A Fighting Chance (10 page)

After we buried Daddy, I grieved for a long time. For months—for years, actually—I would see or hear something and think, Oh, I’ll tell Daddy about that. And then I’d get a little jolt all over again.

I stopped watching sports as often. Without Daddy, the games weren’t the same.

Two years later, Aunt Bee died in her sleep. She was ninety-eight. A few days after that, I stood in the cemetery in Wetumka. Aunt Bee was way over on my left, in what had once been the northern edge of the cemetery, in the same family plot as my grandparents and various aunts and uncles. Far off to my right, near the southern edge of the cemetery, were my daddy’s parents and his side of the family. My mother and daddy were buried together, in a single plot right in between the two families. They had picked this spot many years earlier, and I wondered if all the angry words that had been traded back and forth about their defiant elopement mattered anymore.

Bruce and I seemed more alone. Bruce’s family—his mom and dad, his sister and her family, his brother—were all nearby, and every few weeks it seemed like someone had a birthday or we had a holiday to celebrate. But our house—which once hummed with slamming doors and buzzing voices—was quiet. Our kids were grown, and Mother, Daddy, and Aunt Bee were all gone. Bruce and I went hiking more often, and Faith stayed closer by my side. The hours I spent working—teaching, writing, researching—grew longer and longer.

A Thousand Cuts

The commission’s vote may have made it seem that the country’s families had won, but our side wasn’t celebrating. The banking industry had already found another way to push for what it wanted.

Months earlier, as it was becoming increasingly clear that Judge Jones and her allies might not get a majority vote to recommend overhauling the bankruptcy code, the banks opened a second front in the war. Instead of waiting for the commission’s report, the industry wrote its own version of a bankruptcy bill and then shopped it around to some friendly members of Congress. The bill was introduced in September 1997—one month before the commission’s deadline. By the time the commission delivered its report, the industry-backed bill was already in play.

The strategy was very effective. By beating us to the battlefield, the banking industry had more success at defining the terms of the fight. In their version of the world, Congress could support either “honest people who pay their bills” or “people who skip out on their debts.” There wasn’t any room to talk about rising health care costs or lost jobs. There was just a black-and-white question about people in financial trouble—do you pay your bills or don’t you?

The industry didn’t propose to eliminate bankruptcy protection altogether. After all, the Founding Fathers had called for bankruptcy protection in the Constitution itself, and surely even the banking lobby wouldn’t pick a fight with them. But they did propose changes—stacks and stacks of changes. Most of the proposed revisions were exceedingly complicated, and those complications worked to their advantage. The complex twists and turns of the recommended changes made it hard for the press or the public to follow, which provided great cover for what the banking industry was really trying to do. (Years later, I saw this move during the bank bailout: banks hid behind jargon and gibberish, deliberately making everything sound more complicated than necessary so they could avoid public scrutiny.)

The ultimate impact of those hundreds of changes in the industry-backed bill would be to make it harder for struggling families to get bankruptcy relief. It would become more difficult to discharge debts and more expensive to get help from a lawyer. There would be more paperwork, more hoops to jump through. It would become harder for people who were struggling to get relief from student loans. The bill also made it tougher for single parents to collect back child support from an ex who was buried in debt. (For decades, the bankruptcy laws had given special consideration to the needs of single parents, but now the credit card companies wanted to elbow them aside to get whatever money their ex had left. That one
still
makes me grind my teeth.) Meanwhile, the new legislation would make it easier for bill collectors to harass people forever.

In so many ways, the industry-supported bankruptcy bill would make life worse for families in trouble. It stunk like a pile of manure.

A Champion for the People

The National Bankruptcy Review Commission’s work was over, and I went back to spending most of my time on teaching and research and going back to Oklahoma to be with my brothers. The commission’s report seemed forgotten within weeks, and the banking lobbyists looked unstoppable.

But I couldn’t just walk away.
More than a million families
were now seeking bankruptcy protection every year. So I stayed in the fight however I could. I started new research projects. I talked with consumer advocates. I gave speeches to judges and lawyers. Sometimes I got a call from the press, and I tried to explain what was at stake.

A few heart-of-gold allies took up the fight. Nonprofit advocacy groups like Consumer Federation of America and Consumers Union joined the cause. A group of lawyers built a small advocacy group, and the National Partnership for Women & Families pitched in, as did the AFL-CIO. But resources were already stretched thin, and each of these groups had a host of other battles they were fighting on behalf of their members. As far as I know, there wasn’t even one full-time paid staffer on our side in the bankruptcy fight.

For months, we were so outgunned that we seemed to have no chance. It was as if we were shouting in the wind and no one could hear us. And then, just when it seemed like it was all over, we found a champion.

It was Friday afternoon, April 17, 1998, not far from Boston Harbor, only a few miles and across the river from where I live. I was about to sit down with a man I’d never met, Senator Ted Kennedy. The senator’s brilliant young chief counsel, Melody Barnes, had heard me give a speech about bankruptcy. She thought I should meet her boss, so here I was.

A few minutes earlier, I had entered the lobby of the John F. Kennedy Federal Building, accompanied by Melissa Jacoby, my smart young chief counsel from the National Bankruptcy Review Commission. As we rode up to the twenty-fourth floor, I couldn’t help wondering what it must be like to work in a building named for your assassinated brother. Then, when I looked around the senator’s waiting room, I realized that he lived with a lot more than his brother’s name on the building. Hanging on the walls were family photos of the three brothers he had lost—John, Bobby, and Joe.

We were scheduled to meet with Senator Kennedy for only fifteen minutes, so I knew I needed to talk fast. But as soon as we were ushered into his office, the senator stood up, greeted me warmly, and swept me across the room to his windows. The views were amazing—the neighborhoods, the harbor, the ocean beyond. He wanted to show me where his grandparents had once lived or something—I didn’t quite catch it. But he was cheerful and enthusiastic, saying, “Right there—right there!” as he tapped hard on the glass. He pointed out other buildings and projects and noted how great it was that the harbor was now cleaned up.

I’m sure he had won over a zillion visitors with his good humor and plain old Irish charm. But when he laughed, he seemed to take genuine delight in looking out the window at this place he loved.

Finally we settled in, and the senator picked up a small bound notebook. The friendly patter was over, and it was time to get down to business. Bankruptcy is a tough subject for a whole lot of reasons—and it didn’t help that I was sitting there with a lap full of graphs and charts. He looked uncomfortable, as if he were about to take some bitter-tasting medicine. He would do it, of course, but he knew it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

Seeing his expression, I left the graphs and charts on my lap and just started talking. I talked about medical bills, layoffs, predatory lending. I talked about families broken apart by a cascade of financial problems and crushing debt. Melissa and Melody joined in, and we talked about how bankruptcy served as a last safety net for so many.

The senator took careful notes, and he asked questions. At first he was hesitant to say much, but as I told stories about some of the people I’d met while doing our research, he jumped in more frequently, talking faster and asking more questions. Sometimes he skipped ahead, and sometimes he took off in another direction. But no matter where the conversation went, he always got back to what was happening to working people. Eventually he asked to see the charts.

At some point during the meeting, the senator’s assistant came in from the outer office to say that it was time for him to leave. He waved her off, and we kept digging into the issues.

A while later, Senator Kennedy’s wife, Vicki, stepped in. The senator introduced us and explained what we were talking about. She asked some very thoughtful questions, and he promised that he would be finished soon. Another half hour or so went by, and she reappeared with a gentle reminder that they were already late.

When that didn’t work, Vicki came back in again. And again. She was very sweet about it each time, but they clearly had plans and the senator was way over schedule.

We had talked for about an hour and a half when the senator finally said: “Well, Professor, you’ve done it. I see why we need to stop this bankruptcy bill.” He paused to give it extra emphasis: “You’ve got my vote.”

He smiled broadly. He and I both knew that people asked for his support every day, and his commitment to vote no was a big deal.

I paused for a moment and gazed out at the grand view. Then I said: “Thank you, Senator, but we don’t need your vote. We need your leadership. We need someone to lead the charge.”

Taking the lead on an issue in the Senate is very different from agreeing to lend support. It’s a little like the difference between throwing a party and stopping by to have a drink. The leader needs to rally the troops, lay out a strategy, swap favors here, and apply pressure there. Serious leadership requires an enormous effort, and it takes an enormous amount of time. The bankers had already lined up a lot of powerful Democrats and Republicans to support their bill, which meant this would be an even tougher undertaking.

Senator Kennedy stared at me for what seemed like forever. His enthusiasm was real, but he looked tired. His eyes were puffy, and he was a little stooped. By then he was sixty-six years old, and he suffered from constant back pain. He had been representing Massachusetts in the Senate for thirty-five years and had probably fought more battles than just about any senator in American history.

He glanced over at an old, battered satchel that was stuffed with files and loose papers that involved all the battles he was already fighting. This was the famous bag—the bag that had all of his homework in it, the bag he took with him each evening so that he could read late into the night. He looked back at me, then back at the bag. The silence stretched.

Finally he spoke. “Lead?” he asked.

“These families need you.” I said it quietly, and the silence stretched some more. I tried to steady my breathing.

He paused again, then gave a deep sigh and said, “All right. I’ll do it. I’ll do what I can.”

I thanked him, and as we stood up he gave me a pat on the shoulder. Vicki Kennedy came back into the office. She was gracious about the delay, and she nodded when the senator explained that he was going to fight against the bankruptcy bill. She said she knew it was important but her expression made it clear that she worried about her husband. Melissa and I gathered ourselves up and hustled out of the office.

After pushing the button for an elevator, I put my forehead against the cool, stainless-steel wall in the twenty-fourth-floor lobby. And then I started to cry.

No high fives with Melissa. No hallelujahs or hurrahs about a big win. More than anything, I felt a deep sense of relief and gratitude.

Politics so often felt dirty to me—all the lobbyists and the cozy dealings and the special favors for those who could buy access. But as I stood in the lobby outside Ted Kennedy’s office, I felt as if I’d been washed clean.

We had been so outnumbered for so long, and now we had Ted Kennedy.
Ted Kennedy.
I’d come to his office without political connections of any kind. I didn’t offer a nickel of campaign contributions. Improving the bankruptcy system wasn’t going to help him the next time he ran for reelection. But he had promised us that not only would he join our effort to stop the industry-backed bill, he would lead the fight against it in Congress.

For me, this was a defining moment. Ted Kennedy agreed to take on the big banks and the credit card companies and then fight back against a terrible bill—and he did it only because he thought it was the right thing to do for hardworking people who had run out of options.

A $550 Lie

Senator Kennedy was true to his word. He strategized. He planned. He cajoled other senators. And when the time came, he fought the bill on the Senate floor.

Soon we picked up some other terrific allies in the Senate. Dick Durbin of Illinois and Chuck Schumer of New York were both in their first terms, but they jumped in for leadership roles. Russ Feingold of Wisconsin and Paul Wellstone of Minnesota were barely into their second terms, and they were also ready to help. I imagine each one of them could have used some hefty campaign contributions from the banking industry, but that didn’t matter. They joined the fight with energy and enthusiasm—and I will be forever grateful.

During the bankruptcy battles, Senator Wellstone—a former professor and an unapologetic liberal—and I got to know each other pretty well. He used to call my office at Harvard after a long day at work. Now that Bruce was commuting to Philadelphia, Faith and I had fallen into the habit of staying in the office later and later into the evening. When I’d pick up the phone, he would always ask the same question in a mock-stern voice:

“
Professor,
what are you doing working at this hour?”

And my standard response was: “
Senator,
what are
you
doing working at this hour?”