Yet he was repeatedly promoted despite displaying no sense of professional ambition or charisma. When he first started at the NRA, he was known for his wrinkled suits and detached gaze. Wayne is a clumsy, meek, spastic man with a weak handshake, those who know him personally say. They were looking for a Democratic lobbyist, so he signed on right away. The NRA building at the time was right across the street from the Democratic National Committee, and so he walked right in and ran into some staff that he knew from his work in politics. Originally a Democrat, like a substantial portion of the National Rifle Association’s longest-serving staff, Wayne was active with the Roanoke Democrats in college but declined a job offer from the office of Democratic House Speaker Tip O’Neill.
Wayne could never deliver critical news, and if it was absolutely necessary to do so, he would designate someone else to do it-then panic later over whether it was the right decision. In other words: if you could get in to see him, you could eventually get him to write a check. NRA insiders used to joke that even if you came into Wayne’s office with a red nose and big rubber shoes, you could get him to approve an expenditure if you pressured him enough.
He disdains the stresses of controversy-internal intrigue most of all-but by being unable to grow a spine and turn down bad ideas, he ends up causing a substantial portion of the drama inside the NRA described in this book. He has no core and has a reputation for never being able to say no, especially to the wrong people, NRA insiders said. Perhaps the best description came from former NRA board member Wayne Anthony Ross, who said that Wayne had the “backbone of a chocolate eclair.” He is easily bullied and doesn’t have the ability to make firm commitments, or to keep his promises once he makes them. His professorial demeanor is not well suited for leadership of a massive, powerful organization. The best man later recounted to friends that he offered to drive Wayne away. With the engine running, Wayne’s best man told him they could leave whenever he wanted. The best man honored that by placing a single, crisp hundred-dollar bill on the dashboard of his car, a Jeep Wagoneer. When Wayne was finally found on the day of the wedding, he said he didn’t want to get married. According to two close friends of Wayne’s, Susan had sent out the invitations for the wedding without telling him. To anyone watching, it was clear he was looking for a way out of a wedding that he had felt pressured into by the bride. He scurried around, according to a witness, nervously polling anyone he ran into about whether he should go through with it. Wayne’s conduct in the time leading up to his wedding with Susan was, to any outside observer, absolutely humiliating. It was his wedding day, and he was missing at the worst time. But this question, this Saturday in the late summer of 1998, was different. The bookish NRA executive has a habit of disappearing in times of stress.
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The answer is usually “I have no idea,” followed by another series of profanities. It’s a question that everyone close to Wayne LaPierre has asked from time to time.