A Fighting Chance

The GPO was near the Capitol, on a side street near Union Station. The printing office does just that—it prints up Supreme Court opinions, laws, and other official documents. Its home is a huge factory that cuts and binds tons of paper every workday. Constructed in the 1860s, the building is heavy and square, with reinforced floors and thick outer walls that make it feel like a fortress.

In an earlier time, it took thousands of people to tend the huge printing presses and to bind and box up millions of documents. But like many other factories in America, the GPO had been changed by automation and computerization, and now there were far fewer human operators.

That’s how we ended up on the third and sixth floors of a working factory, set apart from the GPO employees by thin slabs of wallboard. Our conference room had an old lavatory on one wall. Damon swore we were in a converted men’s room, but I never confirmed that with our landlords. (We’d already rented the space, and I didn’t really want to know.) The elevators were slow and the space was quirky, but during the day the building was perfectly fine. At night, the factory floors were empty, with hulking pieces of machinery illuminated only by nearby streetlamps that cast dim light through the tall windows. When the COP staff worked late, we usually stayed huddled together in our brightly lit haven. But venturing to the restrooms on the other side of the vast, darkened factory floor—or outside to the deserted streets—triggered visions of every horror movie ever made.

The GPO’s management had installed closed-circuit television sets above the elevators to get messages to everyone. (“Congratulations, Norma, on twenty years of service!”) Some of these messages were accompanied by pictures. On my first visit to our new offices, I was greeted by a large television screen with a photo of a bigger-than-life rat. Confession: I have a morbid fear of mice and rats—I don’t even like squirrels. I actually screamed out loud when I saw that oversize rat up on the screen. This wasn’t a cute cartoon; it was a close-up of the thing. The picture was accompanied by a stern reminder to keep your lunch sealed up. Whenever I was in the office after dark, I would wonder about those rats. If everyone kept their lunches sealed up, what were the rats eating now?

The GPO staffers were gracious hosts. They were incredibly friendly and put up with our crazy hours. They helped us find furniture and erect more temporary walls. They offered tours to show off their work. Best of all, they rooted for us. Riding the elevators or walking down the hall, they cheered us on, telling us to go get the bad guys. And that’s what we tried to do.

More “Trust Us”

By law, the COP panelists’ work was temporary and part-time, with the understanding that all five of us would keep our regular jobs. During the spring of 2009, I continued teaching at Harvard and did a lot of flying back and forth between Boston and DC.

Whenever I flew home from Washington, Bruce would pick me up at Logan Airport, and then we’d head to the Summer Shack. The Shack is a big, boisterous place that features a giant chalkboard announcing the daily catch. When fried smelts are in season, they even serve those—not for me, but Bruce loves them.

We always sat in the same booth and started with the same order—light beer for me, Fisherman’s Brew for Bruce, and an order of fried clams to get us started. Sal Chillemi had worked at the Shack since it opened, and he would see us coming and bring the beer along with the menus. I always set aside a piece of cornbread to take home to Otis, who would gobble it down in a single bite.

Some nights I was elated, eager to tell Bruce about how we’d brought attention to this issue or turned up good data on that one. Other nights I was so frustrated, I could only spit out bits of stories. A few nights I was so depressed that I just leaned back in the booth with my eyes closed and pressed the beer mug to my forehead.

COP soon hit another “just trust us” moment with Treasury. Secretary Geithner had recently announced that the big banks would be subjected to “stress tests,” which were supposed to show whether the banks had enough capital to begin to stand on their own. The Federal Reserve would run the actual tests, and if the banks passed, the public could have more confidence in their stability—or at least that was the idea.