All these years later, I still remember the offer as if it had been tendered yesterday.
I was a relatively green Washington reporter for a newspaper in New Haven. He was the youngest member of Congress, with a future that seemed as lofty as the Capitol dome. He invited me to his office and asked me to become his press secretary, as he prepared to launch his first gubernatorial campaign.
It was a tempting offer. I liked him. He was smart. He had, for lack of a better word, wherewithal. He got the jokes marbled into so much of everyday life.
But in the end, I said no, and I've thanked my lucky stars every day since, especially lately.
The representative was John Rowland, now the embattled governor of Connecticut. Had I accepted, I have little doubt that by now I'd have been indicted, if not imprisoned, discipline not being one of my strong suits.
It's funny, the road not taken, if not always in a humorous way. Back then, in my 20s, when I didn't know anything, I had an understanding of one true thing: Given enough time, politicians, or for that matter just about anyone in power, will almost always let you down.
Take Rowland. In his heyday, he was one of the nation's most celebrated governors, part of a group that included George Pataki of New York, Christie Todd Whitman in New Jersey, and Tom Ridge of Pennsylvania. He was openly talked about as an eventual vice presidential nominee. The White House seemed within his long reach. He had a pseudo-clipped, tongue-in-cheek, happy-go-lucky way with everyday people that was nothing short of breathtaking to see.
Look at him now. Last month he took to live television to plead, somewhat pathetically, for the chance to keep his job. Now in his third term, he has admitted to accepting gifts and free work from state employees and government contractors on his home, things like gutters and heating systems and steppingstones off his front door. He's taken free vacations from the state's biggest contractor.
One member of his administration, since convicted in a kickback scam, buried gold coins in his own lawn to hide them from investigators. Others seem to have had their hand in someone else's pocket. It's not unrealistic to wonder if the state's onetime wunderkind might someday wind up in jail. Meanwhile, the entire state capital carries the whiff of rotting fish.
Is there something in the Evian that these people drink? Do they really believe they're above the mundanity of law and beyond the constraints of those little people far below?
Because, obviously, Rowland is hardly alone in his downfall. Check in on the Martha Stewart trial for another act of stunning hubris. The woman presided over an empire that extended as far as anyone's financial dreams could ever sprawl. She had city apartments, vacation estates, and butlers and drivers to cater to her every crucial need.
But she panicked and used what federal officials charge was insider information to sell a stock just in the nick of time. So to spare herself $40,000 or so, she's already lost many, many millions and may yet lose a whole lot more.
Add to this the executives from
The bishop of Phoenix fled the scene of a deadly crash. Bill Janklow, the representative from South Dakota, the former governor, blew through a stop sign and killed a man.
There are, no doubt, great life lessons to be learned from the twisted turns that these once successful people have taken. But let's save those for another day.
Because all I can think of as these people fill the news is this: It's sad to concede that power really does corrupt, but it's entertaining if not outright reassuring to watch these clowns get caught.
Brian McGrory is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at mcgrory@globe.com.