On Glenn Richardson and the agony of victory

Shortly before his formal election as House speaker in 2005, Glenn Richardson and I – each accompanied and, perhaps, protected by our wives – had dinner at his new favorite restaurant, Ted’s Montana Grill in west Cobb County.

The happy man had a gorgeous spouse, spoke proudly of his kids, and was about to become the second most powerful man in state government — part of a Republican revolution that hadn’t fully unfolded.

He ordered the buffalo pot roast.

We were neighbors on the far northwest frontier of metro Atlanta – which is to say we lived within a dozen or so miles of each other.

We talked a little about politics. Richardson spoke of some of the changes he intended to bring to the state. But table conversation focused on the neighborhood we shared, the grueling commute to downtown Atlanta, and the local schools.

We agreed that his leadership of the House, and the power he would wield over the state budget, would do nothing to hurt the mind-boggling growth we both bore witness to — houses and apartments and shopping centers that exploded along roadsides like fescue on a warm day.

Relationships are delicate things. Richardson broke up with the press not long after that dinner. It did not grieve him.

He and his wife Susan divorced in February 2008, a year after Democrats publicly accused him of an inappropriate relationship with a lobbyist. His marriage was the relationship that mattered.

In a statement issued Friday, part confession and part public service announcement, Richardson, 49, said his divorce sparked a cycle of depression that had reached a near-fatal peak. He had attempted suicide.

Politics and depression are often hidden bedfellows. Andrew Young, after losing a statewide primary contest for governor, compared defeat to a permanent gut punch. Max Cleland just published a memoir that disclosed the years of despair that followed his 2002 loss of his Senate seat to Saxby Chambliss.

What we forget is that depression can come with victory, too. Success isn’t always the happy drug it’s cracked up to be. Revolutions, even conservative ones, can be tedious and frustrating. The world and its economy can intrude on the best-laid plans.

What follows has been gleaned from Republicans insiders and others trying to fathom — with as much delicacy as possible — an unprecedented political situation.

Last Sunday, Paulding County sheriff deputies and others were called to Richardson’s home in Hiram, set on scrubland that he’d purchased to give his boys a place to rev their ATVs.

The next day, the speaker missed a major GOP bash in downtown Atlanta. State party officials were told Richardson had fallen ill.

But the political world is a small village, and rumors swirled through the week.

Finally, early on Friday afternoon, House Republicans were sent an e-mail, and asked to tap into a 4 p.m. conference call. A phone number and password were included.

About the same time, a House staffer contacted the Atlanta chapter of the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, and informed its leader of the situation.

At the appointed hour, from his third-floor office in the state Capitol, the House speaker began his group telephone conversation — as he always did on conference calls — with a warning to any eavesdroppers. If you were listening in and you were not a state lawmaker, you were breaking Georgia law, the speaker said.

Much of what Richardson then said was contained in the press release issued an hour later. He had attempted to end his life recently, Richardson told his loyalists, but did not say when. He offered few other details.

“Technically,” the speaker told them, he had died – only to be brought back by emergency medical technicians.

TV stations were on the hunt for a recording of the 911 call, Richardson said.

The speaker’s voice was strong and measured, but laden with emotion, we’re told. State Rep. Len Walker (R-Loganville), a minister, offered a prayer. The speaker thanked his members for their support, said he was going home to be with his family, and clicked off.

The press release was issued. “Like most people who suffer from depression, I regularly see a physician and take prescription medications,” Richardson said. “While depression often seems to be resolved on occasion, when personal trials or tribulations arise, it flares back up. That is what occurred with me.”

A few minutes later, a statement from the Foundation for Suicide Prevention arrived, praising the speaker for going public with his struggles. “We hope his courage will bring much needed awareness to this public health crisis,” said Christina Owens, director of the Atlanta suicide prevention chapter.

The paired statements were aimed at a public heading into the depression-heavy holidays. But the coordination was also an indication that Richardson intends to remain as speaker of the House. One does not need to mold public response if a resignation is in the offing.

Richardson has asked the news media to restrain themselves. But he is a man of public power. Law enforcement incident reports and the 911 audio ultimately will be made public.

The only external cause cited by Richardson as a trigger for his condition is the break-up of his family. But it must be noted that the speaker’s depression also coincides with the calamity that has struck the neighborhood we share.

Paulding County in particular has been hit hard by the real estate collapse, and the speaker is – in part – a real estate man.

Richardson is a board member of WestSide Bank, a small, 3-year-old lender based in Paulding County that is reeling from troubled loans.

The bank lost nearly $3 million in the third quarter and has $19 million of problem loans on its books, mostly tied to home building and subdivision development. The bank is one of 57 Georgia banks to make a list of problem banks in the third quarter based on a ratio of troubled loans to equity.

WestSide’s founders raised $13 million to launch the bank, according to state Department of Banking and Finance records. The department does not break out how much individuals contributed, but it’s common for board members to be among a bank’s large financial backers.

U.S. Rep. Phil Gingrey, a Marietta Republican, is also on the bank board.

Politically, the question remains whether Richardson’s disclosure will prompt a challenge to his leadership from within Republican ranks. The weekend produced no signs of a revolt.

In fact, a “We Support Glenn Richardson” page quickly established on Facebook had attracted 69 fans by Saturday afternoon. Public admonitions to back off included an open note from GOP political strategist Joel McElhannon.

“Glenn, to his credit, has surrounded himself since the start of his speakership with a very strong leadership team….He simply needs to continue to rely on them to insure the House runs smoothly and effectively,” McElhannon wrote. “This is the Georgia House we are discussing, not the White House. It is not like Glenn has his finger on the red button and can launch a nuclear attack on Tennessee if he has a bad day.”

We all have skeletons in the closet, McElhannon ended. So we should take care when the bones of others are laid bare.

Material for this column was contributed by staff writer Paul Donsky.

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