Republican gubernatorial candidate Brian Kemp has recently pivoted from shotgun-toting pol to a kinder, gentler fellow who loves teachers.
The shift from "politically incorrect conservative," which won him the primary, to lovable lump is a calculated move to make him more attractive to women voters.
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution ran a story on Sept. 21 about Kemp giving a deposition in a lawsuit two months earlier. His performance may remind many women voters of someone: Their husbands.
It turns out, Kemp’s memory is a sieve.
My wife can relate. I routinely can’t remember things I’ve apparently discussed with her, whether it be a promise to come home early from work, a scheduled dinner date with another couple, or fixing a tail light.
Actually, I sort of remember that those things MAY have been discussed. But if I had to swear to it in a court of law, I’d have to shrug and say, “I can’t recall.”
This all leads me to the morning of July 19, when Kemp gave a virtuoso performance in how to duck questions. It was a masterpiece in cluelessness as a legal strategy, one that could someday be studied in law schools as Recalcitrant Witnesses 101.
My colleague Alan Judd wrote about Kemp getting sued in connection with an unpaid loan in a business deal. Kemp, an investor in a canola oil operation, had helped coax two loans totaling $1.1 million out of a friend for the business that had run into financial trouble.
But a $500,000 loan was not repaid, and the guy who forked out the dough has gone to the courts to get his money back, pointing out that Kemp signed an agreement to guarantee the loan.
During the deposition, attorney James Cornwell quickly discovered that pinning down Kemp on seemingly simple questions was like putting your thumb on Jello.
After reviewing a transcript of the two-hour, 27-minute proceeding, Judd wrote: “By the time his deposition concluded, Kemp had answered ‘I don’t recall,’ ‘I don’t remember,’ ‘I don’t know,’ or some variation at least 91 times.”
He also pointed out this gem: “To the best of my knowledge,” Kemp replied to one question, “I don’t recall that.”
Also, Judd noted that 31 times, Kemp also employed a variation of, “I would have to let the documents speak for themselves.”
Being an unabashed aficionado of obfuscation, I had to read the transcript. But I’m apparently a tougher grader than Mr. Judd. I circled 158 instances of Kemp’s bobbing, weaving and forgetfulness.
Kemp’s tactics were so unyielding that attorney Cornwell was left sputtering, comparing his uncooperative quarry to a beloved comedic figure from television.
“Ninety-nine percent of his answers have been ‘I don’t recall,’ ” Cornwell complained. “All I’ve gotten is Sergeant Schultz, I don’t recall.”
Actually, the “Hogan’s Heroes” character’s catchphrase was “I know Nothing!” But the attorney’s frustration is duly noted.
I called several veteran attorneys to ask what they thought of the volume of Kemp’s absentmindedness. I also called Kemp’s lawyer and his campaign, but I don’t remember whether they responded. (Actually, they didn’t.)
Neal Pope, who on Sept. 21 won a $31 million lawsuit for a botched circumcision, chuckled when I asked if 91 "don't recalls" is a lot.
“I don’t recall having that happen,” he said. “At least in a while. It’s not the norm. And it’s not a good strategy in the long run.”
Why is that?
Well, attorney Ken Canfield said if the case went to trial, he’d try to get all those dunnos read before the jury to impeach the defendant’s credibility.
Emmet Bondurant said he’d do one better: “I’d put together video clips and play them all back-to-back.”
People can't recall a lot of things, but Kemp's deposition performance might fly in the face of his campaign's contention that he is a "tell it like it is businessman."
Maybe more of a “tell what he can remember businessman.”
Kemp has been secretary of state for eight years, but that job allows him plenty of time to be a businessman. And he has largely been good at it, amassing a $5 million fortune.
But the canola business, called Hart AgStrong, ran into cash flow issues, so Kemp and another owner hit up Kemp’s buddy, Rick Phillips. The company repaid a $600,000 loan to Phillips, and then in January 2016, Kemp signed a document labeled “personal guaranty agreement” for a second loan of $500,000 at 10 percent interest. (They were motivated borrowers.)
The loan was due in October 2016, and by that fall Phillips’ lawyer was sending Kemp and AgStrong insistent letters to shake loose the money.
In the deposition, Kemp hardly seems to remember anything — such as when he asked Phillips for the money, the terms of the deal, if he signed a guarantee, when or even if he got letters asking about the money, if he or the company asked for an extension for the loan, or even if the money had been repaid.
Once, after five “don’t recalls” in just three answers, the attorney asks, “Well, do you get a lot of letters saying you owe $500,000?”
“I get a lot of letters, but I don’t necessarily get a lot of letters saying that,” Kemp conceded, adding. “But, then again, I don’t recall specifically getting the letter.”
In another passage, Kemp answered six questions in a row about repayment with what amounted to a verbal shrug. Finally, the lender’s attorney, clearly incredulous, asks, “You’re an investor in a company, and you’re telling me you don’t know if they paid a $500,000 note that you personally guaranteed?”
After another equivocation, attorney Cornwell noted that Kemp was sitting in a lawyer’s office answering questions about a lawsuit that centers on him guaranteeing a loan. “So doesn’t it follow that, perhaps, Hart AgStrong hasn’t paid that note?” the lawyer asked.
Having stated the obvious, the lawyer nudged Kemp into one of his more direct answers.
“I mean,” Kemp responded, “I guess you can say perhaps.”
