Around 10 p.m. on Wednesday night, Representative Art Washut moved to place the special committee investigating “checkgate” into abeyance while the Laramie County Sheriff conducts his criminal probe.
Washut, a former law‑enforcement investigator and the committee’s chair, argued that with a bribery investigation now underway, best practices required stepping back until Sheriff Brian Kozak completed his work. The committee would resume afterward.
That motion did not sit well with those implicated in the controversy — including the Speaker of the House.
What followed was a drama that rivals any soap opera. Until Wednesday night, the Speaker had been conspicuously quiet, despite being identified as one of the lawmakers who received checks on the first day of the legislative session.
He later claimed his silence was meant to avoid influencing the committee’s work. That’s admirable, and I really believe he wants to be transparent. But when he learned Kozak’s investigation could take four weeks — or even a year — he broke that silence to “tell his side of the story.”
After an emotional floor debate, the House rejected Washut’s motion 21–37, signaling their desire to run their own investigation in parallel so the controversy wouldn’t bleed into campaign season.
The floor discussion that followed was something rarely seen.
Instead of debating laws or doing the people’s business, lawmakers used the House floor as a stage to air grievances and lament how misunderstood they all were.
Rather than issue a press release or speak directly to the public, they commandeered the limited time set aside for policy to talk about campaign politics and partisanship.
The Speaker insisted he and others had done nothing wrong, yet in the same breath called the situation an “unforced error.” Which is it?
The refrain we keep hearing is, “We didn’t do anything illegal.” That may be true, but legality is not the standard for public trust. As the Apostle Paul wrote, “All things are lawful, but not all things are beneficial… All things are lawful, but not all things build up.”
What was being built up here wasn’t public trust — it was campaign war chests. The desire to retain power for themselves and their political tribe was on full display.
Like it or not, that’s what their actions communicate. This is what idolatry of power looks like: chaotic, destructive, and driven by self‑interest. And we’re watching it unfold in real time.
The urgency to secure power was so strong that lawmakers couldn’t wait a single month — until the session ended — before accepting significant monetary gifts.
Are they taking steps now to address it? Yes, and they deserve credit for that. But no one has forgotten that just weeks ago, many had no problem accepting those checks. It only became a problem when the public found out.
Everything we say or do communicates something. What we’re seeing now is not contrition for a lapse in judgment, but regret for getting caught.
How can we tell? Because the minimizing and blame‑shifting haven’t stopped. It wasn’t their fault someone wanted to give them money, they say. What were they supposed to do — turn it away?
Actually, yes.
They could have said something like: "Thanks, but I can't accept that right now. I'm focused on doing the people's work at the moment, not campaigning. Besides, it may look like you’re trying to buy influence, and that’s not good for you or me because I know you don’t want that. But if you're still pleased with how I've served after the session is finished, I'd be happy to receive you and others' support."
Instead, we’re told it’s Rep. Provenza’s fault for taking the picture. It’s her fault for alerting the media because she wasn’t sure leadership would handle it responsibly. It’s Mike Yin’s fault for raising the issue on a bill supported by the lobbyist who handed out the checks. It’s everyone’s fault except the people who accepted the money.
I understand why some lawmakers are upset. When you feel your grip on power slipping, it can feel like something is being taken from you.
That’s the nature of idolatry — it convinces you that losing power is the same as losing yourself.
But there is another path: humility. Imagine if a lawmaker simply said,
“I was wrong to receive campaign cash during the session. It’s not Provenza’s fault. It’s not Yin’s fault. It was a moment of poor judgment, and I’m taking ownership. Wyomingites deserve better. Even if it’s legal, it looks shady, and I see that now. Integrity means being the same person in private as in public. From this day forward, I will never again accept campaign contributions during the legislative session. There is a time and season for everything, and the session is the time to work—not to collect campaign cash. I will work to codify rules that rebuild trust between the people and their government.”
If someone said that, I could get behind them. Humility is not weakness. It is the beginning of real power—and the first step toward restoring public trust.
Scott Clem can be reached at: ScottClem@live.com
