We're with Nobody (9 page)

“Not me,” he snaps back, without looking up from his work.

“Yeah, me either.”

It's about thirty minutes to closing when she walks up and tells us that she'll be leaving soon. She assumes since her day is ending, ours is too. For three days we've gone through the reports we need to see and she's likely breathing a little easier because she believes we'll now be leaving for good. She flippantly asks if there will be anything else.

“Just one more thing,” says Alan as he slams a heavy stack of reports onto the end of the table in front of her and leans back in his chair. “We're going to need copies of all this. Could ya do that for us?”

Chapter 9
Alan

O
ver the years, Michael and I have watched with quiet dismay as a host of transcontinental government employees stand in the way of private citizens seeking copies of public documents. Particularly when it's late in the campaign season, after we've been dealing with bureaucratic hurdles all summer long, we sometimes feel an urge to intervene—to tell people that no matter what they may hear from the clerk who steadfastly refuses to rise from her homey, personal-photo-infested desk, no one can deny them public records.

The desire to assist others who are being rebuffed by imperious minor authority figures developed in me early on, when, as a sixth grader armed with a small spiral notebook known on the playground as “Alan's little black book,” I compiled a detailed, running indictment of our teacher, a churlish sociopath. I was inspired to document her transgressions because the other children were helpless to do much other than cry or fantasize about her being kidnapped by aliens and transported to another universe aboard a flying saucer. I needed a more attractive, actionable response.

The little black book was wildly successful as a social networking tool. It was, essentially, a titillating, password-protected blog. Empowered by my role as secret documentarian, I eventually went public with the teacher's most damnable act—the violent swinging, by the arm, of a boy with a severe learning disability. In that case I was moved to act even before the episode made its way into the record.

Following the teacher's shocking display of abuse, as my classmates sat mute at their desks and the targeted boy stared out the window, rubbing his arm, I briefly commiserated with my friend Melanie, who shared my budding sense of impropriety, and the two of us rose from our desks and walked silently to the principal's office, where we delivered the news. The principal listened to our account without a word, and then directed us back to the classroom. A few minutes later she arrived in class and sternly addressed the children, expressing her solidarity with the teacher and chastising us for not being patient with her mood swings, which she said were the result of fluctuations related to “goiter.” During this, the teacher sat smugly behind her desk, fiddling with her bra strap under her dress. Authority.

In a sense, Melanie and I had failed, though it's worth noting that the teacher never bothered the slow boy again, nor did we, the two rapscallions, suffer any repercussions. Perhaps it was assumed that while we had been temporarily defused, we still posed something of a threat; we might, after all, tattle to our parents. (We didn't.)

Soon after that, I lost my little black book, the memory of which haunts me to this day. In its era, losing the little black book was the equivalent of misplacing a red-hot opposition research report in a public place. I searched for weeks—on the playground; in the vicinity of the dreaded maypole (where it could have flown from my pocket during the awkward physical movements required by the garish, confusing spectacle); on the verges of the soccer field; in my secret box in the garage; along the creek where I played. It never resurfaced.

Though my program to undermine our classroom's vexing, publicly sponsored ogre through documentation ultimately failed, the concept clearly held promise, and it earned the admiration of my peers while conferring on them a much-needed sense of empowerment. Today, as an adult oppo guy, I feel the same self-righteous zeal when I see citizens being cowed by public employees whose personal power is derived from the mere presence of a countertop.

Occasionally, out of a mixture of pity, camaraderie and mischief, Michael and I have offered unsolicited private instructions to those we've observed in such situations. At some point, likely as we were driving from one stone-faced records edifice to another, it occurred to us that we could provide a handy guide for dislodging impervious government employees, thereby freeing the exchange of telling documentation. Ideally, we would provide our pointers on a laminated sheet that would be required by law to be posted in every records repository across the land. Because the world is not ideal, we offer them here.

Whomever you come up against, it's important to recognize that there are special considerations for each city and each region. Difficult clerks may seem interchangeable, but in fact they are site-specific, bringing their own regional culture and the vagaries of personal identity to the counter. Obviously, the hope is that you will arrive at that counter or window, state your request, and receive your documents without controversy. To increase the chances of that happening, we advise engaging them on their own terms, at least at the outset. It may be useful to talk country in rural areas, or no-nonsense in Chicago, or to present yourself as a charming curiosity, which, in our case, may mean laying on the Southern charm in Idaho. It is also sometimes useful to flirt with the person, whether male or female, depending on your gut feeling. Some of the tactics summarized below require practice, and are advisable only for the advanced practitioner, but even a novice can master most of them quickly.

1. Arrive at the records repository first thing in the morning, when clerical enthusiasm is highest; or just before or after lunch; or just before closing time, when there is a greater sense of clerical urgency.

The utility of the time threat was revealed to me during a research project in California, where a lunchtime stroll through the lovely redwoods of the Muir Woods park resulted in my getting lost, after which I was late arriving at the county's government center, as the clock was approaching 5:00 PM. I was initially embarrassed to be making a significant records request when everyone was preparing to go home, but lo and behold, the records clerk, after an introductory sigh, proceeded to manically gather and copy the majority of the documents in record time. There is nothing like the approach of quitting time to inspire a clock puncher to get the job done. He didn't even take the time to ask me whom I was with.

The next day I arrived promptly at 8:00 AM to complete my task. It was a beautiful morning, with shafts of sunlight falling through the arched skylights of the stunning Frank Lloyd Wright–designed county building, and as I approached the counter, a different clerk greeted me, fresh as a flower. “What a beautiful building,” I said, and she agreed. Then I explained my purpose and slid my records request across the counter. She smiled and went to work.

In summary: The clock can be your friend.

2. Be nice, but confident. If you're in a locale where people still maintain a sense of decorum, you may want to start off with something like, “Hello, my name's Eric [or Erica]. Could you tell me how to go about finding the tax history of this piece of property? Is that something I can do on my own?” If you're someplace where being polite is considered antiquated and a sign of weakness, cut to the chase: “I need the tax history for a piece of property and all I have is the owner's name. Think you can help?”

Michael and I have observed that rambling, uncertain citizens with unclear needs are among the chief vexations of government employees consigned to dealing with the public. While posing as one can be useful as a last-ditch diversionary tactic, it's never good to start out that way. Everyone, including the others waiting in line, will be annoyed when someone approaches the counter and announces, tentatively, “I'm not sure exactly what I'm looking for. I was thinking—last night, while watching
Dancing with the Stars
?—that I couldn't remember if my mother's sister-in-law, an older lady who lives in the . . . oh, what's the name of that assisted living place out on the bypass, the one with the fountain out front? I'm having a senior moment myself, ha ha ha . . .”

You do not want to be that guy. Everything that takes place in proximity to him is going to be tedious and counterproductive. Inexperience, even feigned ignorance, can be a plus, but even then it's important to remain focused.

3. Assume the best, starting out. Smile. Scientists have found that approximately 25 percent of the human population is comprised of assholes; 25 percent, idiots; 25 percent, idiotic assholes; and 25 percent, people who are smart or nice or both. The breakdown is easily observed on any interstate highway. At the outset, assume that clerks are part of the latter group until proven otherwise, and make clear that you are, too. Even if they reveal themselves to be idiotic assholes and you have to fall back on verbal pepper spray, do not make the mistake of assuming a kindred role as a petty nuisance. It will only make things harder, and the people behind you in line will hate you, too. This doesn't mean you can't be forceful (see item number 6, below).

4. Incentivize. Show gratitude for any help the employee provides. Try to make the process work efficiently so that everyone can move on to other things. Don't get too friendly, though, lest you open the door for them to inquire about your reasons for doing the research, at which point your reticence may spoil the pleasant atmosphere you've just created. Also, they may know the person.

Not all on-the-ground records research takes place in public offices; sometimes it's necessary to inquire at private businesses—always a tricky wicket, in that they are not subject to full public disclosure and have the right to refuse. Still, most of the same rules of interpersonal dynamics apply.

I was once doing research in a newspaper library, a place that is rarely open to the public, but into which I had finagled entry by using the vernacular language of a newspaper reporter—throwing out words like “clip files,” “the morgue” (as newspaper archives are known, in-house), etc. The lion's share of archived news stories are available online, through subscription services or at newspaper websites, but doing a thorough job sometimes requires going further back in time or through the archives of smaller newspapers than are available through those mechanisms. Such was the case in the small town in South Carolina where I entered the newspaper archives (far preferable to a local library, which may not index its clips) by behaving as a reporter, which had the unintended side effect of opening me to chitchat with actual staff writers, who are by nature and profession a curious bunch. Where did I work? Where had I worked? What was I looking for and why? I was hit with a barrage of meaningful and logical questions, delivered amicably by a perceived peer.

What to do? Michael and I never lie; finding and furthering the truth is our guiding light, the very purpose of our mission. We are not above being cagey or creative, but both are tactics that reporters are adept at identifying—and quickly. When the friendly journalist pressed me for answers, I could neither refuse nor tell the whole truth and risk blowing my and our campaign's cover. My search itself would be the fodder for a story.

I had, by this point, revealed the newspaper I had once worked for on a daily basis, which prompted the reporter to suggest the names of other reporters whom we might know in common, and as it turned out, one of my former colleagues worked at that very paper. Oh, hey! I had answered truthfully right up to the point that I realized I was in a conversational box canyon, so I closed my notebook, looked the reporter in the eye and said, “I'm working on my own now, and I can't really talk about the story. But if I find anything, I promise to share it with you.” She was satisfied, and in fact the campaign did share my findings with her, but it was a near-miss just the same.

5. If the person in charge attempts to stifle you, perhaps by speaking in an unknown tongue, or implying that what you're asking for is unreasonable, stand quietly and say nothing. Let them work through the possibilities. If necessary, act stupid. You'd be surprised how easy and fun this can be, once you overcome having been trained to pretend you know things when you don't. Look down at your shoes and say, “I don't understand” at least twice. Scratch your head, even.

Sometimes Michael and I really don't know; we've been given a specific assignment, such as to get copies of a lawsuit, and we have no idea who, ultimately, wants the information or why. But more often we merely imply that we're dumb, when doing so will play on the sympathies of a clerk who holds the power to make our job far more difficult, perhaps by imposing long wait times for document request reviews and the like. We might start out by saying, “Is it possible to find out whether another person pays his taxes?” Of course, we know it is, but are also aware (based on office atmospherics) that immediately launching into a request for a well-known candidate's tax history could cause resistance. For the moment, we're just guys who have no idea how anything works, who are at the mercy of strangers, who need help.

So, after we ask if it's possible to get a person's tax history, the clerk will say, “Sure, you can do that. You just give me the name and I can call it up.” Then he or she smiles as one might smile at a slow child, and says, “What's the name?” You blurt out the well-known candidate's name; the clerk looks up at you; you retain the blank, helpless look. Everyone knows the clerk has been trapped, and can't refuse or even complicate the request now.

6. Try not to be a nuisance—right up to the point when it becomes apparent that anything you say or do is considered a nuisance. When that happens, go ahead and become a serious nuisance. Run with it. Ask endless questions. Make clear that you have all the time in the world. But again, be careful never to completely cross the line into assholedom. Allow them to hate you—hate is corrosive, and wears them down—but let the decision to hate be theirs alone. You can influence the timing, and you should, in subtle ways. If they hate you too soon, they may manage to gain an edge on you.

In a New Jersey township where I've done oppo numerous times over the course of many years, I have become acquainted with two archetypal public employees. One was a supremely nice woman who quickly figured out what I was up to when I asked for a slate of candidate's voting records. She actually seemed to appreciate what I was doing. She was charged with maintaining public voting records, after all, and no doubt felt that asking whether candidates voted themselves was a valid question.