ALBANY - Like the old joke about quitting smoking, reform is easy for New York state government - politicians have pledged to do it a million times.
And although that call has rarely been as loud as it is today, one of the few people since Gov. Alfred E. Smith to be widely regarded as an effective reformer is leaving Albany this month, his job dissolved after 12 years.
Lobbying commission Executive Director David Grandeau leaves state government with a string of fines and other actions against some of the powerful New York's figures who try to influence state government. Among them are the Philip Morris Inc. tobacco company, Donald Trump, the New York Yankees and the American Civil Liberties Union.
In the process, he sometimes clashed with powerful politicians from both parties, some of his own politically appointed board members, and Eliot Spitzer when the governor was attorney general and the lobbying commission's lawyer.
“I wish the world was such that it didn't need people like me,” Grandeau said in an interview over coffee in a Capitol cafe. “I've seen too much of the ugly side of government.”
“He pushed the limits and made enemies across the board, big fish and little fish,” said Rachel Leon, former executive director of Common Cause-New York, a good-government advocate. “He was a true cop on the beat who was incredibly aggressive and actually tried to enforce the law. We didn't see that frequently in Albany.”
Grandeau's reputation among good-government groups was such that their appraisal of a new body to regulate ethics and lobbying that was proposed by Spitzer, who was swept into office on a promise of reforming Albany, hinged in part on what happened to Grandeau.
Barbara Bartoletti of the League of Women Voters said Grandeau operated in “rarified air.”
Grandeau “has been extraordinarily effective in going after anyone who would violate the lobbying law in New York state,” Bartoletti said. “He will be sorely missed.”
Grandeau's views on Albany could often sound more like they were coming from a regular Joe New Yorker than from a political appointee.
“From an ethical standpoint, I've never seen it worse,” Grandeau said. “Everybody is forced to pick sides. It's a partisan death match ... and I'm one of the casualties.”
Grandeau has little hope for an ethical rebound anytime soon in a Capitol where the freshman Democratic governor is in what Grandeau feels is a political fight to the death with Republican Senate leader Joseph Bruno. The immediate result is a standstill on policy issues.
“What's gotten worse is the way the game is being played now. I've never seen the partisan use of ‘integrity' the way it's used today. It's scary and it's not productive.”
For example, he questions the future of the Public Integrity Commission, which will replace the lobbying commission and the state Ethics Commission next week.
Spitzer pushed for the change as part of the government reforms he promised, but could only get it through the Legislature if lawmakers were able to keep a legislative ethics committee in place to police themselves. As a result, the majority of the commission that will investigate the executive branch will be appointed by the governor.
“That is a structure that will always be questioned,” he said. “The sense of bipartisanship is gone.”
Grandeau never applied for a job at the Public Integrity Commission, doubting he was wanted despite invitations from the Spitzer administration to apply.
Grandeau is a lawyer and longtime bureaucrat, but he's a rolled-up sleeves kind of guy who looks more like a bartender at the corner tavern.
Now he hopes businesses that lobby will want to hire him as a consultant to help do the right thing.
But he made some enemies among the powerful who use money and influence to shape legislation and public spending as he enforced the lobbying law. The law and its enforcement was so weak when Grandeau arrived in 1995 that a lobbyist found in violation had 15 days to change records and avoid any sanction.
Back then, lobbyists also weren't required to report much more than their name, address and total spending.
Today spending must be detailed, including what issues the lobbyist was trying to get passed or stopped.
“The public can rest assured it's a far more transparent system than in 1995,” Grandeau said. His staff also grew to 40 employees from seven to regulate an industry that saw the top 10 lobbyists spend a total of more than $35 million in 2006.
But Grandeau said he's not sure some of the wins were worth the losses.
At the top of the losing ledger is Bruno, the guy who gave Grandeau his first jobs and introduced Grandeau to the woman he would marry.
A continuing federal investigation of Bruno stems from an inquiry begun in late 2005 by Grandeau into the relationship between Bruno and businessman Jared Abbruzzese. Those close to Bruno suspect Grandeau tipped off the FBI, a charge Grandeau denies.
“People don't really realize how painful it's been to not talk to the man for three years,” Grandeau said of Bruno. “This is someone I considered a mentor ... I owe him a lot.
“From that point, having the job hasn't been worth it,” Grandeau said.
Through a spokesman, Bruno refused comment.
“I don't know how to avoid the fight,” Grandeau said. “It's a weakness.” Then he paused over his coffee, mulling the combative years, and added: “Maybe I knew it was time.”
Lobbying commission Executive Director David Grandeau leaves state government with a string of fines and other actions against some of the powerful New York's figures who try to influence state government. Among them are the Philip Morris Inc. tobacco company, Donald Trump, the New York Yankees and the American Civil Liberties Union.
In the process, he sometimes clashed with powerful politicians from both parties, some of his own politically appointed board members, and Eliot Spitzer when the governor was attorney general and the lobbying commission's lawyer.
“I wish the world was such that it didn't need people like me,” Grandeau said in an interview over coffee in a Capitol cafe. “I've seen too much of the ugly side of government.”
“He pushed the limits and made enemies across the board, big fish and little fish,” said Rachel Leon, former executive director of Common Cause-New York, a good-government advocate. “He was a true cop on the beat who was incredibly aggressive and actually tried to enforce the law. We didn't see that frequently in Albany.”
Grandeau's reputation among good-government groups was such that their appraisal of a new body to regulate ethics and lobbying that was proposed by Spitzer, who was swept into office on a promise of reforming Albany, hinged in part on what happened to Grandeau.
Barbara Bartoletti of the League of Women Voters said Grandeau operated in “rarified air.”
Grandeau “has been extraordinarily effective in going after anyone who would violate the lobbying law in New York state,” Bartoletti said. “He will be sorely missed.”
Grandeau's views on Albany could often sound more like they were coming from a regular Joe New Yorker than from a political appointee.
“From an ethical standpoint, I've never seen it worse,” Grandeau said. “Everybody is forced to pick sides. It's a partisan death match ... and I'm one of the casualties.”
Grandeau has little hope for an ethical rebound anytime soon in a Capitol where the freshman Democratic governor is in what Grandeau feels is a political fight to the death with Republican Senate leader Joseph Bruno. The immediate result is a standstill on policy issues.
“What's gotten worse is the way the game is being played now. I've never seen the partisan use of ‘integrity' the way it's used today. It's scary and it's not productive.”
For example, he questions the future of the Public Integrity Commission, which will replace the lobbying commission and the state Ethics Commission next week.
Spitzer pushed for the change as part of the government reforms he promised, but could only get it through the Legislature if lawmakers were able to keep a legislative ethics committee in place to police themselves. As a result, the majority of the commission that will investigate the executive branch will be appointed by the governor.
“That is a structure that will always be questioned,” he said. “The sense of bipartisanship is gone.”
Grandeau never applied for a job at the Public Integrity Commission, doubting he was wanted despite invitations from the Spitzer administration to apply.
Grandeau is a lawyer and longtime bureaucrat, but he's a rolled-up sleeves kind of guy who looks more like a bartender at the corner tavern.
Now he hopes businesses that lobby will want to hire him as a consultant to help do the right thing.
But he made some enemies among the powerful who use money and influence to shape legislation and public spending as he enforced the lobbying law. The law and its enforcement was so weak when Grandeau arrived in 1995 that a lobbyist found in violation had 15 days to change records and avoid any sanction.
Back then, lobbyists also weren't required to report much more than their name, address and total spending.
Today spending must be detailed, including what issues the lobbyist was trying to get passed or stopped.
“The public can rest assured it's a far more transparent system than in 1995,” Grandeau said. His staff also grew to 40 employees from seven to regulate an industry that saw the top 10 lobbyists spend a total of more than $35 million in 2006.
But Grandeau said he's not sure some of the wins were worth the losses.
At the top of the losing ledger is Bruno, the guy who gave Grandeau his first jobs and introduced Grandeau to the woman he would marry.
A continuing federal investigation of Bruno stems from an inquiry begun in late 2005 by Grandeau into the relationship between Bruno and businessman Jared Abbruzzese. Those close to Bruno suspect Grandeau tipped off the FBI, a charge Grandeau denies.
“People don't really realize how painful it's been to not talk to the man for three years,” Grandeau said of Bruno. “This is someone I considered a mentor ... I owe him a lot.
“From that point, having the job hasn't been worth it,” Grandeau said.
Through a spokesman, Bruno refused comment.
“I don't know how to avoid the fight,” Grandeau said. “It's a weakness.” Then he paused over his coffee, mulling the combative years, and added: “Maybe I knew it was time.”
