CAMPAIGN JOURNAL : As Election Nears, It’s Back to Basics

On this sunny Saturday, one month out from the primary election, politics in Southern California was whittled down to its bare essentials--money and passion.

On a lush veranda overlooking the sea in Pacific Palisades, the elite of Los Angeles--actors, lawyers, real estate agents, the well-connected and the well-to-do--gathered to quaff margaritas and sign over checks to finance the last exhausting month of the primary campaign marathon for Dianne Feinstein.

Across the county and a world apart, on the green fringes of a golf course fronting the Rose Bowl, hundreds of others gathered in shorts rather than designer fashions. Their purpose was more personal but no less political--they were there as the crime victims whose wrenching suffering has fueled the so-called Speedy Trials Initiative, Proposition 115 on the June ballot. And incongruous as it seemed on the sun-splashed day, they came to talk of grief and a measure of vengeance.

Each gathering had its true believers, each its grandstanding.

For Democratic gubernatorial candidate Feinstein, Saturday was an introduction to the Hollywood that sucks in cash-thirsty politicians as voraciously as it does starlets.

“This is the first celebrity bash for Dianne and we’re very excited!” organizer and local attorney Gloria Allred told about 200 people gathered outside her home. And Feinstein, too, seemed thankful.

“It means so much to me, frankly, as one who’s not from the Hollywood environment, to have you here willing to step forward,” the former San Francisco mayor said.

At $250 a head, this fund-raiser gathered for Feinstein more than $50,000. For their tickets, guests had the run of Allred’s elegant home for an hour, then feasted outdoors on Mexican food and listened to mariachis--the Cinco de Mayo theme was not lost on the organizers--before Feinstein pitched her campaign.

As Hollywood bashes go, this was far from the Oscar-heavy celebrations that have greeted other politicians like Ronald Reagan, whose presence nearly anywhere seems to ensure a fleet of high-profile actors.

The guests were an odd mix of political veteran and slightly star-struck rookie.

“Polly Bergen!” one whispered shortly after the actress arrived. “Didn’t she just announce her divorce?”

Richard Paul, another actor in attendance, recently played televangelist Jerry Falwell in the TV movie about the travails of Jim and Tammy Bakker. “I just want to say, as an almost lifetime Republican, I am no longer deluded,” Paul told the crowd in announcing his support for Feinstein.

Feinstein invited the attendees to join her California Cabinet, an association that costs $1,000, the maximum donation allowed under state law.

“I can’t tell you how much we need funds,” she said.

If the Feinstein fiesta reached for the pocket, the victims’ picnic gnawed at the heart. On turf that normally would have been trod by golfers, hundreds of people sat and sipped soft drinks to ward off the heat. Adults renewed acquaintanceships. Children chased and ran. Atop all their heads were bright pink hats with a simple logo: the word crime, a circle and a line crossed through it.

Ask any of the seemingly cheery picnickers why they came to the golf course and the answer was joltingly frank.

“My brother was murdered,” said Janet Madsen of Riverside, her voice steady and anger in her eyes. “Shot in the back of the head.”

A year ago, Carl Madsen, then 45, went to help a friend move out of a house. Days later, friends noticed his car nearby. In the house, they found Carl Madsen’s body. His car keys were in his hand.

“My parents are in their late 70s and it’s been a year and nothing has been done,” said Janet Madsen. “They cannot rest until someone goes to trial.”

So they came to the picnic to demonstrate their support for Proposition 115, to rally for a final 30-day push for the initiative, which would speed up criminal trials, shield victims from some court appearances and make it easier for prosecutors to seek the death penalty.

This being a political year, hyperbole intruded even amid the recitations of grief.

According to a press release put out by the event’s organizers, it was “believed to be the largest group of crime victims ever assembled at one time.” An employee of the television show “Unsolved Mysteries” showed up to help victims determine whether their case might make the broadcast.

Outside the grounds, a team of Proposition 115 opponents gathered in protest, spreading their contention that the initiative would strip Californians of all vestiges of privacy and open the door to a denial of abortion and civil rights.

In the midst of the picnickers, Sen. Pete Wilson, a strong backer of the initiative and the unofficial Republican gubernatorial nominee, worked the crowd with his wife, Gayle. In pressed khakis and a green plaid shirt--his wife’s outfit was coordinated with his--Wilson took to the stage as a campaign camera crew rolled its tape.

“People who will never know you and will never thank you will be in your debt,” Wilson said. “You will prevent others having to go through what you went through.”

Behind all the campaigning and hyperbole rested the grief of Lois Coles, now involved in her first real political venture. Asked why she was there, she turned and modeled her T-shirt, decorated with a picture of her son Kenny Harris, his birthday and the day of his death, three years ago on Tuesday.

“People say people die,” she said. “My son didn’t die. He was murdered. I have good memories. It would be so much nicer to have Kenny.”

Her eyes filled with tears.