A Public Man Who Wrote His Own Story   

Victor Crawford knew the press, and in the end he used it for an extraordinary mission.

Even after they sent him to the morgue, Victor Crawford punched out Mr. Butts. It was a great exit.

Victor was a fighter all the way. He loved the sights, sounds and smells of battle.

For 16 years he was a shrewd, progressive state legislator in Maryland: a dapper man favoring expensive three-piece suits, often seen with cigar in hand. For much longer he practiced law, savoring the think-on-your-feet wit and theatricality of the criminal courtroom. His favorite jokes – he told them with great style – were about quick, devastating ripostes.

You heard about him, probably, when the national press reported his death or during the year before. By then he had seized his moment, gaunt and ravaged by cancer from heavy cigarette smoking, to tell his story, far and wide. He knew how to do that.

As I knew him, he didn't much like or understand the press. But he did know how to play it. So I write about him here as a great example of The Natural: the politician who makes himself a source par excellence, who knows what the press will go for and how to do it with power and pith.

When he retired from the Maryland Senate one reporter said: "We've just lost the best third paragraph in Annapolis." He was the one you called when you wanted the terse summary and meaning, and he could be counted on to respond with flair.

After that he was a hired gun for the tobacco industry, a contract lobbyist. He seemed to be a walking example of the delights of smoking.

His cancer treatments had been underway for a long time before he was persuaded to turn his tongue and talents against cigarette smoking. By then he was wearing a wig and walking with a cane, but still one of the world's outgoing charmers, exuding energy, going to court, bounding around with wife Linda to good restaurants and the theater.

As for the tobacco people, he said as he began his last campaign: "What can they do to me now?"

He caught the eye of the press from state to state, appealing for antismoking laws in California, Florida and elsewhere. "60 Minutes" interviewed him. President Clinton had him as a guest on his Saturday radio program. In Maryland he was shown steadying himself on metal sticks as the governor signed another bill tightening smoking laws.

How could anybody resist? He had become The Unavoidable Story: the advocate of a death industry who was dying of its poison, a man with one last mission who disarmed reporters before they could finish asking whether he shouldn't accept some of the responsibility. Yes, he would say, he had known cigarettes killed people, "I did it for the money."

In telling stories, we use human drama, icons, irony, imagery, sometimes tragedy. It's too bad the press didn't start a lot earlier to tell people about nicotine.

Victor Crawford couldn't have been the first person paid by the tobacco industry who died from smoking. But he was the one who saw a final mission, and he knew what to do with the press. He used it once again, and once again it used him. (Why do we have to be so dependent?)

He thought about having a Mr. Butts come to his memorial service. But then he decided to leave out that paragraph.