JACKSON - Power corrupts, wise men have said. Greed corrupts. Put the two of them together - power and greed - and you have a deadly combination that can destroy some of the smartest, ablest public figures.
In my five decades of covering Mississippi politics, the sudden downfall nearly 25 years ago of powerful state Sen. William G. Burgin Jr. of Columbus in my book still ranks as Mississippi's classic example of how power and greed can combine to bring down the mightiest.
Think of it: Back in the mid 1970s, Big Bad Bill Burgin was at once the single most feared state legislator AND one of the most successful and best-paid attorneys in the state.
As will come to us all some day, death quietly came last week to Bill Burgin at age 78. By then, his commanding presence in state legislative halls had largely been forgotten, and because of an act of indiscretion, his once-lucrative legal clients no longer existed.
Back in June 1978, the electrifying news reached the state Capitol that Burgin, the perennial chairman of the Senate Appropriations Committee, was under an intense FBI investigation for skimming money off a state-federal child welfare contract, part of whose funding came from Burgin's committee.
Burgin was then at the pinnacle of his career as a dominating state lawmaker. No state lawmaker until then had ever been accused by feds of peddling their influence.
As weeks went by, the news of the federal investigation got no better. By the end of summer Burgin, along with a former Senate crony, Flavous Lambert, had been indicted for taking $480,000 off the top of an $860,000 child welfare contract given a Nashville firm.
Most state senators disbelieved that the mighty Burgin, then the recognized keeper of the state's purse strings, was or could be guilty of any such charge, and they assumed the Senate would go about its business as usual with Burgin still in the saddle.
But a usually gentle lady named Evelyn Gandy, who was then lieutenant governor and thereby president of the Senate, came forth with what still ranks as the most courageous act of a presiding officer in legislative history.
She removed Burgin from his Appropriations chairmanship, an action unprecedented in the annals of the Legislature, made more so because Burgin had not yet been tried or convicted in a court of law.
Allies of Burgin, including a number of the top Senate elders, came running to the state Capitol, threatening all sorts of reprisals, even impeachment, against Gandy if she persisted. But she stuck to her guns. Ultimately, as history proved, she was right.
In December of 1978, Burgin, as well as Lambert, was convicted of influence peddling by a federal district court jury in Biloxi made up of everyday citizens chosen from across Southern Mississippi. Several weeks later in a federal courtroom in Meridian, a stunned Burgin was sentenced to serve 15 months in federal prison and fined $10,000.
The hapless Lambert, whom reporters at the state Capitol once voted as the "outstanding freshman" legislator and who was one of very few who opposed Ross Barnett's defiance in the James Meredith/Ole Miss case, drew a 24-month sentence.
Disbarment followed Burgin's conviction, and for years the state Supreme Court refused him the right to practice, finally relenting in 1995. But by then only a few Columbus friends would hire him.
I recall Burgin's legislative heyday when state agency heads, departmental chiefs and even elected state officials quivered in their boots when they had to appear before him seeking a share of the state revenue pie or to justify any change in their budget. Although intimidating, Burgin possessed a complete grasp of every detail of state funding and enjoyed making public servants sweat.
Naturally when Bill Burgin phoned an agency head and said he'd like a little personal favor - a job here, a job there, or some state business for a friend - it was almost uniformly granted.
He was always adept at wrecking legislative programs which didn't suit his legislative interests or the interests of his legal clientele. Once, for instance, he opposed creating a consumer protection agency, which one of his legal clients, the Mississippi Retail Merchants Association, also was against.
In 1974, this writer became the first to catch Burgin at the game of influence peddling for recompense by disclosing that the Columbus lawmaker had been paid $105,000 to foist a failing privately owned dormitory off on Mississippi State College for Women while representing both the seller and buyer.
I had documented that Burgin, using his awesome legislative power, had pushed both the state College Board and the state Building Commission to buy the deal. But the Legislature, fearing the wrath of Burgin, did nothing about it.
Bellowing fire and brimstone, Burgin threatened to sue me and my newspaper, but he never did. And soon after, when he barred me from covering his Appropriations Committee, the committee met behind closed doors and voted to override him, and invited me to cover its meetings along with other reporters.
His towering presence, booming voice and brilliant legal mind found few fellow legislators willing to challenge him in floor debate or inside committees. His were also highly merchantable talents that many sought, ranging from the corporate board room to society types charged with major crimes.
He had made a lot of money, only feeling a pinch once in the early 1970s when he went through a divorce that cost him a bundle in alimony. But nothing other than greed could have driven him to pocket a chunk from the millions of dollars of appropriations he presided over.
The tragedy is that big Bill Burgin, one of the most talented, persuasive figures to enter the public arena in this state during the last half of the 20th century, couldn't resist an urge to use the influence he was given by public office to acquire filthy lucre.
And he paid for it.
