Mr. Speaker, I yield myself as much time as I may consume. Mr. Speaker, I rise in support of H.R. 4411, the Internet Gambling Prohibition Act. I would like to thank Mr. Leach and Mr. Goodlatte for…
Mr. Speaker, I yield myself as much time as I may consume.
Mr. Speaker, I rise in support of H.R. 4411, the Internet Gambling Prohibition Act.
I would like to thank Mr. Leach and Mr. Goodlatte for their hard work on bringing this bill to the House floor. It certainly has not been an easy task.
I would like to thank Mr. Frank, our ranking member on the Financial Services Committee, for the opportunity to manage this debate. Even though he and I do not see eye to eye on this legislation, I appreciate and respect the fact that we have agreed to disagree, and I welcome a healthy debate on enforcement of the illegal Internet gambling laws.
Internet gambling is a growing problem in the United States, particularly among young people and college students. It is known to destroy families, marriages and entire lives. As so aptly put by University of Illinois Professor John Kindt, ``You just click the mouse and lose your house.''
This legislation makes clear that we are serious about enforcing our Internet gambling laws that are already on the books. It takes a very important step forward, and we have worked very hard on the Financial Services Committee over the last few Congresses to advance this measure.
This bill cuts off the flow of money to Internet gambling Web sites by regulating payment systems. The Department of Treasury and the Federal Reserve will jointly develop policies and procedures for identifying and preventing financial transactions related to illegal Internet gambling. Payment systems will be required to comply with these regulations.
Even when criminal law cannot be enforced, the Federal Government's jurisdiction over financial systems can nevertheless cut off the money sources for these illegal businesses.
I believe we should mean what we say when it comes to Internet gambling. If we are to keep laws on the books that prohibit Internet gambling, then we should take steps to enforce it. And by cutting off the flow of money, we can accomplish just that.
As was previously noted, this bill is supported by 48 of the 50 State attorneys general, by the NCAA, the NBA, the NFL, the MLB and the NHL. It is a good bill and a commonsense approach to a growing problem. I urge my colleagues to end the flow of money to illegal Internet gambling Web sites, and I urge passage of this bill.
Mr. Speaker, I reserve the balance of my time.
Mr. Speaker, I yield 4 minutes to the gentleman from Massachusetts (Mr. Frank), the ranking member on the Financial Services Committee.
Mr. Speaker, I yield 2 minutes to the gentleman from Texas (Mr. Paul).
(Mr. PAUL asked and was given permission to revise and extend his remarks.)
Mr. Speaker, I have no further requests for time, and I reserve the balance of my time.
Mr. Speaker, I yield myself such time as I may consume.
I just have to clarify a few things that have been said. First of all, this bill is about enforcing the law that is already on the books. This is not about prohibiting gambling. States can regulate their own gambling. They can regulate Internet gambling. This is about enforcing the laws.
We had a hearing in Financial Services where the FBI Director was in front of us and he said this is a significant vehicle for money laundering. GAO reports that Internet gambling can be a significant vehicle for money laundering proceeds because they can move large quantities of money around rapidly to obscure criminal origins. Internet gambling generates over $10 billion in revenues. Nearly 80 percent of those revenues are impossible to account for because illegal gambling sites are located in jurisdictions with no regulation on gambling.
This allows States the prerogative to decide what kind of gambling should be permitted or forbidden within the State borders. Some States say you cannot gamble; other States say you can. The attorneys general of 48 States have said they are in support of this legislation. It will make online gambling impossible for minors. Minors cannot go into brick and mortar facilities right now. It should, in fact, make it inaccessible for minors.
It recognizes the jurisdictional impediments for prosecuting offshore gambling businesses. Financial systems will be required to block money flow to these businesses, cutting off the oxygen for these illegal transactions.
Mr. Speaker, I reserve the balance of my time.
Mr. Speaker, I yield myself the balance of my time to close.
First of all, in my opening statement there was a person I forgot to thank who has carried this banner in Financial Services for a long time, Mr. Bachus from Alabama. I thank you for all the hard work you have done on this.
In closing, Mr. Speaker, I would like to share some interesting facts from an article written for the New York Times by Matt Schwartz.
Researchers say that Internet gambling is addictive. Players say it is addictive. In fact, the action, the act of placing a bet, and the high that follows has been identified by neurologists as a similar high to doing a line of cocaine. Blood rushes to the face, the hands moisten, and the mouth dries up.
Internet gambling has also dramatically changed the face of addiction. An estimated 1.6 million of the 17 million U.S. college students gambled online last year, mostly on poker. According to a study by the Annenberg Public Policy Center, the number of college males who reported gambling online once or more a week quadrupled in the last year alone. This is a growing addiction.
The stereotypical compulsive gambler is now much more likely to be a teenager or a college student. Before
the rise of online gambling, the typical compulsive gambler was in his thirties or forties and took a decade to run the destructive course. Now online gamblers are running the same course in 18 months or less.
These facts are disturbing and highlight the need for action by this Congress. Again, this bill is a commonsense approach that cuts off the flow of money to Internet gambling Web sites by regulating the payment systems.
And, again, we have to remember these laws are already on the books. What we are trying to do is enforce the laws. The Department of the Treasury and the Federal Reserve will jointly develop policies and procedures for identifying and preventing financial transactions related to illegal Internet gambling. Payment systems will be required to comply with these regulations. Again, States are allowed to regulate gambling within their own States.
I urge my colleagues to end the flow of money to illegal Internet gambling Web sites, and I urge the passage of H.R. 4411.
[From the New York Times, June 11, 2006]
Chapter 2: The Gambler; The Hold-'Em Holdup
(By Mattathias Schwartz)
Greg Hogan Jr. was on tilt. For months now, Hogan, a 19-
year-old Lehigh University sophomore, had been on tilt, and
he would remain on tilt for weeks to come. Alone at the
computer, usually near the end of one of his long online
gambling sessions, the thought ``I'm on tilt'' would occur to
him. Dude, he'd tell himself, you gotta stop. These thoughts
sounded the way a distant fire alarm sounds in the middle of
a warm bath. He would ignore them and go back to playing
poker. ``The side of me that said, `Just one more hand,' was
the side that always won,'' he told me months later. ``I
couldn't get away from it, not until all my money was gone.''
In a little more than a year, he had lost $7,500 playing
poker online.
``Tilt'' is the poker term for a spell of insanity that
often follows a run of bad luck. The tilter goes berserk,
blindly betting away whatever capital he has left in an
attempt to recoup his losses. Severe tilt can spill over past
the poker table, resulting in reputations, careers and
marriages being tossed away like so many chips. This is the
kind of tilt Hogan had, tilt so indiscriminate that one
Friday afternoon this past December, while on his way to see
``The Chronicles of Narnia'' with two of his closest friends,
he cast aside the Greg Hogan everyone knew--class president,
chaplain's assistant, son of a Baptist minister--and became
Greg Hogan, the bank robber.
On Dec. 9, 2005, Hogan went to see ``Narnia'' with Kip
Wallen, Lehigh's student-senate president, and Matt
Montgomery, Hogan's best friend, in Wallen's black Ford
Explorer. Hogan, who was sitting in front, asked Wallen to
find a bank so he could cash a check, and Wallen pulled over
at a small, oatmeal-colored Wachovia. Inside, Hogan paused at
the counter for a moment and then joined the line. He handed
the teller a note that said he had a gun, which was a bluff.
``Are you kidding?'' her face seemed to say. He did his best
to look as if he weren't. With agonizing slowness, she began
assembling the money. Moments later, a thin sheaf of bills
appeared in the tray: $2,871. Hogan stuffed it into his
backpack, turned around and walked back out to the car.
The movie ended, and the trio returned to campus. Hogan
went immediately to Sigma Phi Epsilon, his fraternity, and
used some of the stolen money to pay back brothers who had
lent him hundreds of dollars. He then joined a few friends at
an off-campus pizzeria for dinner. Someone's cellphone rang,
with the news that police had stormed the Sig Ep house. No
one knew why. Hogan stayed silent. After dinner, his friends
dropped him off at orchestra practice. Allentown police
officers were waiting for him. They handcuffed him and took
him to headquarters, where he confessed almost immediately.
Hogan's first call was to his parents back home in Ohio.
They had just finished eating dinner at T.G.I. Friday's. ``He
was at the end of himself,'' Greg Hogan Sr. told me. ``He
couldn't believe he had done it. Not that he was denying
anything, but he felt like he was watching another person's
life.''
To wired college students today, Internet gambling is as
familiar as beer, late-night pizza and the Saturday night
hook-up. Poker--particularly Texas hold 'em--is the game of
choice. Freshmen arrive already schooled by ESPN in the
legend of Chris Moneymaker, the dough-faced 27-year-old
accountant who deposited $40 into his PokerStars.com account
and parlayed it into a $2.5 million win at the World Series
of Poker in Las Vegas. Throughout the dorms and computer labs
and the back rows of 100-level lecture halls you can hear the
crisp wsshhp, wsshhp, wsshhp of electronic hands being dealt
as more than $2 billion in untaxed revenue is sucked into
overseas accounts each year.
Researchers say that Internet poker is addictive. Players
say that it's addictive. The federal government says that
it's illegal. But colleges have done little to stop its
spread on campus. Administrators who would never consider
letting Budweiser install taps in dorm rooms have made high-
speed Internet access a standard amenity, putting every
student with a credit card minutes away from 24-hour high-
stakes gambling. Online casinos advertise heavily on sites
directed at college students like CollegeHumor.com, where
students post pictures of themselves playing online poker
during lectures with captions like: ``Gambling while in
class. Who doesn't think that wireless Internet is the
greatest invention ever?'' Some schools have allowed sites to
establish a physical on-campus presence by sponsoring live
cash tournaments; the sites partner with fraternities and
sports teams, even give away a semester's tuition, all as
inducements to convert the casual dorm-lounge poker player to
a steady online customer. An unregulated network of offshore
businesses has been given unfettered access to students, and
the students have been given every possible accommodation to
bet and lose to their hearts' content. Never before have the
means to lose so much been so available to so many at such a
young age.
An estimated 1.6 million of 17 million U.S. college
students gambled online last year, mostly on poker. According
to a study by the Annenberg Public Policy Center, the number
of college males who reported gambling online once a week or
more quadrupled in the last year alone. ``The kids really
think they can log on and become the next world champion,''
says Jeffrey Derevensky, who studies youth problem gambling
at McGill University in Montreal. ``This is an enormous
social experiment. We don't really know what's going to
happen.''
Greg Hogan is far from the only college student to see the
game's role in his life grow from a hobby to a destructive
obsession. Researchers from the University of Connecticut
Health Center interviewed a random sample of 880 college
students and found that 1 out of every 4 of the 160 or so
online gamblers in the study fit the clinical definition of a
pathological gambler, suggesting that college online-poker
addicts may number in the hundreds of thousands. Many, like
Lauren Patrizi, a 21-year-old senior at Loyola University in
Chicago, have had weeks when they're playing poker during
most of their waking hours. Rarely leaving their rooms, they
take their laptops with them to bed, fall asleep each night
in the middle of a hand and think, talk and dream nothing but
poker. By the time Patrizi finally quit, the game seemed to
be both the cause of all her problems and her only means of
escaping them. ``I kept on playing so I wouldn't have to look
at what poker had done to my bank account, my relationships,
my life,'' she told me.
Other addicts, like Alex Alkula, a 19-year-old living
outside Columbus, Ohio, decide to ``go pro,'' drop out of
school and wind up broke and sleeping on their friends'
couches. Alkula, who left the Art Institute of Pittsburgh
after five months, now makes his living dealing hold 'em in
private home games and organizing tournaments in bars. Having
overdrawn four bank accounts, Alkula can no longer play
online himself. But when he gets home from work at 3 or 4 in
the morning, he turns on his computer, clicks on Full Tilt
Poker and watches the players' cards flicker on the screen
until dawn. ``I can't get away from it,'' he told me. ``And
really, I don't want to. I'll keep playing poker even if it
means being broke for the rest of my life. I've fallen in
love with the game.''
In its outline, Hogan's story closely resembles that of the
stereotypical compulsive gambler. Before the rise of online
poker, however, such a story typically involved a man in his
30's or 40's and took a decade or more to run its course.
Greg Hogan, on the other hand, went from class president to
bank robber in 16 months. His fall took place not at the
blackjack table or the track but within the familiar privacy
of his computer screen, where he was seldom more than a
minute away from his next hand of poker. He'd been brought up
too well to waste himself in some smoky gambling den and knew
too much to play a mere game of chance. He wanted to compete
against his peers, to see his superior abilities yield
dollars for the first time, a transaction he equated with
adulthood. His stubborn faith in his own ability--a trait
that had served him so well through his first 19 years--
proved to be his undoing.
Today's ruined gamblers are often too young to know any
better--too young, in fact, to legally gamble in most U.S.
casinos. Until now, these young addicts were ignored by the
news media, which swooned over the top of the poker pyramid,
the Chris Moneymakers and the ESPN heroes, the guys in the
wraparound sunglasses and the cowboy hats who made the
hustler's art seem somehow noble and athletic. No one was
interested in whose losses keep the poker economy humming,
not until a Baptist minister's son robbed a bank.
A minister's eldest boy learns to perform early in life. On
Sundays, Greg's mother, Karen, would dress him and his two
brothers in matching slacks and blazers and take them and
their sister to hear Greg Sr. preach. The congregation looked
on as the boys followed Greg Jr's polite, attentive example.
Schooled at home through eighth grade, the straw-haired,
blue-eyed boy emulated his father's steady gaze, the soft but
firm quality in his voice. He saw that others would come to
rely on him if he revealed only his strongest side. When Greg
Sr. ran
for City Council, Greg Jr. enlisted his playmates to help him
campaign door to door. Neighbors began calling Greg ``the
General.'' When it came to music, Greg was like a boat on a
still pond--one small push from his parents and he'd glide on
toward the goal. Karen, a psychiatric nurse, started him on
the piano at 5. Greg Sr. worked a second job to help pay for
$50-an-hour private music lessons for his daughter and three
boys. By 13, Greg had twice played onstage at Carnegie Hall.
Music won him a scholarship to the prestigious University
School, a day school outside Cleveland, where his classmates
noticed his oddly mature ways and dubbed him ``the 30-year-
old man.'' By graduation, he'd developed something of an ego.
``Greg will always be a people person,'' wrote his adviser in
an evaluation letter. ``Perhaps he should set his sights a
little lower and just become president of the United
States.''
Hogan, who had palled around with the sons of bank
executives at his high school, threw himself into this new
environment. Even before his father had said goodbye to head
back to Ohio, Greg announced his plan to run for class
president. He played his first hands of live hold 'em with
real money that night, a way to break the ice with the guys
from his hall in the dorm lounge. A few weeks later, guided
by one of his roommate's friends, Hogan opened his first
online-poker account at PokerStars.com. He chose a screen
name that would carry his new school's banner all around the
world: geelehigh. He'd met someone from two floors down who
had lost $100--a fortune, it seemed--online. He decided to
stick to the play-money tables. Within 10 minutes, Hogan was
playing his first online hands.
A few days later he met another friend of his roommate's.
Hogan claims that he remembers only his nickname, Phys. When
he turned 21, Phys told Hogan, he would plunk down $10,000
and become the youngest player ever to win poker's greatest
prize--the World Series of Poker No Limit Texas Hold 'Em
bracelet. He then showed Hogan where he planned on getting
that kind of money. He clicked on the PokerStars icon on
Hogan's computer, typed in a user name and password, clicked
on ``Cashier.'' And there it was, Phys's ``real money''
balance: more than $160,000. Hogan clucked his tongue. ``Un-
be-lievable,'' he said, almost to himself. He knew that the
money was indeed real. All Phys had to do was click on the
``Cash Out'' button and wait two weeks, and he'd receive a
six-figure check in the mail. Four years' tuition, sitting
there like a high score. It was absurd.
The next week, geelehigh used his debit card to make a $75
PokerStars deposit. He received a $25 ``deposit bonus,''
which wouldn't clear until he'd played several hundred hands.
The money was real now, but it still felt as ephemeral as it
did at the play-money tables: $100 was a digitized chip icon,
an oval of black pixels on his computer screen. Green ovals
were $25, red ovals $5. All were smaller than a grain of
rice. When Hogan clicked on the ``Bet'' or ``Raise'' buttons,
the chips made a chik sound and floated across the glowing
table before melting into the pot. These tiny digital chips
represented money controlled by a corporation in Costa Rica.
The ``cards'' themselves were really just bits of data,
``shuffled'' by a random-number generator on a Mohawk Indian
reservation in Quebec. The nine players at Hogan's table were
scattered all over the world, each sitting alone at his
screen, trying to take money from the other eight.
Eventually, in chunks of $50, then $100, he took two summers'
earnings, money his parents had given him for books and
expenses, hundreds of dollars in loans from friends, $2,000
in savings bonds bought in his name (bonds he took from the
family safe) and turned it into digital chips: $7,500 in all.
Online, Hogan would play 60 to 100 hands an hour--three
times the number of his live games. There was no more
shuffling between hands, no more 30-second gaps to chat with
his friends or consider quitting. Each hand interlocked with
the next. The effect was paralyzing, narcotic. ``Internet
poker induces a trancelike state,'' says Derevensky, the
McGill professor, who once treated a l7-year-old Canadian boy
who lost $30,000, much of it at PokerStars. ``The player
loses all track of time, where they are, what they're
doing.'' When I spoke with an online hold-'em player from
Florida who had lost a whopping $250,000 online, he told me:
``It fried my brain. I would roll out of bed, go to my
computer and stay there for 20 hours. One night after I went
to sleep, my dad called. I woke up instantly, picked up the
phone and said, `I raise.' ''
A raked poker game cannot survive unless some players
either overestimate their abilities or are willing to keep
playing despite consistent losses. Fish, then, are the chum
that keeps the rest of the poker ecosystem alive. Poker
message boards monitor which sites are teeming with
geelehighs and which have been leached dry. To stay in
business, sites must attract fish, hold them for as long as
possible and replace them when they go broke. According to
Mike Shichtman, a professional gambler who consults for the
online site Pacific Poker, there is ``giant concern'' in the
industry that the total number of fish may be dwindling. It
is, he adds, a trend that can be reversed only by tapping new
markets.
In a few weeks, Hogan had run his initial $75 up to $300.
Then, in November, came ``the hand that got me hooked.''
Hogan drew a king-high flush and bet all $300. When his
opponent called the bet and showed his ace-high flush, Hogan
felt an impotent rage that broke on his forehead and coursed
through his body. Tilt. He cursed, shut down the program in
disgust and vowed never to play online again. Four days
later, however, he felt the traces of an urge as visceral as
the need to eat.
Hogan was craving ``action,'' the gambler's drug. ``Getting
action'' is the act of placing a bet; being ``in action'' is
the high that follows, a state of arousal that neurologists
have likened to doing a line of cocaine. Blood rushes to the
face, the hands moisten, the mouth dries up. Time slows down
to a continuous present, an unending series of build-ups and
climaxes. The gains and losses begin to feel the same. Action
had already appeared intermittently in Hogan's life--when he
cheered the Ohio State Buckeyes through the last seconds of
overtime, when his father called him with Lehigh's admissions
decision in hand. Poker gave him the same rush whenever he
wanted it, for hours on end.
Back in Ohio, Hogan's October bank statement arrived with
two $50 PSTARS withdrawals. His father called, asked why he'd
waste money like that. Greg promised to stop. He played again
that day. He had not and would not read any of the half-dozen
books that together give a rough grasp of how hard hold-em is
to master. He had no idea that many of his opponents were
self-styled professionals using a special program called
Poker Tracker to analyze betting patterns and seek out fish
like geelehigh. There were always some of these pros online,
some playing 8 or 12 tables at once to leverage their
advantage. They were waiting for him the night Lehigh's
football team lost to rival Lafayette, when Hogan, who'd
organized a cheering section, felt a little down and once
again pushed aside his father's warnings. They followed him
home over Thanksgiving weekend in November 2004, where, amid
the clutter of his father's small basement office, he watched
the World Series of Poker on TV, never changed out of his
pajamas and played online for 10 hours a day. He lost $1,500,
every penny he'd taken to school with him. Upstairs, the
Hogans wondered what was wrong with their son.
``It's just play money, Dad,'' he told his father, who
learned the truth when an overdraft notice arrived from
Greg's bank. Greg Jr.'s phone rang the moment he returned to
Lehigh. It was Greg Sr., who reminded Greg that the $1,500
had come from friends and relatives who didn't give it to him
so he could gamble it. Hogan, distraught, e-mailed Phys and
begged him to cover the loss. Phys agreed, so long as Greg
would stop playing. ``You're a fish,'' he said. ``You need to
stop.''
Greg had begun to daydream about poker during student-
council meetings, at orchestra practice, whenever he had a
free moment. Soon, Phys's $1,500 had melted away. Hogan's
parents arranged for him to meet with a Lehigh counselor. He
was told that live poker was harmless but to stay away from
online. For a time, the counseling worked. Hogan did not
gamble during spring semester. But that summer, back at home
in Ohio, Hogan was checking up on his friends at Facebook.com
when he saw a PartyPoker ad: make a $50 deposit, get a $50
bonus. He'd been coveting a red Jeep and remembered the times
he'd run $100 up to $500. Ten $500 sessions, get the
Cherokee, don't tilt and quit. And he did win, at first.
Then, as always, his opponents began to outmaneuver him. ``I
kept going back online, depositing another $50, winning,
withdrawing,'' he recalls. ``It happened a few times, but
then I wouldn't be withdrawing. And then I'd just keep
putting money in 'cause I kept losing.''
In July, at his parents' behest, Hogan attended a few
Cleveland-area Gamblers Anonymous meetings, which proved
handy when a friend took him to a Canadian casino to play
live poker. He found it easy to play a disciplined game under
the appraising eyes of older strangers and won $500. The G.A.
meetings had taught him to recognize the fish at the table.
Except for the one sitting in his seat.
Back at Lehigh that September, Hogan sometimes found
himself shoehorning counseling meetings between online-poker
sessions. To his friends and professors he was a terrific
success, the easygoing leader who organized landscaping
projects around the Sig Ep house and hobnobbed with Lehigh's
wealthy trustees at dinner parties. But to his parents, his
situation was growing desperate. Hogan had reneged on his
promise to attend G.A. meetings in Bethlehem. Withdrawals and
overdrafts continued to appear on his bank statements. ``I
really don't want to do this anymore, but I don't know how to
stop,'' Greg told his father. Greg Sr. then made the six-hour
drive from Ohio to install a $99 program called GamBlock on
his son's computer. Highly regarded among gambling
counselors, GamBlock makes it impossible for users to access
any Internet casinos. (The company's founder, David Warr,
says that half of his customer base, which he will only put
in the ``thousands,'' is connected to a college or
university.)
Hogan soon found a way to circumvent GamBlock, gambling by
night in the library's computer lounges. ``It was funny to
see how many other kids were playing,'' he says. ``By this
point I didn't really care so much who saw me.'' Greg Sr.
realized what was happening and asked the administration to
lock poker sites out of the public terminals. He says he was
told that nothing could be done. As November approached, the
wall Hogan had built between his Lehigh life and his poker
life had begun to crack. He would
borrow $100 or $200 from his fraternity brothers and fail to
pay them back by his self-imposed deadlines. He would skip
classes and meetings for long binges in the fraternity
lounge, gambling through the night and catching a few hours'
sleep before noon. People he hardly knew were asking him what
was the matter. On Oct. 19, when a fellow Sig Ep sent the
house an e-mail asking if anyone wanted to try to hit a
record Powerball jackpot, Greg sent this reply, a message
that went to all 60 of his brothers: ``O what the hell, maybe
my bad luck can change??? Please God??''
The end came quickly, a weeklong series of 14-hour binges
at the end of November. ``There was very little thinking,''
he told me. ``I'd get up and lose it. Get up, make another
deposit, lose it again. As soon as I lost, I had to get more
money in my account immediately. My whole body was shaking as
I waited for the program to load, I wanted to play so
badly.'' On Nov. 30, 2005, he lost the last $150 in his
account during a six-hour session in the Sig Ep lounge that
ended when a friend told him dinner was ready. ``I was up
about $500, and I was like, `I'll play two more hands,''
Hogan says. ``Then one more hand, and one more after that.
And in those last three or four hands, I lost it all. All the
muscles in my body gave way.'' He fell asleep, completely
broke. All his poker accounts were at zero. His checking
account had a negative balance. At the Sig Ep winter social,
the fraternity treasurer told Hogan he would be kicked out if
he failed to come up with $200 in social fees. Having bailed
him out twice before, Greg's parents refused to give him the
money and were considering pulling him out of Lehigh
altogether. Hogan spent the next week wandering around the
Sig Ep house in a daze, skipping classes and drinking himself
into a stupor each night.
``It was the weirdest thing I've ever experienced in my
life,'' he said. ``Like an out-of-body experience. I was
watching myself walk around. Watching myself go and eat food.
Watching myself take a shower, but not actually doing
those things. I remember looking in the mirror, and it was
not me I was seeing in the reflection.''
The night before the bank robbery, Greg spoke with his
father one last time. Greg Sr. remembers what he heard in his
son's voice. The tiredness. The lack of presence.
``Greg,'' he asked, ``are you gambling?'' Greg said what he
always said. ``Nah, Dad. It's been a while since I've done
any of that.'' Greg Sr. had gotten used to his son's half-
truths, the ``wishing out loud,'' as he calls it. He knew it
was useless to press further. ``O.K., Gregory. I love you.
Good night.''
I met Greg Hogan Jr. for breakfast one morning this spring,
at a diner a few miles from Lehigh. (As Hogan was in the
process of negotiating a plea with the county's D.A., I
agreed to ask him only about poker and refer all questions
about the day of the bank robbery to his attorney.) He had
recently completed an inpatient gambling-treatment program in
Louisiana, where he wasn't allowed to have more than $5 on
him at any time. ``I haven't played a hand of poker in 90
days,'' he said, with a recovering addict's confessional
cheer. He is 20, but his jowly face and all-business baritone
make him seem much older. Take away the American Eagle shirt
and the Ohio State Buckeyes cap and he'd resemble a young,
pale Harry Truman.
Beside us sat Greg Sr. and Karen, still fuming over media
accounts that they are ``affluent.'' On the contrary, they
have scrimped to put children through college. After paying
Greg's treatment costs, legal fees and bank debts, they
expect to be out $35,000. Hogan's lawyer has been fielding
calls from bookers at ``Oprah,'' ``Montel'' and ``Good
Morning America,'' all drawn in by the irresistible ``good
kid robs bank'' story.
Some $60 billion was bet last year in online poker games,
two-thirds of which came from the United States. The vast
majority of this money moves from player to player. About $3
billion wound up as revenue in the form of rake, a figure
that is growing by about 20 percent per year, making poker
the fastest-growing segment of the $12 billion online-
gambling industry. Unlike their brick-and-mortar
counterparts, online casinos don't have to pay for dealers,
free drinks or air-conditioning, and they enjoy profit
margins as high as 60 percent.
There are more than 400 online card rooms operating today,
offering every variety of poker game and every level of
stakes. Hold 'em, the most popular game, can be played for
anywhere from pennies to tens of thousands of dollars a hand.
Like pornography before it, gambling is shedding its stigma,
transitioning from the black market to Wall Street, from a
back-room vice to ubiquitous ``content.'' PartyGaming, the
largest operator, is valued at about $10 billion on the
London Stock Exchange. Its shares are held by Goldman Sachs,
Merrill Lynch and other top Wall Street firms. Five years
from now, if the plans of PartyGaming and other Internet
casinos come to pass, consumers will be able to place bets on
their cellphones and P.D.A.'s while waiting for a table in a
restaurant.
The public visibility of online-poker seems to be growing
as fast as its revenues. Calvin Ayre, the globetrotting
founder of the online card room and sports-betting site
Bodog.com, spends $50 million a year promoting himself and
his company as a Hefner-like lifestyle brand. He has run ads
in Esquire and Vice magazine and on Gawker Media's sites in
which Ayre himself often appears as a dapper, rakish
bachelor, personally embodying both the new poker wealth and
the rewards his younger customers hope the game might
bring. The image has caught on--this March he appeared on
the cover of Forbes's Billionaires issue.
While the Department of Justice maintains that online poker
violates U.S. laws, not a single player or site has been
indicted, and online gambling remains as available as pirated
music. To shut down Internet gambling, the D.O.J. would
either have to start monitoring what we download from the
Internet or raid legal, licensed businesses in Antigua,
Britain, Costa Rica and other countries where it has no
jurisdiction. The D.O.J. has succeeded in persuading some
credit-card companies to stop financing online-poker
accounts, but this hasn't stopped the flow of rake overseas.
U.S. players simply move funds through offshore third-party
``e-wallets'' like Neteller and Firepay, which charge a small
fee and then pass the money on to the sites.
``The Department of Justice takes the position that online
poker is illegal,'' says the former U.S. attorney Jim Martin,
who led the first phases of the department's campaign against
online-gambling advertising. ``But I don't think they have
much of a motive to go after individual bettors at all.''
Analysts say that online gambling's gray legal status
allows operators to avoid paying more than $7 billion a year
in federal taxes. And $7 billion is a lot of tax money to
leave on the table--nearly half of NASA's budget for next
year. It's probably too much for this ambiguous state of
affairs to continue for much longer. Late last month, the
House Judiciary Committee approved a bill introduced by
Representative Bob Goodlatte that would make it harder--but
far from impossible--for players to move their money
offshore, while leaving the question of domestic online
gambling to the states. With Congress unlikely to pass any
law authorizing federal oversight of our online activities,
Internet gambling's near future appears as healthy as illegal
downloading's. In the long term, the federal government's
response is likely to resemble either its response to
tobacco, with high taxes and more rigorous controls over
marketing and access to young people, or to marijuana, a
costly and mostly fruitless campaign to eradicate a demand-
driven business by cutting off the supply.
With plenty of disposable income and spare time, college
students constitute one of the gambling industry's most
coveted demographics. ``We've been surprised by this natural,
organic groundswell of demand from the college audience,''
says Jason Reindorp, marketing director for
AbsolutePoker.com, which gave away a semester's tuition to
the winner of a college-only online tournament and promoted
its Web site at halftime during N.C.A.A. basketball
tournament games. Like many sites, AbsolutePoker.com enlists
players in multilevel marketing programs. Known as
``affiliates,'' players are rewarded with a $75 bonus or a
percentage of the rake each time they find AbsolutePoker a
new customer. Reindorp says that AbsolutePoker relies on
students to make sure all this jibes with campus policy.
``The student audience is very responsible,'' he says. ``They
know how to avoid getting into trouble by breaking their
school's rules, just like they know how to avoid playing
beyond their means.''
I'd heard the same from almost every online player I'd
spoken with: I lose big, I win big, but at the end of the
day, I come out ahead. Johnson did know one losing player
who'd lost several thousand dollars and had to take a $6.25-
an-hour job at this very smoothie shop to pay for his books.
Johnson said Hogan never had much of a reputation among
Lehigh's hard-cord poker players. ``The funny thing is, he
wasn't even in that deep,'' he told me. ``Five thousand is
nothing. I know whole halls full of kids who play the
thousand-dollar buy-in No Limit tables. If everyone did the
same thing when they lost five large,'' he added with a
chuckle, ``well, there'd be a lot more bank robberies.''
Mr. Speaker, I yield back the balance of my time.