Term Limits Put Legislators on Fund-Raising Fast Track

Shortly after he was sworn into office, rookie Assemblyman Herb Wesson invited lobbyists to a fund-raiser at one of the capital’s swankiest restaurants. The price: $5,000 a plate.

The evening was a smashing success, with Wesson pocketing more than $100,000. But some called it audacious: How dare a freshman hold such a high-priced event--and so soon after arriving in Sacramento?

The admission charge for Wesson’s March soiree was extraordinary, but the Los Angeles Democrat is not the only freshman raising money so early in his debut term.

With the advent of legislative term limits, California’s freshman legislators have more clout--and thus more fund-raising potential--than ever before. Most jump at the chance to collect campaign cash early on.

Nearly every first-termer--indeed, nearly every state legislator--has hosted a fund-raiser this year. And some, including Wesson, have scheduled a second.

To critics, the rookies’ quest for cash seems premature. However bright and promising, the Assembly’s 27 freshmen have yet to distinguish themselves as legislators. Some have scarcely uttered a word on the Assembly floor.

But when it comes to fund-raising, the first-termers have blasted out of the starting gate with the confidence and determination of grizzled veterans. Although many find asking for money distasteful, they say that it is a necessary evil in a world in which campaign costs are forever on the rise.

“The nature of this business is that you have debts to pay, and to do that you raise money,” Wesson said.

Some, like Wesson, are paying off debts from the last election. Others are getting an early start on what they predict will be tough campaigns in 2000. A hotly contested Assembly race can cost a candidate $1 million; last year, $6 million was spent on one state Senate race.

In eras past, freshmen were guppies on the fund-raising food chain. Most spent their first term on the back bench, keeping their mouths shut while absorbing wisdom from their elders. As a result, they had little power and held little allure for donors.

Today, freshmen can be players from the outset. Eight rookies are chairing committees in the Assembly this year. Several already have been christened “leadership material.”

“The half-life of a politician in California now is the blink of an eye,” said lobbyist Gene Erbin. “So freshmen are important from Day 1. In two years, one of them could be speaker.”

What that means is that newcomers now count, and lobbyists cannot afford to ignore them, no matter how green they are.

Sacramento’s fund-raising season began in earnest in late January, when scores of invitations to legislators’ receptions began arriving at lobbyists’ offices via mail and fax. Soon after, the politicians followed up with personal phone calls, which, lobbyists report, go something like this:

Legislator: Hi. Sure hope you can make my event on Wednesday. It should be a lot of fun.

Lobbyist: Well, I’ll certainly talk with the client and see what the budget allows.

Legislator: Great. You know, I could use the support. I may have a tough race next year.

The courtship began bearing fruit in February and March, which were jam-packed with parties morning, noon and night. First-termers were among the most eager hosts.

GOP Assemblyman Dick Dickerson of Redding threw a “Surfin’ Safari Party.” Assemblyman Alan Lowenthal (D-Long Beach) served salmon, miniature lamb chops and chocolate truffles at a historic capital hotel.

Most Assembly members charge $500 or $750 per ticket for their Sacramento events; state senators ask for $750 or $1,000. Legislative leaders carry more clout and can charge more.

Jim Knox, executive director of California Common Cause, calls the Sacramento fund-raising “fundamentally corrupt,” saying that lobbyists are buying the votes of legislators whose events they attend.

“These are not $25 spaghetti feeds in the district. These are $1,000-a-plate fund-raisers, and the audience is exclusively the lobbyists and special interest groups whose bills are before the Legislature,” said Knox, whose organization favors limits on campaign donations and spending.

But lobbyists say that contributing to a politician does not translate into support for a given bill. As one put it, “Money talks, but does it dominate the conversation? No.”

The lobbyist--who, like most others, spoke on condition of anonymity--said contributing “doesn’t buy you a vote. What it gets you--sometimes--is access, familiarity with the legislator, a relationship.”

Lobbyist Kathryn Rees said she attends fund-raisers for a more obvious purpose--to support legislators who share a client’s political philosophy: “It’s not strange to want like-minded individuals elected,” she said.

Many legislators say that asking for money is one of the most unpleasant dimensions of their job. “I’d much rather be talking about policy or helping constituents with problems,” said Lowenthal, “but it’s part of the system, so you just do it.”

Lowenthal said he’s “very careful to make sure I’m not compromised in any way” when accepting donations. “You have to make sure you don’t cross any inappropriate lines.”

Wesson, too, insists that he does not mix legislative business with money matters. But he’s not reluctant to ask for contributions.

“It’s not hard for me,” he said. “I find that asking for a buck takes the same amount of effort as asking for a million. Of course, if it was a million I might smile more.”

Many members of 1999’s freshman class have hired professional fund-raisers to make the effort easier--and more lucrative. Among them is Assemblywoman Charlene Zettel (R-Poway).

Zettel needs money to retire a $170,000 debt from her last race. To kick off her fund-raising, she held an evening reception at Frank Fat’s, a legendary political haunt near the Capitol. Guests paid $750 apiece to chat with Zettel, listen to jazz and eat pot stickers. The total raised: about $37,000, before expenses.

Among those attending was lobbyist Mike Arnold, who sipped a drink in a dimly lit corner and noted that the party was crowded--a sign of success. Arnold said he asked his client to pay $750 for a ticket because Zettel is a thoughtful, diligent legislator with a “bright future.”

“She asks the kind of insightful questions that members don’t usually ask until they’ve been here five or six years,” said Arnold, who represents hospitals, clinical laboratories and other businesses affected by the Assembly Health Committee, on which Zettel serves. “That’s the sort of person we want here.”

Two weeks later, a very different sort of evening unfolded at Morton’s steakhouse--Wesson’s $5,000 event.

Compared to the fried finger food and cold cuts typical at many receptions, the spread at Wesson’s affair was impressive. Booze flowed from an open bar and guests enjoyed a choice of salmon, two types of steak--rib eye marinated in Cajun spices or filet mignon--or shrimp Alexander.

Wesson, chairman of the Governmental Organization Committee, said he invited “people with a history of contributing at a certain level” and those with interests covered by his committee, namely the gambling and alcohol industries.

Capital veterans say that Wesson is the first Assembly freshman to hold a $5,000-a-ticket fund-raiser. While acknowledging that the price “stretched the envelope a bit,” Wesson said his guests got a lot for the money--”a wonderful meal and the chance to cultivate a relationship with me.

“I’m attempting to set a tone here,” he said. “I would like to be considered a class act . . . and this was like my coming-out party.”

When they aren’t presiding at their own fetes, legislators are usually attending colleagues’ events. Showing up serves several purposes: You demonstrate support for the host and you can eat and drink for free. (Legislators’ tickets are comped.)

It also can be fun.

Who, for instance, could pass up “chuck wagon vittles” and a calf-roping contest, the highlights at Republican Assemblyman Peter Frusetta’s March reception?

Zettel attacks the fund-raiser circuit with two GOP buddies, Abel Maldonado (R-Santa Maria) and Patricia Bates (R-Laguna Niguel). Feb. 23 is a typical night: The three have seven functions on their schedule.

One of their early stops is Virga’s restaurant, where a beaming Assemblyman Roy Ashburn (R-Bakersfield) greets them with hugs and steers them toward a table piled high with smoked ribs, marinated asparagus and chocolate-covered strawberries.

Zettel eyes the food but heads straight for the bar. Chardonnay? Nope. “A glass of water, please.”

Later, she explains: “We’re all on diets. It’s like being a freshman at college. If you don’t watch it, you put on 20 pounds overnight.”

Bidding Ashburn farewell, the threesome marches on. Zettel checks her watch and groans: “It’s already 6:30, and we’ve only got an hour to do three more.”

By 7:15 the rookies reach their final stop--a “karaoke extravaganza.” The hors d’oeuvres have dwindled, and a drunk guest is warbling a Roy Orbison tune. Other than the host, his wife and a few staff members, the room is nearly empty.

Zettel watches politely for five minutes, then slips out.

“It’s late, I’ve lost the bounce in my step,” she says. “In the beginning, these fund-raisers were fun. But there are so many. I’m worn out.”