A Capitol Gain, and a Loss

Tony Beard knows the perils of statehouse security.

During his four decades with the office of the Senate sergeant at arms, he’s seen many threats to the gold-topped Capitol and its occupants, from the big rig that plunged into its neoclassical columns in a fiery crash to a rifle-toting man bent on confronting former Gov. Jerry Brown.

Beard has helped wage a quiet fight during much of his tenure to protect California’s century-old seat of government. Now he’s finally seeing the result. Work is underway on a $6.8-million barrier around the perimeter, a braid of beefy concrete planters and bulky steel posts designed to thwart attacks without turning the Capitol into a fortress.

Temporary chain-link fences encircle the Capitol. Wounds scar the lawns. Jackhammers are ringing and backhoes growling, racing to finish by August.

The security retrofit at California’s statehouse reflects what’s taking place at government buildings across the United States. Since 2001, all 50 statehouses have stepped up security in one way or another, adding barriers, metal detectors and surveillance cameras.

Beard, now the chief sergeant at arms, is a third-generation Capitol security chief. Gov. Hiram Johnson, a legendary reformer during the days of the railroad robber barons, made Beard’s grandfather the first chief of the state police. Beard’s father became Assembly chief sergeant at arms. And Beard, who grew up exploring the statehouse halls, takes protecting the old building personally.

He and his security brethren at the Capitol, which is protected by the California Highway Patrol and the Legislature’s sergeant at arms, spent two decades trying to persuade state lawmakers to install a security fence, ever since the 1983 bombing that flattened the U.S. Marine barracks in Beirut.

Even as the world grew more treacherous, lawmakers resisted the entreaties. They feared a fence would be seen as a physical and psychological barrier to “the people’s building.”

The reluctance began to dissolve in early 2001, when a suicidal trucker named Mike Bowers barreled up 11th Street and aimed his 18-wheeler into the Capitol’s south entrance, sending flames shooting up the ornate portico. Repairs cost about $19 million, but it might have been worse: The truck’s cargo was only evaporated milk.

“I certainly didn’t want to say, ‘I told you so,’ but there it was -- a $19-million milk delivery,” Beard said. “If he had carried a load of gasoline, which he had a license to drive, we wouldn’t have been in this building today.”

For much of its early history, the four-story Capitol -- completed in 1874 -- was encircled by a granite and cast-iron fence. But that barrier was removed in 1949 with construction of a new annex for the offices of the governor and most legislators. In the eyes of its elected occupants, the freely accessible Capitol became a symbol of open government. For years, the only visible signs of security were a few uniformed officers stationed along the busiest bottom-floor corridors.

Over time, the building saw a steady stream of unexpected incursions, some innocent, others hardly so.

Wayward tourists mistakenly drove down 12th Street into the Capitol’s VIP basement parking garage for years. But in 1980, a deranged man with a rifle on the back seat drove into the basement, demanded to see the governor and then tried to run over a CHP officer.

Later, a study determined that attackers could bring down the building by placing an explosives-laden car in the basement garage. Authorities responded with steel driveway traps that can pop up to stop intruding cars in their tracks.

In 1996, a year after the Oklahoma City bombing, then-Gov. Pete Wilson pushed for a 4-foot-high wrought-iron and granite wall around the Capitol. But key legislative leaders dissented.

Among those balking was longtime lawmaker John Burton. The Democrat from San Francisco, who retired from the Senate last year, reasoned that no simple fence could stop wily terrorists.

Beard, who waged a good-natured debate with Burton for years over a barrier, countered that the state had an obligation to limit the possibilities.

Eventually, time and events -- the trucker’s attack, the horror of Sept. 11, 2001 -- wore down doubters. Within weeks of the terrorist attacks on the twin towers, metal detectors went up at the statehouse entrances.

Plans for a fence soon followed.

Skeptics wonder about the message it sends to a populace that already feels excluded from a political process dominated by bureaucrats, lobbyists and special interests.

“The timing couldn’t be worse in terms of people’s attitudes about the government,” said Barbara O’Connor, director of Sacramento State University’s Institute for the Study of Politics and Media.

But the new barriers were designed to be unobtrusive, melding into the verdant, six-block expanse of Capitol Park.

Near several entrances to the statehouse, heavily fortified planter beds 3 feet tall already stand sentry. Steel posts ring several sides of the Capitol. Inch-thick cable will be strung from the deep-sunk posts, and rows of bushes will hide them from view.

Along pathways, workers have installed a complex system of hydraulics beneath the pavement, so security posts can be lowered to clear the way for firetrucks and ambulances.

Posts in high traffic spots will be dressed up with tapered exteriors topped with a state seal. But they’ll be deceptively strong, able to absorb the impact of a big-rig truck.

“If someone hits this,” Beard said, patting one of the steel posts, “the engine will end up in his lap.”