Accidental lobbyist
The curious ex- governorship of William F. Weld grew even stranger this week, when he was photographed making the rounds at the State House like just any ordinary lobbyist.
Weld's law firm, or its extremely well-heeled clients, is seeking to cash in on the latest craze in government. They want the state to sell off some of its most lucrative assets, like the state lottery and perhaps the Massachusetts Turnpike. The state could pocket tens of billions of dollars in such sales, while its suitors believe they could turn big profits by running the state agencies like private businesses.
Selling the lottery certainly sounds far-fetched. In fact, it sounds like an inflated version of Weld's early mantra, privatization. There's no evidence to date that anyone on Beacon Hill is interested in pursuing any of this. Weld met with House Speaker Salvatore F. DiMasi, Treasurer Timothy P. Cahill, and some of Governor Deval Patrick's staff, though not with the governor himself. None of them has commented publicly on the meetings.
But never mind the meetings. The bizarre part of this is the presence of Weld himself, the former governor who once seemed so far above grubbing for money. More than once, Weld was heard to say, in describing his family coffers, "We don't get money; we have money." The line is borrowed from "The Late George Apley," John P. Marquand's book on turn-of-the-last-century Beacon Hill. Getting money, he implied, was so nouveau riche.
Weld is no mere former governor. This is a man whose family landed on these shores in 1630. West Roxbury has a Weld Avenue because the Welds used to own most of the neighborhood. He resigned from the Tavern Club when he ran for governor to burnish his nonexistent credentials as a man of the people. Sure, he always worked, but it wasn't as if he needed a job.
Then again, the past few years of his professional life have been odd, even if lucrative. A private equity firm in which he was partner got caught up in a student loan scandal involving an obscure trade school in Kentucky. He seemed to lose interest in writing novels, even though his work was reasonably well received. Last year, he could never convince New York Republicans that his bid for governor was anything more than a lark. Behavior that had been viewed as charming and quirky here, New Yorkers simply found bizarre.
Now he is back in Massachusetts, part of the time, playing deal-maker. As governor, Weld was not above dealing with the Legislature, the way Mitt Romney seemed to think. Still, the notion of Weld asking for a meeting with Senate President Therese Murray and being told she was too busy dealing with the gay marriage initiative to talk to him seemed more than a little demeaning, at least to those of us who had seen him in power.
There are legitimate questions about the whole phenomenon of former power brokers becoming lobbyists to their former colleagues. Thomas M. Finneran did it, and so did Robert E. Travaglini. Weld was joined in his meetings by Paul Haley, a former House Ways and Means chairman who has reinvented himself as an investment banker. Good-government types used to talk about the dangers of the revolving door. But the door isn't revolving anymore; it's spinning.
For all I know, the notion Weld was pitching has merit. Cahill has raised thoughtful questions about the future of the lottery, which he clearly believes is past its peak as a financial engine. Privatization seemed like an idea that had its day long ago, but apparently Weld still believes in it. It isn't inconceivable that a private entity could outmanage the Turnpike Authority.
When he was leaving public office, Weld made no secret that he wanted to make lots of money. In all likelihood, he is succeeding. I find it telling, though, that he doesn't seem to want to talk about his lobbying adventures on Beacon Hill.
But Bill Weld has joined the ranks of those who go out and get money, an act that was once beneath him, as he was the very one to point out.
Adrian Walker is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at walker@globe.com. 
