ELKO COUNTY, Nev. - Wild horses may be symbols of the wide-open American West, but J.J. Goicoechea watched them warily. Under a bright desert sky, about 20 mustangs munched on the crested wheatgrass meant for the Angus cattle he grazes here on public land.
"You've got to look up to them. They're tough," the fourth-generation rancher said, leaning against his dusty red truck. "But if we turn a blind eye, in five years there will be 100 horses here, and it won't look as good."
Goicoechea has long been on one side of the battle over wild horses and burros, an issue so contentious that Congress, animal advocates, conservationists, ranchers and the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) have long been in a stalemate. They agree that the situation is untenable: The government says three times more equines roam public land than the fragile terrain can handle. To address this, the BLM, which is charged with managing most of the animals, periodically rounds up horses and now has nearly 50,000 in holding. The agency says caring for the warehoused animals devours most of its wild horse budget, leaving little for other approaches.
Horse advocates call the roundups cruel, contend that millions of cattle do vastly more damage to public lands than thousands of horses, and insist mustangs must never be killed. Ranchers and some environmentalists view the horses as feral pests that damage ecosystems, compete for resources with cattle and wildlife, and should be culled or sold.
But against this conflict, at a time of deep political polarization, something almost unrecognizable is floating around Capitol Hill: a compromise. Over three years, major ranching and hunting organizations, represented by Goicoechea and others, quietly negotiated with animal welfare groups, including the Humane Society of the United States. These strange bedfellows recently unveiled a wild horse proposal that they say meets both sides' goals: It keeps mustangs alive, and it gets a lot more off the land.
There are just a couple catches: It would cost $50 million a year, swelling the BLM's horse budget by two-thirds. And most wild horse advocacy groups hate it.
The 10-year proposal calls for scaling up the roundups, or "gathers," that animal activists have long despised - capturing up to 20,000 horses and burros each year. Those horses would live in private pastures or sanctuaries that provide cheaper and "more natural living situations" than the corrals the BLM now depends on. Wild horse adoptions, which last year numbered about 3,100, would have to increase, the plan says. Its final pillar is aggressive use of fertility control, such as PZP, an injection delivered annually by dart.
"This plan doesn't benefit the horses at all, or taxpayers. It benefits the livestock industry," said Grace Kuhn, spokeswoman for the American Wild Horse Campaign. "It's more business as usual that could end in the mass killing of America's wild horses."
The alliance behind the plan, which includes one prominent wild horse organization, dismisses that as a misrepresentation of their proposal - and of political reality. Although the 1971 federal law that protects wild horses and burros allows the interior secretary to euthanize older and unadopted animals or sell them for slaughter, Congress has for much of the past three decades blocked those powers in annual appropriations bills.
But as the free-roaming and fast-reproducing horse and burro populations mushroom - from 40,000 in 2013 to 88,000 last year, according to the BLM - support for the animals has wobbled. President Donald Trump's budget has called for sales and killing, as have House appropriators and the BLM's wild horse advisory committee. The status quo, a bureau official told lawmakers in July, could result in half a million horses on the range by 2030.
"We heard from key members of Congress that . . . they were leaning more and more toward letting the agency have the authority to kill horses," said Gillian Lyons, a senior legislative specialist for the Humane Society Legislative Fund.
The ranching groups say they had come to believe the opposite - that Congress, regularly besieged by impassioned pleas from horse lovers, would never permit the culling of a symbol of the American spirit.
"We don't see the world the same way," Ethan Lane, executive director of the National Cattlemen's Beef Association and of the Public Lands Council, said of animal welfare groups. "The only way this has been successful is us recognizing their concerns over how these horses are managed and them recognizing our concerns over how the rangelands are managed."
Fertility control could be a compromise. Neither ranchers nor the BLM have ever bought into contraception as a large-scale solution: Last year, the bureau treated 702 wild horses.
But modeling by ecologists and economists - brought in by the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, another member of the alliance - found that if fertility control were administered to about 90 percent of mares that remain on the range, then roundups could dramatically slow after four years. After 10 years, it says, about 38,000 horses would roam the West, much closer to the government's target population of 27,000. By then, roundups would be rare, and the few gathered horses could be adopted out, the plan posits.
"I believe in this proposal," said Goicoechea, who participated in negotiations on behalf of the beef association and Eureka County, Nevada, where he is a commissioner. He said he thinks it would require the development of long-term contraception such as horse IUDs, but he found the modeling convincing. "Those graphs, it hits you hard."
Goicoechea said he was "very skeptical" when approached in 2015 by the Humane Society, an organization best known among ranchers for campaigns against slaughterhouses and for Meatless Mondays. He agreed to attend a meeting in Reno, but he didn't tell peers.
Initial meetings fell apart over horse advocates' refusal to entertain euthanasia, participants said. After ranching representatives agreed to take killing off the table, meetings resumed last year in Utah, with a push from Rep. Chris Stewart, R-Utah. Goicoechea now talks up the plan at county meetings, and he testified about it in July before a Senate subcommittee.
Goicoechea, who is also Nevada's state veterinarian, insists he likes wild horses. But he said that he's seen them starve in dry years and that he's seen land he claims they ruined.
"I know that white mare, and I can tell you when she was born - two years ago," he said, pointing to a horse whose tail whipped lightly in the midsummer wind. But, he said, "they have to be managed appropriately."
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The day after Goicoechea watched the mare, the BLM began a three-week roundup in the area. The agency said the 1.6-million acre swath of eastern Nevada was home to more than 3,300 wild horses, or four times more than its "appropriate management level" allows. The animals were hazards to workers at a nearby gold mine, a BLM official said: There had been 14 horse-vehicle collisions since December.
Shortly after 9 a.m., a helicopter emerged over a faraway ridge. Like a buzzing sheepdog, it herded a band of frightened mustangs running below toward a "Judas horse" - a domestic animal that led its wild cousins down a burlap-lined corridor that dead-ended in a pen. Among the horses was the white mare.
Over four hours, two helicopters pushed 117 horses into the trap. Foals, some weeks old, struggled to keep up. A lone black stallion stumbled under the chopper before relenting and heading into the pen, the gate clanging behind him.
Three horses were later euthanized due to injuries, the BLM said.
Watching from a distant hill were a few activists, including Laura Leigh, who has won lawsuits over the agency's treatment of wild horses during roundups and other policies and won. When asked about the proposal, she scoffed. It did not address overgrazing by livestock and ignored mining and gas projects that squeeze horses out of public land, she said.
"They don't even know what's going on out here. They're drug salesmen," she said of the Humane Society, which holds a federal registration for PZP but insists it does not profit from it. "They sold the wild horse down the river."
Other critics, including the former CEO of the Humane Society, have been similarly scathing. The proposal is vague, they say, and could allow surgical sterilization of mares, a procedure viewed by horse advocates as brutally invasive. Eventually, the cost of feeding all the horses in holding would provide an opening for mass euthanasia, they say.
The criticism has hit Return to Freedom, a California-based horse advocacy group that signed onto the plan. It has lost donors and battled accusations that it supports roundups and sterilization. But Neda DeMayo, the group's CEO, said the plan is an opportunity to prove fertility control can work, even in large areas where horses are difficult to reach.
"The fact that we have a chance at shifting management to move away from these traumatic, senseless roundups and move toward better solutions in the near future is critical," DeMayo said. Ranchers, she added, "are not going to say, 'Thanks guys, we're just going to take our cows off now.' A huge step forward is that there is conversation."
Whether Congress will agree is an open question. House appropriators budgeted $6 million for a pilot version of the proposal - a "not serious" sum, according to Lane, the beef association lobbyist. The Senate has yet to weigh in.
The day after the roundup near the mine, three semis pulled up across the state outside Reno, at the largest BLM horse holding and adoption center in the country. Inside the trucks were the horses captured the day before.
Workers separated the animals into groups - stallions to one corral; nursing mares and foals to another; "dry" mares to another. Among the dry mares was the white one Goicoechea had recognized.
Over the next few weeks, she'd be branded and vaccinated. She might be adopted here. But more likely, she'd be shipped out to a federally funded corral or pasture - one more horse off the range and into government storage.
When the National Rifle Association needed more legal firepower in New York state last year, the gun rights group brought aboard an unlikely lawyer: a Democrat who had no experience in Second Amendment litigation.
By this spring, William Brewer had emerged as a top counselor to NRA chief executive Wayne LaPierre and a victor - for now, at least - in a civil war that he helped set in motion and that is ripping apart the powerful gun lobby.
The ugly public fight has led to an exodus of high-level officials and warring accusations of financial impropriety. At the center of the fray is Brewer, a brash lawyer who has drawn ethics complaints and has a reputation for escalating disputes into pricey legal battles.
Several NRA veterans accuse Brewer of instigating an almost Shakespearean feud to protect his bottom line and growing influence. According to internal board correspondence, his small law firm billed $24 million in fees in 13 months - leading top NRA board members to demand early this year that the organization stop paying until they could review the bills.
But LaPierre sided with Brewer, saying that the lawyer's bills were appropriate and that he was bringing long-overdue scrutiny to the nonprofit group's workings.
"The NRA has full confidence in Bill Brewer and his law firm," LaPierre said in a statement. "The firm is creative, dedicated, and effective - and is helping to protect and advance the NRA's interests in multiple venues."
Brewer said he came under attack once he began examining lucrative financial deals inside the organization that he thought posed conflicts of interest. His firm said those complaining about its bills have a misinformed view of its work, but declined to elaborate.
"Questions regarding our fees - which arose almost one year after we were hired - came only after people, who long supported our firm's work, themselves came under scrutiny for their conduct," Brewer said in a wide-ranging interview last week, sitting in his suite on the 59th floor of his Dallas office with soaring views of the city.
Today, after helping to jettison NRA president Oliver North, rival lawyers and other key NRA lieutenants, Brewer now counsels LaPierre on some of the group's most important decisions, including legal strategy, management and public relations, said multiple people familiar with his role.
Those who have been pushed out shared a common concern: that Brewer ran up excessive fees and then cemented his role by overstating claims about the organization's legal jeopardy and the potential conflicts of his critics, according to the people and internal documents.
With Brewer's backing, LaPierre this spring turned against Ackerman McQueen, the marketing firm that had been the NRA's image maker for more than three decades - a company run by Brewer's own father-in-law and brother-in-law.
"Mr. Brewer is orchestrating a purge of every person who disagrees with his flawed strategy," Ackerman McQueen said in a statement.
Brewer rejected that. "The truth is, a handful of faithless fiduciaries tried to 'purge' the NRA of its elected leadership by extorting Wayne LaPierre," he said. "They failed."
Brewer, whose eponymous law firm also has an office in New York, has a history of confrontational and high-priced legal fights, according to former employees and lawyers who encountered him in cases and a review of thousands of pages of court records.
Ted Lyon, a personal injury lawyer in Dallas who has battled Brewer in the past, said he was shocked that Brewer had "convinced the NRA that he was some type of star litigator."
In 2016, a Texas judge sanctioned Brewer, finding that he took actions that could have improperly tainted a jury pool. The court found Brewer's attempts "to avoid responsibility and accountability for his conduct to be at the very least unpersuasive and at the worst in bad faith, unprofessional, and unethical," the judge wrote.
Four lawyers' associations filed a friend-of-the-court argument in August in favor of the punishment.
Citing the sanctity of the promise of a fair trial, the legal groups said they "can imagine nothing . . . more poisonous to this ancient ideal than William A. Brewer III's behavior."
Brewer, who has appealed, says his firm represents "our clients ethically but zealously." He said he is disappointed that his peers have lined up against him.
But, he added, "it's not the first time we've stood alone."
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Brewer, 67, does not have the typical profile of a lawyer for the NRA, one of President Donald Trump's staunchest allies. Campaign filings show that he has donated to numerous Democrats, including Barack Obama, Hillary Clinton and Beto O'Rourke.
But in March 2018, the NRA was dealing with a challenge by New York state officials to its Carry Guard insurance, which provides coverage to firearms owners who shoot someone and claim self-defense. The state Financial Services Department found that the NRA had illegally marketed what critics call "murder insurance." Insurers, facing millions in state fines, demand that the organization cover the penalty.
The NRA wanted a lawyer with ties to New York Democrats. Steve Hart, the NRA board's lawyer, enlisted Brewer, according to people familiar with his involvement. Hart did not respond to a request for comment.
Brewer urged the NRA to sue the state, arguing that New York officials were targeting an advocacy group with views that differed from their own.
From there, Brewer pressed to take on other matters, said people familiar with internal discussions. That included the organization's response to a broader threat: At the time, Letitia James, the leading candidate to become the New York state attorney general, was campaigning on a pledge to investigate the NRA's nonprofit status amid reports of financial irregularities.
Brewer said he recommended to LaPierre that he prepare by auditing the group's spending and vendor contracts, including those of Ackerman McQueen, its largest. For 38 years, the Oklahoma City-based advertising agency had served as a powerful adjunct to the NRA, promoting the group's combative, no-compromise stance on gun rights.
The inquiry put him on a collision course with his father-in-law, Angus McQueen, who founded the firm - another larger-than-life figure of the same generation, who died in July. Brewer said he did not view the matter as a conflict of interest.
Brewer said people within the NRA began raising questions about Ackerman's billing and its hiring of the group's officials, such as North. North had a multimillion-dollar contract to host a series produced by the firm, documents show.
A lawyer for North declined to comment.
The McQueens grew suspicious of Brewer's questions and worried that he sought to take over some of the firm's public relations business, according to people familiar with their views.
In a statement, Ackerman McQueen accused Brewer of "pursuing a personal vendetta against his own family and their business." The firm said it has cooperated with every audit requested by the NRA and never overcharged the group, adding that LaPierre approved all expenses.
The company alleges that Brewer went after Ackerman McQueen "to serve as a distraction from the failure of NRA executives and its board to properly fulfill its oversight duties."
Current NRA officials rejected that, saying the audit was part of a move to increase oversight. Brewer's firm said that the focus on Ackerman was not personal and that the agency stonewalled requests for information. And the firm dismissed as absurd the idea that it was trying to steal the public relations business.
"The NRA pursued documents from several major vendors, not just Ackerman. But Ackerman, singularly, resisted," Sarah Rogers, a partner in the Brewer firm, said in a statement.
The audit set off a bitter legal fight, fracturing the alliance between the NRA and its longtime marketing agency. It also exposed lavish spending by LaPierre that flowed through Ackerman McQueen, such as hundreds of thousands of dollars in charges at a Beverly Hills clothing boutique and on foreign travel, invoices show. The NRA has defended the expenditures as necessary.
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Brewer first made a splash in Dallas legal circles in the 1980s, when he co-founded a boutique litigation firm that offered big salaries and imported the brash tactics of Brewer's native New York to Texas.
Bickel & Brewer's hardball methods drew criticism from the traditional Texas bar.
Depositions were drawn out for days, as Brewer's clients claimed they couldn't say for certain what their names were, where they were born or what they owned, records show. Judges complained about overly combative practices that seemed aimed at wearing down the court and opposing counsel.
Fellow lawyers called them "Rambo tactics" - a term Brewer embraced.
"We don't believe we should earn our living from being nice to other lawyers," Brewer told the Texas Lawyer in a 1988 article that described his firm as the poster child for "scorched-earth" litigation.
With Brewer and other lawyers deploying such maneuvers, the state bar sought to rein them in, and in 1989, the Texas Supreme Court adopted a new code threatening to sanction lawyers "who perceive that they are retained to win at all costs without regard to fundamental principles of justice."
Friends say Brewer ruffled feathers because he challenged Texas's insular legal industry.
He "would do all that was within the bounds of ethics to advance the cause of his client - and the cause of justice," said John Sexton, a former president of New York University and dean of its law school.
Some clients, too, praised Brewer's approach.
"I've worked with Bill for decades for two reasons: He delivers time and time again, and exemplifies the highest of ethical standards," said Howard Meyers, the head of a global lead manufacturing company that hired Brewer to fend off bondholders in a multibillion-dollar bankruptcy fight.
But some former associates said Brewer sought to maximize fees at the expense of clients.
In interviews, 10 former employees said the Brewer firm pushed lawyers to generate big bills and encouraged "make-work" tasks.
"Bill was an excellent lawyer from a strategy and content standpoint," said one lawyer who left the firm in the 1990s and, like others, spoke on the condition of anonymity out of fear of retribution. But, the lawyer said, "we would do work that I considered clerical work" to meet the billing goals. "You can always find something more to do. It was a lot more expensive for the client."
Michael Collins, a partner in Brewer's firm, called that "a misinformed view of the way we manage the firm and its professionals," adding that "all time charged to client matters is scrutinized internally for accuracy, transparency, and value."
Brewer said his fees reflect the value of what he provides clients.
"Frankly, I'm disappointed some don't always see the utility in the way in which we go through the process," he said. "That's generally not the clients."
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At times, Brewer's process has led to eye-popping totals.
Over the years, his firm was paid $80 million for a wide range of matters by the Wyly brothers, Texas entrepreneurs who made billions in computers, energy and retail, according to a family adviser.
When the brothers came under federal investigation for the use of offshore tax havens, Brewer urged them to fight the allegations, even as other wealthy figures settled similar cases by paying negotiated fines, according to people involved in the case and news reports at the time.
The Securities and Exchange Commission ultimately charged the Wylys with fraudulently hiding half a billion dollars.
After the death of Charles Wyly in 2011, the family parted ways with Brewer. The brothers were ordered to pay $198 million for tax fraud and Sam Wyly filed for bankruptcy protection. In 2016, he and his brother's estate were ordered to pay $1.1 billion in back taxes and penalties.
A spokesman for the Wylys declined to comment, citing a pending federal settlement agreement.
Brewer defended his work for the family.
"I thought we successfully represented the Wylys," he said. "Some things turned out badly for them after I was no longer in charge."
Brewer's methods also drew scrutiny in a 2014 case in which he represented Titeflex, a pipe manufacturer that had been sued by the family of a young man who died in a house fire.
Texas state Judge Ruben Reyes found that Brewer's firm hired pollsters to conduct a telephone "push poll" that provided misleading information to people involved in the case and could have tainted the trial.
"The Court finds Mr. Brewer's conduct disrespectful to the judicial system," the judge wrote in 2016, adding that it "falls in the category of misconduct which is highly prejudicial and inimical to a fair trial by an impartial jury."
The judge ordered Brewer to attend 10 hours of remedial ethics classes and pay a $130,000 fine.
Brewer and a fellow lawyer who worked on the case said they were conducting a neutral survey to prepare for trial, not a push poll. Brewer's lawyer has argued that he was using a widely accepted litigation tool.
Brewer appealed the decision, which was upheld and increased to $177,000. His second appeal is set to be heard by the Texas Supreme Court next month.
"I just think he was wrong," Brewer said of the judge, adding that he is optimistic that the sanction will be reversed.
Titeflex ended up settling the case with the family and homeowners. Internally, company officials complained that Brewer delivered an unsatisfactory outcome while charging steep fees, according to three people familiar with the concerns.
Lyon, who represented the family that sued Titeflex, said Brewer would "send four lawyers to a deposition that one lawyer could easily handle." A Titeflex official and the Brewer firm declined to comment.
In another case, a Texas court disqualified Brewer from a suit in which he represented an heir to the Texas billionaire H.L. Hunt suing his father because Brewer was found to have represented the father. Brewer said in court papers that opposing counsel tried to push him out for "tactical" reasons, adding that his work helped resolve the case.
In September 2018, Brewer was reprimanded by a federal judge in Virginia, after he did not disclose the Texas court sanction to a federal court in Virginia as he represented the NRA in a lawsuit with an insurance broker.
"These are very serious allegations," U.S. District Judge Liam O'Grady told Brewer before ejecting him from the case. "They're findings of bad faith."
Brewer told The Washington Post that he believed he disclosed what was necessary, noting that the matter is under appeal.
After he was benched, the NRA settled the case for undisclosed terms in November 2018, court records show.
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Late last year, NRA budget officers began warning about staggering legal bills from Brewer's firm, according to people familiar with the communications. Since March 2018, his firm's fees had routinely topped $1.5 million a month, according to internal documents.
In a Feb. 26 letter, North and board vice presidents Richard Childress and Carolyn Meadows told LaPierre that they believed Brewer's retainer agreement was not properly executed and demanded that the NRA cease payments to him until they could discuss the matter.
"We have a fiduciary duty that needs to be urgently addressed, with you and if you wish, Mr. Brewer," the three wrote in their letter, the contents of which were described to The Washington Post.
Brewer moved quickly to demonstrate his value to the organization.
In internal presentations, the lawyer warned of impending legal threats that he said he was uniquely equipped to address, according to people familiar with the meetings.
He said the NRA could face significant criminal liability in an ongoing investigation of Russian gun activist Maria Butina, who had cultivated ties to the NRA, the people said, as well as exposure in congressional inquiries into Russian connections to the group.
Brewer, who is not a criminal lawyer, claimed in one March meeting that North could be implicated, according to one of the people.
Federal prosecutors had already told NRA lawyers that the organization and its officers were not under criminal investigation, according to the people familiar with the conversations.
Others familiar with Brewer's presentations said they greatly inflated the legal risk, with one former prosecutor warning other NRA advisers that Brewer was a "charlatan."
Brendan Sullivan, a longtime white-collar defense lawyer representing North, later called Brewer's presentation something "a fifth grader might have put together," according to people who heard his reaction. Sullivan declined to comment.
Brewer declined to address the substance of his meetings, saying they were privileged. But he said he did not think the other NRA lawyers addressed the legal and reputational risks the group faced, adding that they were "assuming away all of the problems that needed to be confronted."
In March, North pushed the NRA to hire an outside auditor to examine Brewer's bills, internal correspondence shows.
But LaPierre emailed Brewer to tell him to ignore the request, according to a message read to The Post.
"My office, not any member of the board, has the authority to hire and oversee legal counsel," the NRA chief wrote in the email. "Your engagement is valid, is vital to the survival of the NRA and is well known to the entire board. Please keep up the good work and disregard this and other missives you may receive."
LaPierre had been warning North to stop inquiring about the legal bills, saying he had a conflict of interest because of his financial relationship with Ackerman McQueen, according to internal documents. But North kept up the pressure. "The Brewer invoices are draining NRA cash at a mindboggling speed," he and Childress wrote in an April letter to NRA officials obtained by The Post.
That month, the fight burst into the open.
On April 12, Brewer sued Ackerman McQueen on the NRA's behalf, accusing the firm of concealing how it was spending money under its $40 million contract. The suit also questioned the propriety of North's contract with NRA-TV and Ackerman McQueen, which North said LaPierre had authorized.
Then LaPierre took on North directly. On the eve of the organization's convention in Indianapolis, he publicly released a letter to the board in which he claimed that the NRA president had tried to extort him by threatening to release a "devastating account" of the group's financial status if LaPierre did not resign and drop the suit against Ackerman McQueen. LaPierre urged nominating committee members not to support North for another term, board members told their colleagues.
North was forced to relinquish his post as president. As he did so, he warned that the NRA was in "a clear crisis."
In court filings this summer, the former NRA president said that he was blocked by Brewer when he sought to learn more about the group's finances.
"Each time that North raised concerns about potential financial misconduct and tried to retain professionals to correct any wrongdoing, North's efforts were thwarted by LaPierre and Brewer," his lawyers wrote.
Meadows, North's successor, has defended Brewer in statements issued by his firm, saying her previous concerns have been assuaged.
"Bill and his team operate with openness and transparency," Meadows said in a statement, adding: "I have never worked with an outside law firm that is more on call, attentive and positively in tune to the needs of their client."
The NRA is now locked in legal battles on multiple fronts. Amid the turmoil, seven board members have resigned and some of the group's top strategists and advisers have been pushed out, including Christopher Cox, an NRA lobbyist whom LaPierre long described as his heir apparent. The NRA chief has accused Cox of conspiring with North, a charge Cox denies.
Last month brought a new defenestration - this time of lawyers. LaPierre announced that the NRA was severing relations with Charles Cooper, its longtime Second Amendment defender. Michael Volkov, its outside lawyer who had been handling the Russia investigation, also resigned.
In a statement released by Brewer's firm, the NRA chief accused the lawyers of being part of the conspiracy against him.
Cooper, who had represented the NRA for the past three decades, said he had always been loyal to the group, "not to any individual officers or directors of the organization." Volkov declined to comment.
Meanwhile, the New York attorney general has issued subpoenas seeking records of LaPierre's jet-setting lifestyle, including his efforts to buy a $6 million mansion with NRA money, and has sought information about why some of his spending was kept a secret from the NRA board, according to people familiar with the requests.
Meadows said in a statement that the NRA has offered to cooperate with the inquiry and called the claims of misspending "baseless allegations."
In late August, New York investigators spent a day interviewing North. Among their questions, according to people familiar with the matter, were queries about Brewer's fees and growing role in the NRA.
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The Washington Post's Beth Reinhard, Anu Narayanswamy and Alice Crites contributed to this report.