congress was going to decrease the size of the federal government and return political power to individuals, communities and states.

Implementing such age-old conservative goals, however, meant more than just changing public policy. It also meant changing the way Washington worked. Fundamentally, that had to start with ending the ongoing corruption which seemed to be strangling the Democratic majority on Capitol Hill.

Hijacked by lobbyists and special interests, Congress was broken. At least that is the way it seemed from the heartland. From my vantage point, Washington had become nothing more than a scene out of George Orwell’s Animal Farm. Instead of conducting the people’s business, public servants filled cozy high-priced restaurants, dining at the trough of big money. All the while the rest of us, looking in from the outside, seemed to work harder for less.

I thought the corruption I saw resulted from the liberal ideology held by so many members of the majority party in Congress. Their power comes from giving people and groups money, I told friends. Not from letting them be left alone. It seemed pretty straightforward. Since they get money back from the same people they give tax dollars to, it is no wonder the Democrats have become corrupt. Their arrogance is everywhere.

The Congress had recently exempted themselves from their own laws. Bills were being written by lobbyists in the dark of night. Answers to the problems facing our country seemed to come from Washington to the people, instead of the other way around. It was as if many of those in power actually believed the perks and privileges of life on the Hill were theirs by divine right, and not merely on loan from the voters. I was angry.

I was also young and idealistic. As I wrote in an early 1994 Ohio State student newspaper editorial, Lifetime Beltway leaders of the modern-day political class have become the enemy of everyday Americans. Even the well-intentioned ruling elite in Washington who think they can effectively micro-manage the economies and social lives of Americans need to be shown the error in their ways.

With words that would drip with irony years later, I implored others to hear my call.

Since the federal government started taxing the incomes of the American electorate just 81 years ago, it has grown into a bloated and corruptive system run by lobbyists, lawyers and the political elite. Usually, at the start of a new year people make a resolution in an effort to improve themselves, but in my opinion it’s time people begin thinking about making a new-year revolution in an effort to save our country. A revolution by middle-class Americans of every type, who are sick and tired of paying enormous amounts of taxes to a government that doesn’t work.

My like-minded friends and colleagues promised to make things better. On election night, throwing tea in the Boston harbor would probably have been more representative of our political convictions than what we did - dance the night away to the music of Garth Brooks and Billy Ray Cyrus. Nonetheless, having won, we were going to keep our promise to change Washington. No one believed that more than I did.

Waking up the next day, I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. All that work had paid off. The late nights stuffing envelopes. The long days knocking on doors. As our rag tag group of true believers geared up for the impending march to Washington, idealism gushed from my pores. Though my journey was just getting started, I already felt a long way from home.

Politics wasn’t a part of my Cincinnati youth. When political discussions arose, they were usually eloquent stories told by my grandparents about the glories of Franklin Roosevelt and John Kennedy, or animated arguments about Vietnam and America’s place in the world. We were just a regular middle class family with typical middle class discussions.

I was born in 1970. My early years revolved around going to school, playing sports and attending Sunday Mass. Before the word Congress even entered my vocabulary, I longed to play professional baseball with Pete Rose, Joe Morgan, Tony Perez and the exalted Cincinnati Reds. The Big Red Machine. Living in an apartment on a street full of apartments, with lots of other children, I carried a baseball glove with me wherever I went, so getting a game started was rarely a problem.

My older brother and I were lucky to have great parents. They taught us the basics. Work hard and laugh often. Play by the rules and take care of each other. Most significantly, they taught us the power of unconditional love, the value of following your dreams, and the importance of God.

Like all families, my parents, my brother and I weathered storms and enjoyed good times. I remember the feeling of terror that overtook me when my dad lost his job. The worry of having nowhere to go stayed with me for years. At the same time, I learned early on how fortunate I was to have both my mom and my dad together in one home.

Politically, the Volz clan was a mixed bag. Many in my family were what would soon be known as Reagan Democrats: blue collar workers and Catholics alarmed by the counter-culture and stagnant economy of the 1970s. As a group, we lacked any real political leaning. Get-togethers were sure to contain a healthy smattering of Republicans, Democrats and Independents discussing the day’s events. It was fun. The banter was energetic, and I learned a lot. The discussions helped connect me to the world. As I got older, few topics garnered such passion or seemed so real.

Still, understanding how my little life could possibly be affected by politics took a while to grasp. And I was busy. As you would expect from a kid voted Best All Around by his high school classmates, my voyage took many twists and turns. I tried everything. Skipping school to party was balanced out with volunteer work. I was a jock, but also participated in theatrical productions.

Stubborn to a fault, I abhorred labels and questioned authority at every turn. Granted, I did it with my own version of Irish wit and German sense of duty. Being irreverent and a risk taker, I enjoyed seeing what I could get away with. Talking and joking my way through school seemed normal. I was a Bart Simpson Boy Scout, and a natural born politician.

Two high school teachers, Dave Bean and Steve Elliott, helped me begin my political exploration. Each of them guided that expedition in a different way.

Mr. Bean was my soccer and wrestling coach. He also taught me history and current events. His lessons were more personal than anything. Two stick out above the rest. One, he told me that the only real fairness in life is that you get out of something what you put into it. That was true in sports and in the real world, he would continue. This lesson put the responsibility of learning squarely on my shoulders. Second, he taught me the importance of listening to all sides of a debate. This helped teach me how to think. To this day, I have no idea what Mr. Bean’s political leanings were at the time. But I know he valued the pursuit of one’s political opinions as much as the outcome.

In contrast, Mr. Elliott was the bearded bleeding-heart history teacher we should all be so lucky to have. More than anything, he helped to shape me by laying down the prism through which I would view the world of politics, history in the making. At its core, he said, American politics was an ongoing struggle between the views championed by our first Secretary of State, Thomas Jefferson, and those of our first Secretary of the Treasury, Alexander Hamilton. To scholars it is simply known as The Jefferson vs. Hamilton debate.

In one corner, the spirit of Hamilton argues for a strong central government. In the other, Jefferson suggests the states take the primary role in social and economic decision making. Digging into the debate heartily, I listened to all sides. Still do. Both make good points, and different times seem to call for one over the other. Yet the prism doesn’t change.

In college, I was interested in everything. Everything but being in class. Despite testing into the Honors Program, I decided against such an unwavering focus on the classroom. Not sure what to major in, I wandered. Religious Studies was followed by History. Philosophy led to Photography. Finally I settled on Journalism and Political Science.

Throughout my time at Ohio State, I vigorously dug into a changing world. The Internet age was beginning and the AIDS virus was spreading. Passionate vigils discussing Kant, Nietzsche and Marx were joined by fall football games, chasing girls and going to parties. The wall fell in Berlin. Kuwait was freed. Russian tanks rolled through the Kremlin. And Los Angeles burned.

Having opened my mind to every viewpoint possible over the years, I found that by late 1993, my own beliefs were also taking shape. It was Jefferson vs. Hamilton all over again. This time the man providing most of the answers to the many questions reverberating in my head was Newt Gingrich, the firebrand visionary leader of a budding conservative revolt in the House of Representatives.

I approached one of my political science professors to ask him for assistance in finding a volunteer position at the Ohio Statehouse. It was time for me to make a choice. Getting in the ring meant choosing sides.

Do you want to work for a Republican, a Democrat or does it matter? my professor asked.

Republican, I said, surprising myself somewhat in the vigor of my own response. Although I never liked labels, I embraced this one. My professor then told me about a job opening in a young State Senator’s office. Senator Ney is running for Congress, he said. And Ney might just win. Who knows, you could end up in Washington.

Bob Ney was an even more unlikely revolutionary than I. Elected to the Statehouse when he was 24, Bob had been in office for more than a decade. He was a career politician. Comfortable in the pay-to-play world of Ohio statehouse politics, he had former staffers throughout Columbus making six-figure salaries as lobbyists. He also had a history of voting for tax increases, and cutting deals with Democrats to increase state spending. Nonetheless, Bob fervently made the case for change.

Because of his understanding of the political process, Senator Ney knew better than most that the budget situation in Washington was bankrupting the country’s future. He also knew there wasn’t a single other Republican in the state who could win Ohio’s 18th Congressional district. In a region where fewer than 15% of the voters were registered Republicans, Bob was the movement’s only hope. And he knew it.

I began as an unpaid intern in his State Senate office. Bob was the powerful Finance Committee Chairman, responsible for putting together the annual state budget. His well groomed offices adjoined the Senate floor and provided a direct entrance to the chamber where the voting took place. Aside from the Senate President, Ney was the most powerful member of the Senate. Not bad for a guy who wasn’t even 40 yet.

Since he was actively campaigning for Congress, Bob spent most of his time hours away in his Southeastern Ohio district with the voters. Therefore, despite working in the Senator’s office for weeks, I knew all about his impressive biography but hadn’t actually met him. My expectations were unrealistic. I anticipated seeing the air fly out the doors when this powerful man entered the office. But that wasn’t his way. In fact, my immediate impression of Bob was just the opposite.

His lukewarm handshake was non-threatening, almost weak. This man in front of me can’t possibly be the same guy who boldly moved to Iran in the late 1970s after college, without a cent to his name, I thought. Or the person who spent more than a year hustling his way through Saudi Arabia. Hell, there isn’t even a hint of the gregarious wheeler and dealer who has already delivered more state money for his Senate district than most elected officials accomplish in a lifetime. I felt confused. The man who had just brought thousands of jobs to the district through his control of the state budget, didn’t seem to match up with the guy I was meeting. I expected Elvis. Instead, I got a regular guy.

As it turned out, such a low-key demeanor was an integral part of the Bob Ney brilliance. After establishing himself as a so-called Joe six-pack, Ney slowly proceeded to turn on the charm and take control of the situation. More often than not, his sales pitch worked perfectly. This day was no different.

You know, Neil, he said quietly after catching up with some of the gathered staff, You have the most important job in this office. While trying to comprehend what seemed to me a most ludicrous comment, I noticed the other staffers listening to our conversation. In fact, by the time Bob pulled up the chair next to me and sat down, the entire focus of the room had swung my way. I loved the attention. At that moment, my impression of the future Congressman began to change. Bob may have acted like he was just a normal guy off the street, but it didn’t take long to see with my own eyes that this was a man who had serious power.

Even more than that, Senator Ney was no longer a caricature to catalyze my political education, or a far off boss to wonder about. Instead, he was an influential regular guy taking time out of his busy day to chat with me - as if there was no one else in the room. If you don’t answer that phone or clip those news articles, I won’t know what is going on, he continued. And if I don’t know what is going on, I can’t serve my constituents. You know what I mean? Bob asked. Awed, I nodded along like a bobble-headed version of myself. Within just a few minutes, I could see that the Senator was every bit the hard charging good ol’ boy everyone talked about. He came across as undeniably genuine.

Bob then feverishly began outlining the importance of communication during a campaign. He encouraged me to call with any news I thought was important. Stressing the point, the Senator not only gave me his home phone number but the number to a plug-in box phone he had in his car. His field staff all had pagers, he added, saying they could usually get to a pay phone in the district to respond within half an hour. This was 1994, and their use of new technology was astounding.

If I can’t serve my constituents, I will lose this race, Bob continued in what was by that point a monologue. Then without irony, he said, And if I lose this race, we may not be able to change the Congress.

Picking up the pace and raising the volume word by word, Bob again rhetorically asked, You know what I’m saying? Without waiting for a response he continued. That means they will keep spending our kids’ money and bankrupt this country.

With those words, I was hooked. Ney’s reference to the Democrat Congress and the ballooning federal deficit occurring on its watch turned a young intern into putty in his hands. Not only did he tap into my conservative idealism, he made me feel like a very important member of the team. Bob was bringing me along for a ride, a ride that could lead to something much bigger than either of us. Like a scene out of Roald Dahl’s children’s classic, the future Congressman was giving me a dream ticket. Charlie may have had his Chocolate Factory, but thanks to Bob Ney I had passage to something greater, something that would change the nation.

Joining the Republican Revolution was more magical than anything Willy Wonka could have created. No longer would I just be someone arguing politics over beers or a political scientist wonk crunching numbers on a chalkboard. From that point on, I wasn’t a poser. I was in the game.

I rewarded Bob by giving the job everything I had. In the history of unpaid interns, few have ever answered phones or clipped newspapers like I did during those early months in Ney World. Despite holding down several jobs and going to school, winning the election soon became my highest priority.

Throughout the campaign my admiration for Bob grew. I could relate to him. We both came from humble beginnings, liked to laugh and were excited about the future. We both also knew this was no ordinary election. Some campaigns seem like a formulaic TV movie with a predictable ending. As the year chugged along, we could tell that wasn‘t the case. The stars were aligning for something special. The polls showed it, and we could feel it on the street.

As election day drew nearer, I spent more and more time in the district. Campaigning in Appalachia was refreshing, eye-opening and educational. Since I had lived in the city and the suburbs all my life, it took me a while to grasp the hard-scrabble lifestyle of rural eastern Ohio. Learning first hand about the small town culture of the region was a highlight of our door-to-door campaigning. It also showed me the expansive reach our movement was having. Not only was the revolution against big government about taxes, health care, and spending, it was about also very much about our values. Our identity.

I learned that in an unexpected way. During a day of door-to-door work, I found myself walking up a long winding dirt road toward a dilapidated house. As I got closer, the owner appeared wearing nothing but greasy blue work pants. His bare feet and jiggling belly grabbed my attention, but not as much as the shotgun he pointed at me.

Already well on his property by then, I knew he was none too pleased to see me. With scenes from the movie Deliverance running through my head, I wasn’t sure what to do. So I stuck with the script. I’m here to drop off some campaign literature for Bob Ney, I said, trying to hide my nervousness.

Who? he demanded, verifying his unhappiness with my presence.

Bob Ney, I said more forcefully.

Where is he on guns? the man asked.

He is the endorsed candidate of the National Rifle Association, I told him as confidently as I could. With our Democrat opponent running around the same neighborhoods outlining his support for gun rights, it was a line we all had been taught. The NRA endorsement mattered. Gun owners trust them to protect their rights. And as in much of rural America, guns were not a partisan issue in Appalachia.

A big smile suddenly splashed across the guy’s face. He’s got my vote, he said before grabbing several leaflets out of my hand. Promising to pass our campaign literature out to family and friends, the man told me he was a lifelong Democrat who would be voting Republican in November for the first time in his life. With the Democratic Congress getting ready to pass a bill banning guns, he said he had no other choice. Something needs to change out there, he said, no doubt referring to Washington.

I couldn’t agree more, I replied, trying to conceal both my relief at not being shot and my joy at lining up a vote.

Six weeks before the election, Bob briefly left the campaign trail to join his fellow Republican candidates in Washington for an unveiling of the Contract with America. The contract was a series of campaign promises summarizing a potential Republican majority’s national priorities. Each promise reflected a conservative governing philosophy. It also included a specific list of government reforms meant to rid Washington of corruption and make the House of Representatives run more openly. A technology geek, my favorite was the commitment to put all committee and congressional business on the Internet. We promised to implement many of the changes on the first day of a Republican Congress.

If elected, we specifically promised to vote on a constitutional amendment requiring a balanced federal budget, implement a series of pro-growth and pro-family tax cuts and call for an end to welfare as a federal entitlement. Additionally, we