CAMPAIGN JOURNAL : Zelman Bucks His Past as a Main Critic of Fund Raising

He’s got such a big grin, such gusto, such unabashed zeal for all the grubby chores of the politician, you have to ask yourself, “Wait a minute, can this be Walter Zelman?”

Isn’t this the same guy who spent 13 years jabbing sticks into the political cage? Isn’t this California’s foremost critic of the time-consuming, debasing and sometimes corrupt ordeal of political fund raising?

“Money,” says Zelman, “is a very sick problem in our society, politically.”

But, hey, brother, can you spare $250 to help a candidate for state insurance commissioner?

“Everybody thought I would hate raising money. But I don’t, you know,” he cheerfully confesses. “If people believe in politics and are willing to support it with their money, who better to support than someone like me?”

With his swept-back shock of red hair and his nasal Queens, N.Y., honk, Zelman is best known as the executive director of Common Cause of California--the fellow with the 10-gallon white hat.

And the guy with the sharpened spurs, which he freely dug into the flanks of government: Special interests run the place! Money and position count for all too much! No one speaks up for the common interest!

Now, suddenly, he is part of this very milieu, a common politician running for office in 1990 with hat in hand 12 hours a day. Come spend a stint campaigning and see:

Morning starts at the Venice Free Clinic. Zelman listens to administrators for insight into the health insurance crisis. But the key question comes at the end: Can he use the facility as a site for a fund-raising event? Great, thanks.

Next, he moves into a back office for a one-on-one meeting with a local woman who is a renowned organizer and fund-raiser. It’s not her wealth but her connections that interest Zelman. She knows a lot of people with money to burn on politics, and they trust her judgment. “If I could get 100 of you, I’d win,” he tells her.

This is not always a glamorous business, fund raising. The possible future course of insurance regulation is deliberated here this day amid stacks of crutches and boxes labeled “sterile urine cups.”

It’s not a business for those prone to shame, either.

Hardly is there a Democratic fund-raising event in town where Zelman doesn’t show up and work the tables, even if the sight raises hoots and hollers to his face. “Never have I seen such an insincere performance,” Assembly Speaker Willie L. Brown Jr. harrumphed from the podium when Zelman recently crashed the Speaker’s Los Angeles fund-raiser. Zelman displayed not a flinch as he made the rounds of tables seeking support.

To enjoy the paradox of this scene it must be recalled that since the mid-1970s, Zelman has been the No. 1 critic of business-as-usual, special-interest-dominance of state government. As leader of California Common Cause, he has gone before each session of the Legislature since the mid-1970s seeking campaign spending reforms--including partial public financing, limits on contributions and ceilings on overall spending levels. His tactics were persuasion, embarrassment and sometimes plain harassment.

Now, he wants to be part of this government--as insurance commissioner, a job that used to belong to an appointed functionary but now has been elevated to a statewide elective position.

On this campaign day, it’s a quick drive from the Free Clinic to Zelman’s Westwood office. He works on the telephone for 40 minutes. This is tough. All of his friends, and all of his friends’ friends, have been called many times already. Politics is a business for a tiny few right now. Those with money. “I don’t make a call any more and reach someone who hasn’t already talked to Bill and Conway.”

That would be his two Democratic rivals, Bill Press, the radio and television commentator, and Conway Collis, member of the State Board of Equalization. Both started earlier in this campaign and both are more accomplished fund-raisers.

“Whoever gets the most new blood, the most new people into the process, that’s who will win,” Zelman reckons. Read it: If you can’t raise the money, you lose.

Zelman knows the game.

“Everybody talks about money and how it’s the key. And to a certain extent, that’s true,” he says. He is now driving to a luncheon at a West Los Angeles bistro, where he will meet 10 potential supporters. “I’ve criticized the system of financing campaigns, yes. I still want it changed. But I don’t think that should disqualify me from running.”

Some of his political advisers tell him to make it simple: Tell audiences that he is the longtime consumer activist. The other guys aren’t. Which one do you want to represent consumer interests in insurance? And leave it at that.

He tries, but the old do-gooder oozes out. “The problem I have as a candidate is how do you promise enough but don’t overpromise,” he worries in front of his would-be supporters.

Collis and Press have taken the whip to the insurance business. Zelman doesn’t like the industry either, but declines to blame it alone for the mess of car insurance rates. “I think the insurance companies are right. In the long term, if you want to get the costs of insurance down you have to get the cost of insuring down.

“And that means fewer crashes, safer cars and settling minor crashes outside the court system.”

So anything you can do to help, Zelman continues.

He leaves the restaurant with a single check and drives back to his office to meet a supporter who is a lawyer and a doctor, and who has some thoughts about runaway health insurance costs. Then it’s off to East Los Angeles to meet with six Latino activists and hear that insurance affordability is the No. 1 issue for them. Oh, yes, and about fund raising. . . .

Zelman draws three ethical lines on raising money.

* He will not ask for or take contributions from people in the insurance business. “You can’t take money from people you regulate--that’s a basic tenet of good government.” (His two Democratic rivals have also said “no” to money from the insurance industry.)

* He tells himself that he is not really asking for money. “You know, I enjoy asking people for support. My thought isn’t, can these people give me money? But can they give me help? That makes it more palatable.”

* He does not expect large amounts. “Where I break down is asking for the maximum $1,000. I haven’t reached that point yet.”

He frequently tells of his contradictory feelings.

There was a woman who gave him a check for $50 check and then said, “I’m sorry.”

“I knew what she meant. She was sorry she could afford only $50. It’s sick that someone should apologize because she could come up with only $50,” Zelman says with a hint of anger.

But then again, he confesses, soft hearts are for losers. “I’m not going to win this with $50 contributions.”

Has money corrupted him? Well, yes, it has, if only by his own high standards. Just as he must have known it would. “I would go further,” he says of his self-imposed clean-government rules about who can contribute to his campaign. “But there is a reality. I’ve got to raise money.”

So he will take money from some, but not all, lawyers with a stake in the business of personal injury litigation. (Press and Collis likewise accept attorney contributions.) And yes, Zelman says, it bothers him that “people with money count the most.” But what can he do? And sure, “I’d like to spend 85% of my time doing something besides raising money.” But then he wouldn’t be a contender, would he?

Zelman finishes his campaign day at his headquarters. It is his 46th birthday. He’s been going 12 hours. About 40 of his bedrock supporters have come out to celebrate, read a few gag poems, sing him a song and wish him well. No family is with him: His 15-year “significant other,” Georgia Goldfarb, is a physician and on duty this night. Daughter Rebecca is away at UC Berkeley.

Zelman smiles and picks up a large, foil-wrapped package with a red ribbon. He doesn’t open it. It’s really an empty box with a slot in it. A slot where you can put a check.

“If you could only give a little more,” he tells his friends.