Kick Ass: Selected Columns of Carl Hiaasen

They're the lobbyists who swarm Tallahassee each year like fragrant, blow-dried locusts. They are thick and they are fast, and nothing escapes their attention. They know how the machinery of lawmaking works, and how to lubricate it in their own interest. You don't know them by name, but most legislators do.

In an age of so-called open government, lobbyists thrive in one of the last dark crevices of privacy. Gov. Lawton Chiles is trying to shine a light in there, and the reaction, as one might expect, is furious and insectile. In an ethics package proposed this month, the governor has asked the Legislature to make lobbyists disclose their incomes, their expenditures and all political donations. He also wants to ban contingency fees, and campaign contributions made during legislative sessions.

Many states have adopted such regulations, but they stand scant chance of survival here. While some lobbyists support reforms, many will resist forcefully. They've got a good deal, and they know it.

• Full disclosure. Put yourself in a lobbyist's position. If you're taking a hundred grand to shill for the tobacco industry, you wouldn't want the whole world to know, would you? It's so embarrassing that your kids would probably disown you. Confidentiality is preferable because it preserves one's pride and respectability.

• Contingency fees. Some lobbyists get paid only if they succeed in their mission to get a bill passed, or to get one killed. The lobbyist who secures a fat grant for his client often grabs his or her cut out of the booty, meaning the taxpayer's pocket.

Last year, an appellate court in Dade County ruled that lobbyists can't take contingency fees or bonuses out of public appropriations. Chiles wants a law that says the same thing. Lobbyists who work on a bounty are screaming bloody murder.

• Campaign contributions. The way it stands, lobbyists can give money to a legislator's campaign at any time—even as that legislator prepares to vote on their pet project.

It's nothing more than legalized bribery. Lobbyists use political donations to lean on lawmakers, and lawmakers use their vote to solicit donations. Both sides get what they want, so there's no incentive to pass a law against it.

"A shakedown," says Bill Jones of Common Cause, the citizen's lobby. He and others are disgusted by the freewheeling bazaar. "I don't think it would hurt to adopt the governor's [reforms]," adds lawyer Steve Uhlfelder, who lobbies for private clients as well as for the American Heart Association, from which he takes no fee.

The job of lobbyist is as old as the republic, and it's not inherently wicked or sneaky. Almost everybody with a stake in the law has lobbyists at work in Tallahassee—not just wealthy phosphate barons and liquor distributors and utility companies, but teachers and conservation groups and the handicapped.

And don't forget the press; we've got our own hired guns prowling the Capitol. When Gov. Bob Martinez included an advertising tariff in his special-services tax, media lobbyists hollered and hectored. (The tax, you'll remember, was squashed.)

No act of mortal man will interrupt the intimate waltz between lobbyists and legislators, but at least Chiles' plan would bring the dance out of the shadows and into the sunshine, where we can all watch.

Pass your law? First, pass me the stone crabs March 21, 1996

Mooching free food and booze is an old tradition of Florida legislators, and efforts to curb the annual gluttony in Tallahassee usually fall short.

This year, Senate President Jim Scott wants a rule prohibiting members from accepting free meals and liquor from paid lobbyists.

As expected, the proposal isn't sitting well with the restaurateurs who host the backroom bacchanalia, or with the special-interest groups who pay for it.

Scott and other legislators say reforms are necessary to improve the image of the Legislature, which is still regarded by many Floridians as a springtime gathering of slackers, pickpockets and whores.

Defenders of the old way say they're insulted at the insinuation that their vote can be bought for a steak supper and a bottle of wine. Even really fine wine.

They contend that socializing is important to the contentious process of lawmaking, and that a private dinner is sometimes the best way to hear one side of a controversy.

Nobody is suggesting that legislators stop eating with lobbyists, only that they pay for their own meals and cocktails. It's hardly a radical notion, but you should hear the griping.

Perhaps serving the public's needs requires such intense concentration that politicians can't afford any distractions, such as worrying about picking up the check.

Or perhaps they just love free food.

Unless you've spent time in Tallahassee during the legislative session, you cannot possibly envision what goes on during the off-hours—parties, receptions, banquets, barbecues, hoedowns, hayrides, you name it.