Planet of the Privileged
January 27, 2002
The New York Times
By MAUREEN DOWD
Oh, the pull of Planet Enron
The atmosphere there was so
rarefied that its inhabitants were
blissfully oblivious to how
privileged they were.
It was a lovely place, sort of like
Aspen with oil rigs. The skiing was great because there
was always a pristine powder of newly shredded financial
records on the slopes.
There was offshore drilling off every shore and offshore
subsidiaries on every corner.
A red flag fluttered on Planet Enron, but nobody paid
attention.
Journalists in Washington were hunting for Dick Cheney
for months, even as he was completely visible and
accessible on Planet Enron, where he lumbered down
golden boulevards.
Phil and Wendy Gramm, the king and queen of the Enron
prom, cruised around in their white stretch limo,
rewarded for years of service, exempting and deregulating.
Paul O'Neill was also ubiquitous there, his face
emblazoned and his words enshrined on the currency,
which begins with $1,000 bills. The motto: "Companies
come and go. It's part of the genius of capitalism."
Mr. O'Neill was not Treasury secretary up there, though,
merely a private citizen. Kenneth Lay , still smarting that
the president decided not to name him Treasury secretary
on Earth, anointed himself with the title on Enron.
The Bushes summered there, and W. and Jeb dropped by
when they needed campaign cash. But lately, they began
putting brown paper bags over their heads when they
visited so no one would notice them hobnobbing with
Kenny Boy.
Everyone was upwardly mobile on Planet Enron, a world
more consumed with havens than have-not's.
There were, blessedly, no lower classes or riffraff.
Denizens were blue blood or blue chip but never blue.
There were the born rich, and there were the new rich the
born rich made rich. The congenitally rich create the
crony rich by ushering them onto the boards and payrolls
of oil and energy companies and defense contractors.
There was no conflict of interest on Planet Enron, only
confluence of interest. No income tax, only insider tips. No
S.E.C. or G.A.O., just C.E.O.'s, S.U.V.'s and N.O.B.D.'s
(not our bankruptcy, dear). Q.E.D.
All meetings on Planet Enron were held in secret, and
everyone liked it that way. Auditing was considered rude.
It was a very empathetic place.
On Planet Enron, it seemed only fair that
chairman-for-life Kenneth Lay should reward himself with
$51 trillion in a severance package, as opposed to the $51
million he was seeking on Planet Earth.
On Planet Enron, Secretary of the Army Thomas White
could whine that he came out with only $12 million from
sales of the company's stock. He bravely said he "would
persevere."
On Planet Enron, Karl Rove could expect people to mist
up at the poignant tale of how he made mere millions
instead of more millions when government ethics rules
forced him to sell all of his stocks. And he could ingratiate
himself with the conservative leader Ralph Reed by
offering him a piece of the Enron rock.
On Planet Enron, the president, his words muffled by the
brown paper bag on his head, could strike a chord
complaining that his mother-in-law had lost $8,000 on
Enron stock when less connected mortals lost their entire
retirements.
It was a beautifully sheltered place (and not just in the
Caymans sense). A place where inhabitants deluded
themselves that their accomplishments and windfalls -
Ivy League degrees, energy company sinecures, lucrative
consulting contracts, advisory board booty - were the
result of merit and hard work.
But then turmoil struck. The planet has been overrun by
the Wrong Kind: government lawyers bearing subpoenas
and grand juries poking around. The thin and tony air
has become noxious with the threat of litigation and
incarceration.
Dick Cheney is still there, but he's hiding in a secure
location. Now he has caves on two planets.
President Bush, distancing himself by light-years, has
ordered the U.S. government to look into cutting off all
business with the planet.
On Friday, the once-serene orb imploded with the news of
the sad death of a leading citizen, who shot himself in his
Mercedes after telling friends he did not want to have to
turn against his own.
But Planet Enron is bigger than one company or one
tragedy. It's a state of mind, a subculture, a platinum card
aristocracy. Its gravitational pull has long proven
irresistible.
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