To Break Political Etiquette, if Not the Law

Just after the 1980 Democratic National Convention, after President Carter had defeated the challenge of Sen. Edward M. Kennedy, top Carter strategist Hamilton Jordan met in Kennedy’s office with the senator’s campaign manager and brother-in-law, Stephen E. Smith.

As Jordan recounts the meeting in his memoir, “Crisis,” Smith and Jordan exchanged pleasantries and Jordan then talked about a series of Kennedy appearances on behalf of the President.

Smith replied, “We’re eager to campaign extensively on behalf of the ticket, but we have a sizable debt from the primaries . . . . For the senator to give you the time you need for him to campaign, we are going to need some help getting rid of the debt, because if we have to raise it ourselves, it won’t leave us any time to help the ticket.”

Jordan had no doubt in his mind that this offer was little better than blackmail. The Kennedy operatives no doubt saw it as nothing more than a reasonable request for assistance from a President who wanted and needed Kennedy’s help.

What the exchange really illustrates, however, is one of the most common--and most delicate--of all political maneuvers: the transformation of bitter primary foes into united party loyalists and campaign fund-raisers. The indictment of Rep. Bobbi Fiedler (R-Northridge) for campaign law violations is a startling variation on the theme but in truth, the exchange of support for financial assistance is as American as sushi and pizza.

The exercise is confined solely to primary contestants. No one could imagine, for example, Vice President George Bush helping Sen. Gary Hart (D-Colo.) pay off his debts. Today, however, campaigns for major office almost always begin with a primary battle, in which opponents question each other’s competence, character and ancestry while pledging to support the winner against the Republican/Democratic foe.

Thus, when a campaign falters in a multicandidate race, a sinking candidate will often send out a political SOS to one of his rivals.

“I’m seriously thinking of pulling out and backing you,” the message reads, “but you have to realize I’ve got a big debt to pay off.”

“I’d love to have your support, and I’d be honored to speak at your fund-raising dinner,” comes the reply. When done right the whole maneuver can be as graceful as the mating dance of the gooney bird--and just as puzzling to the uninitiated.

The most common help for a defeated rival, of course, is a job. Franklin D. Roosevelt made John Nance Garner his vice presidential running mate in 1932; John F. Kennedy did the same with Lyndon B. Johnson in 1960, and sent another opponent, Adlai E. Stevenson, to the United Nations. Ronald Reagan’s 1980 running mate, Bush, was his principal rival for the Republican presidential nod.

David Garth, a prominent political media consultant (and a one-time employer of mine before I became a virgin and took up journalism), says, “The first thing a guy says to somebody who’s dropping out of the race is ‘I can use you in my administration.’ You almost expect that when one candidate drops out of the race and backs another, he’ll appear as an aide if the guy he backs wins.”

Indeed, in the hotly contested 1974 New York governor’s race, Rep. Hugh L. Carey got a big boost from a last minute endorsement from one-time rival Rep. Ogden Reid. Reid asked for no favors; Carey promised none. But once Carey was elected governor, Reid wound up as New York state’s environmental boss. It is safe to say that Reid’s endorsement was not a handicap to him in the appointment process.

Even when a job isn’t at stake--senators, as opposed to governors and Presidents, have little patronage to give out--the willingness to speak at a fund-raising dinner is a powerful incentive to a candidate on the edge of withdrawal.

“Invariably,” Garth says, “the people who remain in a race help after somebody drops out. It’s almost good manners, and it’s something you do unless the other guy’s a perfect son of a bitch.”

What shocks Garth--what must shock anyone who has ever worked in politics--is the allegation that a member of Congress would break the ritual and flatly offer cash in return for a rival’s withdrawal. If it is true, it is worse than a crime. It is worse than a blunder. It is a major breach of political etiquette.

The best analogy is to think of a cocktail party where romance is on everyone’s mind. There are 100 different ways to signal one’s interest in a Meaningful Relationship:

“Hi--can I buy you a drink?”

“Do you come here often?”

“Weren’t you Susan’s roommate?”

There is also one unforgivable way to behave:

“Hi, there, sweetcakes, if you spend the night with me in a meaningless sexual encounter, I’ll buy you a dinner worth at least $50.”

When Fiedler says no such quid pro quo offer ever took place, she is saying that she was playing by the accepted rules of the game: offering nothing directly, but suggesting that she might be glad to help “as a friend.” Her insistence that her campaign made no cash-on-the-table offer would clearly put her in the political mainstream. As Garth puts it with characteristic delicacy, “Almost everybody with an IQ over six is intelligent enough never to offer help in such explicit terms.”

That’s why the Fiedler case must rest on the content of the tapes. If they reveal nothing more than a fellow candidate offering vague assertions of help, then the case will collapse; indeed, any attempt by the authorities to turn such words into a felony would deserve to be greeted with hoots of indignation and contempt.

If the tapes do reveal that Fiedler was impersonating a used-car dealer--”That’s right, Ed, drive your campaign off the side of the road and you’ll win not 10, not 20, not 50, but 100,000 good old American dollars!”--then the Fiedler campaign is finished, as it should be. Any politician who is dumb enough to ignore the 99 safe ways of promising help and who instead uses the magic words that would constitute a criminal act is too dumb to represent California in the U.S. Senate.

No one who combines years of political work with a law degree, as I do, and who has still managed to escape federal prosecution, would be so foolish as to predict who the big loser in this clash will be. But it is not much of a trick to pick the ultimate winner in a battle between a candidate whose campaign will be run under the shadow of an indictment and another candidate who wires a supporter with a hidden microphone to catch a rival in a crime.

His name is Alan Cranston.