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Make no mistake, Lane Grigsby is not involved with politics because it’s fun.

He does not launch and effectively end political careers because of a life-long calling to do his civic duty. He refuses to buy into the idea that he is a kingmaker.

People do not come into his office looking for contributions because Grigsby has more money than he needs and has found a hobby suitable for his ample disposable income.

No, for Grigsby, politics is a personal struggle against a very specific opponent. His scope has certainly expanded over the years, but it all comes back to a single event in the early life of his company, Cajun Constructors.

It is a company to which he has proven to be fiercely loyal, and he has shown he will do and spend whatever it takes to defend it.

“When your whole wherewithal is on the line, the fight’s a little different fight,” Grigsby says. “What we lose here is losing everything you have and potentially losing your life. This is not just a pastime; this becomes a serious focus.”

When he focuses his attention on something, Grigsby isn’t the type to leave any ammunition in the barrel. During the race between Bobby Simpson and Kip Holden for mayor-president, Grigsby transformed BR Next into an anti-Simpson juggernaut. Some of the early supporters of BRnext distanced themselves from the organization, or left it completelty, as a result (see “Leader of the PAC”).

Grigsby cites his ability to make quick decisions without needing to consult others as being vital to his success. All major decisions in his life have come from the heart, he says, despite an engineering and military background that trained him to use logic to solve any problem.

“I represent absolutely the bewilderment of logic,” he says.

Cenla to West Point

Grigsby grew up in Alexandria, living with his mother, sister and aunt at his grandmother’s house. His father left the family when Grigsby was 2 years old, making him one of two children he knew without a father. The other child lost his dad in World War II. “This was a long time before divorce was common,” he says. “Everybody else was the Beaver Cleaver family.”

Grigsby grew up loving sports, but was too small and slow to play. Instead, he spent his time in high school as the manager/trainer of the athletic teams, earning nine letters. The August following his high school graduation, Grigsby ran into the school’s football coach, who inquired where he would be attending college.

“I said, ‘Coach, I’m not going to school,’ ” Grigsby recalls. “ ‘It’s not a possibility. We don’t have any money.’ ”

The next day, Grigsby received a call from LSU Athletic Director Jim Corbett, who told him to get on a bus and come to school. The athletic department had all the trainers and managers it needed, so Grigsby was assigned to kitchen duty in the athletic dorm, where he would work nearly 30 hours every weekend.

Since he never intended to enroll at LSU, or anywhere else for that matter, Grigsby arrived on campus not knowing there was ultimately a purpose for being there. After being instructed to register for classes, Grigsby stood in line for 45 minutes in the Gym Armory until it was his turn with the advisor. He got the first question—what is your name—correct.

What’s your major?

I don’t know what you mean.

What are you going to graduate in?

I’m just coming to college.

You have to declare a major.

Grigsby got out of line and consulted with his roommate, who gave him a quick lesson in earning a degree. Then the two talked of majors. Teacher and doctor were immediately eliminated. The two decided that Grigsby’s skills in math and physics made engineering a good choice.

Forty-five minutes later, he made it through the line and was again greeted by the counselor.

What’s your major going to be?

I’m going to be an engineer.

What kind?

“I didn’t know there were kinds,” Grigsby says. “I’m out of line again.”

Grigsby would eventually decide on chemical engineering, though it proved to be a decision of little consequence. By his third semester working in the kitchen, Grigsby was miserable enough that it took very little convincing when a fellow student suggested quitting school and joining the Merchant Marines.

Grigsby actually wasn’t very keen on the Merchant Marine idea. If he was quitting school, he wanted it to be irreversible. He didn’t want to go to New Orleans only to return because the two couldn’t get onto a ship. Being an avid outdoorsman, Grigsby suggested the two drive to Alaska to become hunting and fishing guides. They left Baton Rouge in October and made a seven-day drive to Seattle.

“This brilliant scheme I have fails to take into consideration that Alaska is cold in the winter,” Grigsby says. The two could go no farther north because the highways to Alaska were closed. With limited options—Boeing wasn’t hiring, and city authorities frowned upon hippies—Grigsby joined the U.S. Army.

He was given two choices when he joined: school or travel. He quickly chose travel, not realizing that the Army’s idea of a tourist destination in 1961 was the border between East and West Germany. Grigsby was sitting in a tank, staring at a similar vehicle of the Russian variety about 500 meters away, when he received the offer to attend the U.S. Military Academy at West Point.

Grigsby’s West Point experience lasted three years. During Christmas break of his second year, he was secretly married to Bobbi Fickes. He was kicked out of the academy when the administration discovered it. Had he stayed, he would have been part of the West Point class of 1966, which saw 30 graduates killed in Vietnam.

He returned to Baton Rouge and earned a civil engineering degree from LSU, where he would later be inducted into the College of Engineering’s Hall of Distinction.

Cajun Constructors has reached the point that the company runs itself, Grigsby says, allowing him the freedom to get involved in activities such politics, while still allowing for regular rounds of golf (he recently carded a career-best 76, despite a final-hole bogey).

Much of his work outside the office comes as a result of his three children living up to a promise that they would stay close to their father. “You can’t ask people to live in a place if you’re not going to try to make that place better.”

Identifying the enemy

Grigsby joined an engineering firm after graduation and, with a pregnant wife, quit six months later. “I quit a really wonderful job,” he says. “My career was in front of me. I was a Boy Wonder.”

But Grigsby was unhappy there, so he began doing survey work during an industrial construction boom in South Louisiana. He worked for a construction company that went through various ownership changes from 1967-73.

When the company went bankrupt, Grigsby made the decision to launch Cajun Constructors. The EPA had ordered local governments to clean up their sewer systems, the type of work Grigsby had specialized in. He traveled the state, making the upgrades for small towns like Bernice and Blanchard.

His work force was limited because of low capital, so where he could get jobs was also restricted. “I could not hire union carpenters or pipe-fitters or anybody else,” Grigsby says. “If you were nonunion, you couldn’t work in the major metropolitan areas.”

In 1977, Grigsby bid on a job in Livingston, thinking it fit the small-town profile of other places he had worked. Instead, he walked into a union stronghold and found himself going broke as his job site was picketed. Grigsby arranged a meeting with local union leader Edward Grady Partin, who was best known for his role in the incarceration of Jimmy Hoffa.

“I begged him to let me stay in business,” Grigsby says. “He made a mistake; he let me stay in business.”

Grigsby decided that day that no American should have to beg anyone for the right to earn a living and that it would be his mission to keep organized labor from hampering his—or any other—business. He became active in getting Louisiana’s right-to-work law passed in 1978 and realized politics was his best bet to fight unions.

About that time Grigsby adopted the phrase that has become his mantra, “Get into politics or get out of business.”

He also believes his success leaves him with a responsibility to help others get into business. Grigsby has had a hand in starting construction companies MAPP Construction and Arrighi Simoneaux, engineering firm Kyle Associates and historic restoration construction firm The Atlantic Company of America.

“My motivation [for helping] is my personal experience,” Grigsby says. “The greatest thing that ever happened in my life was God somehow put it on my heart to try and start a construction company. I learned what it’s like to be an entrepreneur.”

Perception

Grigsby’s contention that he’s more interested in the quality of the candidate than his or her political affiliation doesn’t garner objection from either state party headquarters.

“He’s supported candidates on both sides of the aisle,” says Danny Ford, executive director of the Louisiana Democratic Party. “He looks at who he feels is the best candidate for what he wants.”

Says James Quinn, spokesman for the Republican Party of Louisiana: “He doesn’t have veto power over what we do, and we don’t have veto power over what he does. He’s going to do whatever he feels like.”

While both parties say their overall operations and philosophies are decided without an eye on Grigsby’s politics, individual candidates aren’t shy about vying for his favor. “I think a lot of candidates are very aware of what Lane can do and how much influence he can have,” Quinn says. “A lot of people just talk; Lane will do something.”

Former legislative auditor Dan Kyle is now heading the Commissioner of Agriculture campaign for East Baton Rouge Parish Metro Councilman Wayne “Spider” Carter. Grigsby has indicated that as long as incumbent Bob Odom doesn’t appear to be a serious contender for re-election, he will keep the money in his LA Next political action committee on the shelf. As is the case with all significant political players, Kyle says, sometimes neutrality from Grigsby is all you can ask for.

“I would rather not have that opposition,” Kyle says, “but I don’t think it’s necessarily a kiss of death if he doesn’t support you.”

Grigsby’s traits as a self-made man with a company that injects millions of dollars in payroll and payroll taxes makes him an ideal supporter for any campaign, says state Sen. Bill Cassidy, who has witnessed Grigsby’s influence firsthand. Grigsby sent mail-outs disparaging Cassidy’s opponent, Rep. William Daniel—who previously worked with BRnext in the mayor-president race—during their race to fill the state Senate seat held by Jay Dardenne, now secretary of state.

Cassidy also had to deal with the backlash from some voters unhappy about Daniel’s divorce being included in the material. But Cassidy says it is a necessary evil in order for the system to continue to keep candidates independent of their supporters and supporters independent of the candidates.

“Sometimes you wish you could control events—that’s true of the supporters and the candidates,” Cassidy says. “If the two are truly going to be independent, things are going to break some ways you might not want.”

Grigsby, who spent $30,000 on the Daniel mail-outs, received several calls from consultants who said the decision to include the divorce was dumb. But polls indicated that the two campaigns were able to drop 12 points from Daniel.

“That’s democracy. Sometimes it’s messy,” Cassidy says. “I’m glad people read it and got upset because it means they’re paying attention. I hope they also continued to read it and saw it was from a third party.”

Political consultant George Kennedy, who worked with Grigsby on the Bobby Simpson media campaign, says Grigsby comes from the rugby school of politics. He’ll be your friend before and have a beer with you after, but during the game he will do everything he can to beat you up. “He doesn’t bluff,” Kennedy says. “He’ll tell you what he’s going to do, then he’ll do exactly that.”

Mother’s milk of politics

Grigsby has been involved in every mayoral and most Metro Council election in Baton Rouge since 1980. On a state level, he has spent the past decade or so in every House or Senate race within 150 miles of Baton Rouge.

“The more you become involved, and with a checkbook in your hand, the more people who want to run come to see you,” Grigsby says. “The mother’s milk of politics is money.”

Grigsby’s work in politics greatly mirrors the work he’s done with Cajun. The company, he says, continues to evolve in order to be successful. It is a completely different company than it was 10 years ago, and if it continues to be successful, it will look completely different 10 years from now.

Likewise, Grigsby has learned that you have to be willing to alter strategies from election to election. “For someone to think, ‘Here’s the recipe for winning in the political arena,’ is dumb,” he says. “It worked in this campaign, it’s not going to work in the next campaign in its exact form.”

There are some common traits in Grigsby political activities, even if the recipe changes. The first, he says, is to find people who understand that holding office makes them public servants. “It dawned on me, as long as you’ve got to be involved in politics, why not be involved with people of good intent,” Grigsby says. “If you’re going to deal with politicians, deal with people who are going to do good things for the people.”

The second thing Grigsby looks for is to inject new blood into politics. Getting bad long-term politicians out of office, he believes, more than compensates for the loss of good public servants of long tenure.

“We’ve got too many people down there that don’t understand they’re supposed to be public servants,” Grigsby says. “What they are is people who stroke their own ego by having a special license plate and a number to go park at and sometimes a soapbox from which to pontificate.”

Ulterior motives?

It doesn’t take much digging to find common threads running throughout Grigsby’s most notable actions. Along with his anti-union stance, he is quite active in matters dealing with public bid law, the arena largely responsible for Cajun Constructors growing into a company with more than $200 million in annual revenue.

“I had to show up with a contractor’s license number and a bid bond,” Grigsby says. “If I’m low, you’ve got to give me the work; if I’m not low, you can’t do anything about it.

“There’s no preferential treatment; it’s who’s the most competitive. And I’ve built a most competitive company.”

Grigsby’s efforts to get Pat Screen out of the mayor-president’s office in 1988 and replace Bobby Simpson in the same position in 2004 were spurred in large part by his belief that the two had skirted public bid law to use sewer projects for their own gain. He has recently turned his attention to Jefferson Parish, where the council disqualified Cajun as a low bidder for a project dealing with safe houses for pump workers.

In the Simpson and Jefferson Parish cases, there was criticism that Grigsby was getting involved for less-than-honest business gains. Grigsby, however, says that while he absolutely has personal interest in what he is attempting, there is nothing underhanded for the reasoning.

“I feel like as long as the doors are open to anybody, I’ll be able to participate,” he says. “When you start shutting doors, someone’s going to figure out how to keep me out of the room. I just want the doors open.”

How good has he been at keeping the doors open? Well, Grigsby won’t say where he places himself of the hierarchy of Louisiana political players.

“I don’t do a good job of comparing myself to other people, that serves no useful purpose,” he says. “In terms of getting things done, that serves a purpose.”

Grigsby says he and likeminded others are making inroads while constantly learning from the skirmishes lost en route to winning the war. This progress will ultimately prove to be his legacy.

“I believe building the world in politics is what I’m going to do,” Grigsby says. “I’m going to invest my future in who we can get as leaders, who we can get to set examples for our young people.”