Secret files show lawmakers' role in fortifying gun lobby

Long before the National Rifle Association tightened its grip on Congress, won over the Supreme Court and prescribed more guns as a solution to gun violence — before all that, Rep. John Dingell had a plan.

First jotted on a yellow legal pad in 1975, it would transform the NRA from a fusty club of sportsmen into a lobbying juggernaut that would enforce elected officials' allegiance, derail legislation behind the scenes, redefine the legal landscape and deploy "all available resources at every level to influence the decision making process."

"An organization with as many members, and as many potential resources, both financial and influential within its ranks, should not have to go 2d or 3d Class in a fight for survival," Dingell wrote, advocating a new aggressive strategy. "It should go First Class."

To understand the ascendancy of gun culture in America, the files of Dingell, D-Mich., a powerful lawmaker who died in 2019, are a good place to start. That is because he was not just a politician — he simultaneously sat on the NRA's board of directors, positioning him to influence firearms policy as well as the private lobbying force responsible for shaping it.

And he was not alone. Dingell was one of at least nine senators and representatives, both Republicans and Democrats, with the same dual role over the last half-century — lawmaker-directors who helped the NRA accumulate and exercise unrivaled power.

Their actions are documented in thousands of pages of records obtained by The New York Times, through a search of lawmakers' official archives, the papers of other NRA directors and court cases. The files, many of them only recently made public, reveal a secret history of how the nation got to where it is now.

Over decades, politics, money and ideology altered gun culture, reframed the Second Amendment to embrace ever broader gun rights and opened the door to relentless marketing driven by fear rather than sport. With more than 400 million firearms in civilian hands today and mass shootings now routine, Americans are bitterly divided over what the right to bear arms should mean.

"Talk about being strategic people in a place to make things happen," an NRA executive gushed at a board meeting after Congress voted down gun restrictions following the 1999 Columbine shooting. "Thank you. Thank you."

The fact that some members of Congress served on the NRA board is not new. But much of what they did for the gun group, and how, was not publicly known.

Rep. Bob Barr, R-Ga., sent confidential memos to NRA leader Wayne LaPierre, urging action against gun violence lawsuits. Sen. Ted Stevens, R-Alaska, chided fellow board members for failing to advance a bill that rolled back gun restrictions, and told them how to do it.

Rep. John Ashbrook, R-Ohio, co-wrote a letter to the board describing "very subtle and complex" tactics to support "candidates friendly to our cause and actions to defeat or discipline those who are hostile." Sen. Larry Craig, R-Idaho, who was a key strategic partner for the NRA, flagged and scuttled a proposal to require the use of gun safety locks.

And then there was Dingell. In a private letter in October 1978, then-NRA president Lloyd Mustin said his "insights and guidance on the details of any gun-related matter pending in the Congress" were "uniformly successful." Just as valuable, he said, was the congressman's stealthy manipulation of the legislative process.

As chair of the powerful House commerce committee, Dingell would send "Dingellgrams" — demands for information from federal agencies — drafted by the NRA. Other times, on learning of a lawmaker's plan to introduce a bill, he would scribble a note to an aide saying, "Notify NRA."

Beginning in the 1970s, he pushed the group to fund legal work that could help win court cases and enshrine policy protections. The impact would be far-reaching: Some of the earliest NRA-backed scholars were later cited in the Supreme Court's District of Columbia vs. Heller decision affirming an individual right to own a gun, as well as a ruling last year that established a new legal test invalidating many restrictions.

The files of Dingell, the longest-serving member of Congress, were donated to the University of Michigan but remained off-limits for nearly eight years. They were made available in May, five months after the Times began pressing for their release.

Barr, who has remained on the NRA board since leaving government in 2003, said in an interview that he did not recall the memos he wrote to LaPierre, which were among the congressman's papers at the University of West Georgia. But during his nearly six years in office while also an NRA director, he said, the group "never approached me to do anything that I didn't want to do or that I would not have done anyway."

"I'm doing it as a member of Congress who also happens to be an NRA board member," Barr said.

In 2004, the Brady Campaign to Prevent Gun Violence objected to three Republican lawmakers then serving as unpaid NRA directors: Craig and Reps. Don Young of Alaska and Barbara Cubin of Wyoming. The Brady organization argued that their fiduciary duty to the NRA conflicted with their government roles.

"Here, the lobbyist and the lobbied are the same," said the complaint. It was rejected by Senate and House ethics committees.

Dingell eventually left the NRA board. The turning point was his support for a 1994 crime bill that included an assault weapons ban. In a terse resignation letter, he acknowledged a problem in serving as an elected official and a director — although he would continue to work closely with the group for years.

"I deeply regret," Dingell wrote, "that the conflict between my responsibilities as a Member of Congress and my duties as a board member of the National Rifle Association is irreconcilable."

'Patriotic Duty'

After serving in the Army in World War II, the younger Dingell earned a law degree and worked as a prosecutor. He succeeded his father in 1955 at age 29. Nicknamed "the Truck" as much for his forceful personality as his 6-foot-3 frame, Dingell was an imposing presence in the House, where he became a Democratic Party favorite for pushing liberal causes such as national health insurance.

Dingell recalled, in a 2016 interview, that he saw President John F. Kennedy "fairly frequently" at the White House and generally "traveled the same philosophical path."

"Except on firearms," he added.

In December 1963, just weeks after Kennedy was murdered with a rifle bought through an NRA magazine ad, Dingell complained at a hearing about "a growing prejudice against firearms" and defended buying guns through the mail. His advocacy made him popular with the NRA, and by 1968 he had joined at least one other member of Congress on its board.

Historically, the NRA's opposition to firearms laws was tempered. Founded in 1871 by two Union Army veterans — a lawyer and a former Times correspondent — the association promoted rifle training and marksmanship. It did not actively challenge the Supreme Court's view, stated in 1939, that the Second Amendment's protection of gun ownership applied to membership in a "well regulated Militia" rather than an individual right unconnected to the common defense.

President Lyndon B. Johnson wanted the bill to be even stronger, requiring gun registration and licensing, and angrily blamed an NRA letter-writing campaign for weakening it. The Justice Department briefly investigated whether the group had lobbied without registering, and in FBI interviews, NRA officials "pointed out" that members of Congress sat on its board, as if that defused any lobbying concerns. (The case was closed when the NRA agreed to register.)

The debate over the Gun Control Act agitated Dingell, his files show. He asked the Library of Congress to research Nazi-era gun confiscations in Germany to help prove that regulating firearms was a slippery slope. He considered investigating NBC News for a gun rights segment he viewed as one-sided. At an NRA meeting, he railed about a "patriotic duty" to oppose the "ultimate disarming of the law-abiding citizen."

As Johnson prepared to sign the act in fall 1968, Dingell was convinced that gun ownership faced an existential threat and wrote to an NRA executive suggesting a bold strategy.

The group, he said, must "begin moving toward a legislative program" to codify an individual's right to bear arms "for sporting and defense purposes." It was a major departure from the Supreme Court's sparse record on Second Amendment issues up to that point. The move would neutralize arguments for tighter gun restrictions in Congress and all 50 states, he said.

"By being bottomed on the federal constitutional right to bear arms," he wrote, "these same minimal requirements must be imposed upon state statutes and local ordinances."

Dingell's legislative acumen proved indispensable to the gun lobby.

The 1972 Consumer Products Safety Act, designed to protect Americans from defective products, might have reduced firearms accidents that killed or injured thousands each year. But the NRA viewed it as a backdoor to gun control, and Dingell slipped in an amendment to the new law, exempting from regulatory oversight items taxed under "section 4181 of the Internal Revenue Code" — which only covers firearms and ammunition.

While Dingell's office was publicly boasting in 1974 of his bill to restrict "Saturday night specials," cheap handguns often used in crimes, C.R. Gutermuth, then the NRA's president, confided in a private letter that the congressman had only introduced it to "effectively prevent" stronger bills. "Obviously, this comes under the heading of legislative maneuvering and strategy," he wrote.

Still, the public generally favored stricter limits. After a 3-year-old Baltimore boy accidentally killed a 7-year-old friend with an unsecured handgun, a constituent wrote to Dingell asking, "How long is it going to be before Congress takes effective action?" He instructed an aide to "not answer."

When the NRA board met in March 1974, Gutermuth reported that "Congressman Dingell and some of our other good friends on The Hill keep telling us that we soon will have another rugged firearms battle on our hands." Yet he expressed dismay that NRA staff had not come up with a "concrete proposal" to fend it off.

In memos to the board, he complained of the NRA's "leisurely response to the legislative threat" and proposed a new lobbying operation. Handwritten notes reflect just how radical his plans were. He initially said the group, which traditionally stayed out of political races, would "not endorse candidates for public office" — only to cross that out with his pen; the NRA would indeed start doing that, through a newly created Political Victory Fund.

The organization's old guard, whose focus continued to be largely on hunting and sports shooting, was uncomfortable. Gutermuth, a conservationist with little political experience, wrote to a colleague that Dingell "wants an all out action program that goes way beyond what we think we dare sponsor."

"John seems to think that we should become involved in partisan politics," he said.

Dingell got his way. A 33-page document — "Plan for the Organization, Operation and Support of the NRA Institute for Legislative Action" — was wide-ranging. The proposal, largely written by Dingell, called for an unprecedented national lobbying push supported by grassroots fundraising, a media operation and opposition research.

It would "maintain files for each member of Congress and key members of the executive branch, relative to NRA legislative interests," and "using computerized data, bring influence to bear on elected officials." The plan reflected Dingell's savvy as a lawmaker: "For greatest effectiveness and economy, whenever possible, influence legislation at the lowest level of the legislative structure and at the earliest time."

"He believed very strongly that he could affect gun control legislation as a senior member of Congress and use the resources of the NRA as leverage," Sanders said.

The changes mirrored an increasingly uncompromising outlook within the NRA membership. In what became known as the "Revolt at Cincinnati," a group of hard-liners seized control of the group at its 1977 convention.

The coup drew inspiration from Dingell, who a month before had circulated a blistering attack on the incumbent leadership. He was revered by many members, who saw little distinction between his roles as a lawmaker and an NRA director, and would write letters praising his fight on their behalf against "gun-grabbers."

In his responses, he would sometimes correct the impression that he represented the NRA in Congress.

"I try to keep my responsibilities in the two capacities separate so that there is no basic conflict," he wrote to one constituent.

When gunshots claimed the life of John Lennon in December 1980 and nearly killed President Ronald Reagan a few months later, the NRA readied itself for a familiar battle. Its officials, meeting in May 1981, grumbled that their "priorities, plans and activities have necessarily been altered."

But remarkably, no new gun restrictions made it through Congress.

The group saw the failure of gun control efforts to gain traction as a validation of its new agenda and a sign that, with Reagan's election, there was "a new mood in the country." The NRA and its congressional allies seized the moment, eventually pushing through the most significant pro-gun bill in history, the Firearms Owners' Protection Act of 1986, which rolled back elements of the Gun Control Act.

The bill — largely written by Dingell but sponsored by Rep. Harold Volkmer, D-Mo., who would later join the NRA board — was opposed by police groups. It lifted some restrictions on gun shows, sales of mail-order ammunition and the interstate transport of firearms.

The NRA also went ahead with Dingell's plans "to develop a legal climate that would preclude, or at least inhibit, serious consideration of many anti-gun proposals." A strategy document from April 1983 laid out the long-term goal: "When a gun control case finally reaches the Supreme Court, we want Justices' secretaries to find an existing background of law review articles and lower court cases espousing individual rights."

Key to those victories were appointments of conservative justices by NRA-backed Republican presidents. By the time Justice Antonin Scalia — author of the Heller opinion — was nominated by Reagan in 1986, the joke was that the "R" in NRA stood for Republican, and internal documents from that era are laced with partisan rhetoric.

A 1983 report by a committee of NRA members identified the perceived enemy as liberal elites: "college educated, intellectual, political, educational, legal, religious and also to some extent the business and financial leadership of the country," inordinately affected by the assassinations of "men they admired" in the 1960s.

Lawmakers joining the board during that time — Ashbrook, Craig and Stevens — were all Republicans. Craig, a conservative gun enthusiast raised in a ranching family, would become "probably the most important" point person for the NRA in Congress after Dingell, said David Keene, a longtime board member and former NRA president.

"He was actually like having one of your own guys there," Keene said in an interview. He added, however, that a legislator need not have been a board member to be supportive of the group's ambitions.

Craig did not respond to requests for comment, and Ashbrook and Stevens are dead.

Dingell, under increasing pressure as a pro-gun Democrat, faced a reckoning of sorts in 1994, when Congress took up an anti-crime bill that would ban certain semi-automatic rifles classified as assault weapons. He opposed the ban but favored the rest of the legislation.

A year earlier, he had angered fellow Democrats by voting against the Brady Handgun Violence Prevention Act, which imposed a background check requirement. This time, after intense lobbying that included urgent calls from President Bill Clinton, Dingell lent crucial support for the new legislation — and resigned from the NRA board.

His wife, Rep. Debbie Dingell, a proponent of stronger gun laws who now occupies his old House seat, said her husband faced a backlash from pro-gun extremists that left him deeply disturbed.

"He had to have police protection for several months," she said in an interview. "We had people scream and yell at us. It was the first time I had seen that real hate."

Despite voting for the ban, John Dingell almost immediately explored getting it overturned. Notes from 1995 show his staff weighing support for a repeal proposal, conceding that "a solid explanation will have to be made to the majority of our voters who favor gun control."

Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold were too young to legally purchase a firearm, so in November 1998 they enlisted an 18-year-old friend to visit a gun show in Colorado and buy them two shotguns and a rifle. Five months later, they used the weapons, along with an illegally obtained handgun, to kill 12 students and one teacher at Columbine High School.

The massacre was a turning point for a country not yet numbed to mass shootings and for the NRA, criticized for pressing ahead about a week later with plans for its convention just miles from Columbine. That sort of response would be repeated years later, after a teenager killed 19 students and two teachers in Uvalde, Texas, and the NRA went on with its convention in the state shortly afterward.

After Columbine, the organization mobilized against a renewed push for gun control. It had a new lawmaker-director to help: Barr, who had joined the board in 1997.

A staunchly conservative lawyer with a libertarian bent, Barr was among the House Republicans to lead the impeachment of Clinton. He served on the Judiciary Committee, which has major sway over gun legislation, and proved an eager addition to the NRA leadership.

Barr wrote to another director with a standing offer to use his Capitol Hill office to ensure that any "information you have is cranked into the legislative equation." Barr's chief of staff sent the congressman a memo saying the gun group wanted him to review the agenda for a meeting on the "upcoming legislative session" and "make any changes or additions."

The NRA also turned to an old hand: Dingell.

Together, they came up with another amendment that narrowed the gun shows affected and required background checks to be completed in 24 hours or else the sale would go through.

Publicly, Dingell argued that the shortened time window was reasonable. But his papers include notes explaining that while most background checks are done quickly, some take up to three days because the buyer "has been charged with a crime" and court records are needed. Gun shows mostly happen on weekends, when courthouses "are, of course, closed."

"It is becoming increasingly tougher to make our case that 24 hours is indeed enough time to do the check," a member of Dingell's staff wrote to an NRA lobbyist. Nevertheless, Dingell succeeded in amending the bill.

Dingell tried to win over his fellow Democrats with a baldly partisan message: "We're doing this so that we can become the majority again. Very simply, we need Democrats who can carry the districts where these matters are voting issues."

"Even though what he wanted to do was far from what I wanted to do," she said.

At the NRA, the collapse of the bill was seen as a victory. An internal report cited Dingell's "masterful leadership." A year later the group honored him with a "legislative achievement award."

'We Can Help'

Despite the victories, Barr saw bigger problems ahead. In memos to LaPierre in late 1999, he warned that the "entire debate on firearms has shifted" and advised holding an "issues summit."

Specifically, he pointed to lawsuits seeking to hold the firearms industry liable for making and marketing guns used in violent crimes. Gun control advocates saw them as a way around the political stalemate in Washington — Smith & Wesson, for instance, chose to voluntarily adopt new standards to safeguard children and deter theft.

"We can help the industry through our efforts here in the Congress," he wrote.

Craig took up the issue in the Senate, drafting legislation that mirrored Barr's House bill. After Barr lost reelection in 2002, a new version of his liability law was sponsored by others, with NRA guidance. To draw support from moderates, an incentive was added mandating that child safety locks be included when a handgun is sold, but NRA talking points assured allies that the provision "does not require any gun owner to actually use the device."

The political climate shifted enough under President George W. Bush and the Republican-controlled Congress that the assault weapons ban of 1994, which had a 10-year limit, was allowed to sunset, and the gun industry's liability shield finally passed in 2005. The twin developments helped turbocharge the firearms market.

The private-equity firm Cerberus Capital soon began buying up makers of AR-15 semi-automatic rifles and aggressively marketing them as manhood-affirming accessories, part of a sweeping change in the way military-style weapons were pitched to the public. The number of AR-15-type rifles produced and imported annually would skyrocket from 400,000 in 2006 to 2.8 million by 2020.

Asked about his early role in pressing the NRA for help with the liability law, Barr said he believed the legal threat was significant enough "that the Congress step in."

Sensitivities

With each new mass shooting in the 2000s, pressure built on Congress to act, and the politics of gun rights became more polarized.

The NRA lost another of its directors in Congress — Craig was arrested for lewd conduct in a men's room at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport and chose not to run again in 2008. But by then, the group's aggressive use of campaign donations and candidate "report cards" had achieved a virtual lock on Republican caucuses.

That left Dingell increasingly marginalized in the gun debate. For a time, his connections were useful to Democrats; in 2007, after the shooting deaths of 32 people at Virginia Tech, he helped secure NRA support to strengthen the collection of mental health records for background checks.

By December 2012, when Adam Lanza, 20, shot to death 20 children and six adults at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Connecticut, any vestige of good will between the NRA and Democrats was gone. When House Democrats created a Gun Violence Prevention Task Force, they included Dingell, then 86, as one of 11 vice chairs, but his input was limited.

A few days earlier, he had privately conferred with NRA representatives. Handwritten notes show that they discussed congressional support for new restrictions and the NRA's desire to delay legislation: "Need to buy time to put together package can vote for, and get support, also for sensitivities to die down," the notes said.

Three months later, a bipartisan gun control proposal failed after implacable resistance from the NRA. It was not until June 2022, after the Uvalde shooting, that a major firearms bill was passed — the first in almost 30 years. The legislation, which had minimal Republican support and fell far short of what Democrats had sought, required more private gun sellers to obtain licenses and perform background checks, and funded state "red flag" laws allowing police to seize firearms from dangerous people.

By the time Dingell retired from the House in 2015, his views on gun policy had evolved, according to his wife, who said he no longer trusted the NRA.

"I can't tell you how many nights I heard him talking to people about how the NRA was going too far, how they didn't understand the times," Debbie Dingell said. "He was a deep believer in the Second Amendment, and at the end he still deeply believed, but he also saw the world was changing."

In June 2016, after 49 people were killed in a mass shooting at an Orlando, Florida, nightclub, Debbie Dingell joined fellow Democrats in occupying the House floor as a protest. When she gave a speech, in the middle of the night, she broached the difference of opinion on guns she had with her husband.

John Dingell, too, briefly addressed that tension in a memoir published shortly before he died. He recalled that as he watched a recording of his wife's speech the following morning, "I thought about all the votes I'd taken, all the bills I'd supported," and "whether the gun debate had gotten too polarized."

"As Debbie had said with such passion the night before, 'Can't we have a discussion?'" he wrote. "And I thought about the role I know I played in contributing to that polarization."