Abscam

Based on Wikipedia: Abscam

"I've got larceny in my blood. I'd take it in a goddamn minute."

That was Congressman John Jenrette's response when an undercover Federal Bureau of Investigation agent asked if he'd accept a bribe from a wealthy Arab sheikh. The sheikh wasn't real. The bribe was. And Jenrette had no idea he was being recorded.

Welcome to Abscam—one of the most audacious sting operations in American history, where fake Arab billionaires, a convicted con artist, and hidden cameras brought down seven members of Congress in what became the largest political corruption scandal since Watergate.

A Con Artist and His Fake Sheikhs

The whole thing started, as many strange government operations do, with something else entirely. In March 1978, the FBI's Long Island office launched an investigation into stolen art, forgery, and trafficking in stolen property. They needed someone who understood how criminals think, so they recruited Melvin Weinberg.

Weinberg was a professional swindler. He'd spent his career running elaborate cons, and he was facing prison time when the FBI came calling. In exchange for his help, they'd let him out on probation. It was an offer he couldn't refuse.

Together with his girlfriend Evelyn Knight, Weinberg helped the FBI create Abdul Enterprises, a company that existed only on paper. FBI agents posed as wealthy Arab sheikhs—Kambir Abdul Rahman and Yassir Habib—who supposedly had millions of dollars burning holes in their pockets. To make it convincing, the FBI deposited one million dollars in a Chase Manhattan Bank account under the company's name. In the world of high-stakes fraud, nothing builds credibility quite like a seven-figure bank balance.

The name "Abscam" was the FBI's internal codename, originally a contraction of "Arab scam." When the American-Arab Relations Committee complained about the ethnic implications, officials hastily revised the explanation to "Abdul scam," named after their fictitious company. The damage control was awkward, but by then the operation had taken on a life of its own.

The Pivot to Political Corruption

Here's where things got interesting. The original target was art thieves and forgers. But during the investigation, one of the forgers suggested something to the fake sheikhs: Why not invest in casinos in New Jersey? Atlantic City had just legalized gambling, and licensing could be obtained—for a price.

Suddenly, the FBI wasn't chasing stolen paintings anymore. They were hunting much bigger game.

The scheme was elegant in its simplicity. The "Arab investors" would offer politicians money in exchange for favors: private immigration bills to get fictional Arab businessmen into the country, building permits for casinos in Atlantic City, and various other governmental courtesies that oil money could theoretically require. The going rate started at $100,000 but was eventually negotiated down to $50,000. Apparently, even bribery has a buyer's market.

The first politician to take the bait was Angelo Errichetti, the mayor of Camden, New Jersey. When the sheikh's representatives approached him about business opportunities in Atlantic City, Errichetti didn't hesitate. "I'll give you Atlantic City," he promised. And then he started making introductions.

The Video Revolution

What made Abscam different from previous corruption investigations wasn't just its scale—it was the technology. For the first time in American history, the FBI surreptitiously videotaped government officials accepting bribes. They set up cameras in hotel suites near John F. Kennedy Airport, in a house in Washington's upscale Foxhall neighborhood, on a yacht in Florida, and in hotel rooms scattered across Pennsylvania and New Jersey.

The resulting footage was devastating. There's something uniquely damning about watching an elected official stuff cash into his pockets while the camera rolls. Written testimony can be disputed. Witnesses can recant. But video? Video is forever.

By the middle of 1979, Errichetti had compiled a list of state and federal politicians willing to participate. The FBI agents, still playing their roles as wealthy Arabs, recorded transaction after transaction. The trap was set, baited, and sprung—repeatedly.

The Congressmen Who Said Yes

When the indictments came down in 1980 and the convictions followed in 1981, the scope of the scandal shocked the nation. Six members of the House of Representatives and one United States Senator were convicted of bribery and conspiracy.

Senator Harrison Williams of New Jersey was the biggest fish. He'd worked out an elaborate deal involving a titanium mining operation, arranging to have eighteen percent of the company's shares issued to his lawyer while promising to steer government contracts to the venture using his Senate position. At trial, his lawyers argued that he couldn't have been bribed because the stock in the mining company was worthless—a creative defense that failed to impress the jury.

Williams tried everything to escape conviction. He claimed selective prosecution because he'd supported Ted Kennedy over Jimmy Carter in the Democratic primary. He argued that a prosecution witness had perjured himself. He insisted he'd been entrapped. None of it worked. After 28 hours of deliberation, the jury convicted him.

The Senate Ethics Committee moved to expel Williams—which would have made him the first senator expelled since the Civil War. Before the vote could happen, Williams resigned, proclaiming his innocence and warning his colleagues about "unchecked investigations" by other branches of government. He served two years of a three-year sentence at a federal penitentiary in Newark, then finished his term at a halfway house called Integrity House. The irony of the name was apparently lost on no one. He later sought a presidential pardon from Bill Clinton, who denied the request.

There's a footnote to Williams's story that continues to trouble some observers. Linguistics expert Roger Shuy, who analyzed the recordings, remains convinced of Williams's innocence. In one recording, when an agent disguised as a sheikh directly offered Williams money for help with permanent residence, Williams's immediate response was "No, no, no, no." A prosecution memo at the time apparently stated there was no case against Williams, but the judge set it aside. After the trial, the lead juror said that had he known all the facts, he wouldn't have found Williams guilty. Justice, like politics, can be messy.

The Congressman Who Kept the Money

Representative Michael Myers of Pennsylvania holds a distinction no politician wants: he was the first member of Congress to be expelled since the Civil War. While most of the convicted politicians resigned before they could be removed, Myers held on until the House voted him out.

Frank Thompson of New Jersey, a longtime congressman from Trenton, was the longest-serving member convicted in the scandal. He lost his 1980 reelection campaign to Chris Smith, a relative unknown who'd run as a sacrificial lamb candidate just two years earlier. Smith won by 20,000 votes and has represented that district continuously through the 119th Congress—a political career launched by someone else's corruption.

Richard Kelly of Florida was the sole Republican caught in the net. His defense was creative, if implausible: he claimed he was only pretending to take bribes because he was conducting his own corruption investigation, and the FBI had ruined it. The appeals court was unconvinced. He served thirteen months in prison.

The Ones Who Said No

Not everyone took the bait. And their stories reveal as much about the operation as the convictions do.

Senator Larry Pressler of South Dakota was approached by the fake sheikhs and their money. His response: "Wait a minute, what you are suggesting may be illegal." He immediately reported the incident to the FBI. When Walter Cronkite called him a "hero" on the evening news, Pressler demurred. "I do not consider myself a hero," he said. "What have we come to if turning down a bribe is 'heroic'?"

It's a question worth sitting with.

Congressman John Murtha of Pennsylvania was also videotaped, but the footage told a different story. When offered $50,000 in cash, Murtha said, "I'm not interested, I'm sorry. At this point..." The full tape showed him discussing investment opportunities that could put "500 or 1,000" miners back to work in his district. The Justice Department declined to prosecute, reasoning that Murtha was trying to attract investment rather than pocket bribes. The House Ethics Committee also chose not to file charges, though the panel's special counsel resigned the same day in what was widely interpreted as a protest. Murtha went on to be reelected nineteen times over thirty-six years.

Then there was Bob Guccione, the publisher of Penthouse magazine. He was building a casino and hotel in Atlantic City and needed financing. Weinberg approached him with an offer: an Arab sheikh would invest $150 million if the casino had a gaming license, and for $300,000 in bribes to gaming officials, that license could be arranged. Guccione's response: "Are you out of your mind?" He later sued the federal government over the approach. He lost, but at least he kept his integrity.

The Entrapment Question

The trials were contentious, and the central question they raised still resonates: When does a sting operation cross the line into entrapment?

Defense attorneys argued vigorously that the FBI had manufactured crimes rather than uncovered them. Some judges agreed. But appeals courts consistently upheld the convictions, ruling that the politicians had demonstrated a willingness to take bribes—the FBI had simply provided the opportunity.

The distinction matters. Entrapment occurs when law enforcement induces someone to commit a crime they wouldn't otherwise commit. But if someone is predisposed to criminal behavior and the government merely offers an opportunity, that's considered legitimate undercover work. The courts found that the Abscam defendants had shown themselves all too willing to exchange their votes for cash.

Still, the operation raised troubling questions about how far the government should go. The FBI had, after all, created an elaborate fiction, deposited a million dollars in a fake company's account, and dangled money in front of politicians for months. The line between investigating corruption and manufacturing it can be uncomfortably thin.

The Aftermath

When all was said and done, more than thirty political figures had been investigated. Seven members of Congress were convicted. So were the mayor of Camden, three members of Philadelphia's City Council (including the Council President), and an inspector for the Immigration and Naturalization Service. It was a body blow to public trust in government, coming just a few years after Watergate had already shattered much of that trust.

The operation was run from the FBI's office in Hauppauge, New York, on Long Island, supervised by Assistant Director Neil Welch and Thomas Puccio, who headed the Justice Department's Organized Crime Strike Force for the Eastern District of New York. Their work would reshape how the FBI approached public corruption cases for decades.

Mel Weinberg, the con artist who made it all possible, went back to private life. He'd traded his prison sentence for probation, helped bring down some of the most powerful politicians in America, and demonstrated that his skills as a swindler could serve the public interest—at least when properly directed. It's the kind of moral complexity that defies easy categorization.

What Abscam Revealed

The scandal exposed something uncomfortable about American politics: the ease with which money could buy influence. The politicians caught on tape weren't reluctant participants lured into wrongdoing against their better judgment. Many of them leaped at the opportunity. "I've got larceny in my blood," Jenrette said. "I'd take it in a goddamn minute."

That enthusiasm for corruption was perhaps the most damning revelation of all. These weren't political novices. They were experienced legislators who knew exactly what they were doing and did it anyway, apparently confident they'd never be caught.

Senator Pressler's question echoes across the decades: What have we come to if turning down a bribe is heroic? In a functioning democracy, refusing bribes should be the baseline expectation, not an act of exceptional virtue. Abscam suggested that the baseline had slipped considerably.

The operation also demonstrated the power of video evidence in an age before everyone carried cameras in their pockets. Those grainy recordings of politicians accepting cash were impossible to explain away. They showed, in unforgettable detail, what corruption actually looks like—not as an abstract concept but as hands reaching for money and voices negotiating prices for public trust.

In 2013, the scandal inspired the film "American Hustle," a fictionalized account that captured the era's strange mix of ambition, greed, and elaborate deception. The real story needed no embellishment. A convicted con man, fake Arab sheikhs, hidden cameras, and seven members of Congress going to prison—reality had already outdone anything Hollywood could imagine.

Nearly half a century later, Abscam remains one of the most significant corruption investigations in American history. It proved that no one, not even members of Congress, was above the law. And it posed a question that still demands an answer: In a democracy, what keeps public servants honest when they think no one is watching?

The FBI's hidden cameras provided one answer. The harder question is whether it should have been necessary at all.