Legislators Take Stock of Rookie Year

A year ago they were the starry-eyed rookies of the Capitol, raw and eager and idealistic and frankly amazed that the people of California were willing to pay them $99,000 a year to help run this sprawling state.

Then came reality. It was somewhat less glamorous.

Their bills, so lovingly crafted, were mangled, diluted or killed outright. Modest budget requests--$50,000 for an anti-litter program, $200,000 for a high school pool--were rejected out of hand. Long hours strained families. Deal-making made a mockery of rules they had worked so hard to master.

Yet halfway through their first term, the Assembly’s 27 freshmen remain breathlessly gung-ho about life in the Capitol.

“There was some frustration, yes,” said Herb Wesson (D-Los Angeles). “But mainly the feeling is exhilaration.”

Why?

Imagine the chance to chart the course of California--on education, health care, criminal law--at the dawn of the 21st century. Imagine being served by a loyal staff, fawned over by lobbyists and lavished with the VIP treatment, from invitations to the Academy Awards to golf rounds at Pebble Beach.

And don’t forget power. With term limits creating perpetual turnover in the Legislature, even greenhorns--once expected to sit still and keep quiet--get a share. Wesson and six other freshmen chair committees, and many first-termers have been treated as players right from the start.

For three rookie Assembly members followed by The Times, 1999 was a year of accomplishments large and small. They memorized the Southwest Airlines flight schedule and figured out where to buy a decent bagel. They joined with their colleagues to pass 1,277 bills and an on-time state budget for the first year since 1993.

Now, as Year 2 of their maiden term gets rolling, the three proclaim themselves wiser, better, braver lawmakers.

Alan Lowenthal (D-Long Beach) now knows that “there are rules, and then there are the real rules of the place,” a truism underscored here again and again. Charlene Zettel (R-Poway) realizes that even the most benign, well-intended idea will not become law if certain forces are aligned against it.

As for Wesson, he learned that one of the first pieces of advice he got here was the best: Never fall in love with your legislation.

Key Lesson in First Setback

Kids and safety. To Zettel, it seemed like a winning combination. But her simple idea--doubling the fines for motorists who speed in school zones--did not become law this year.

Zettel, 52, knew from Day 1 that passing legislation would be tough. It’s not rocket science; she’s a Republican and Democrats dominate the place.

So she came up with a strategy: Focus on bills that are substantive but nonpartisan--easy for members of both parties to support. Bills like AB 280, the school zone bill.

Zettel’s interest in the issue was kindled by the deaths of two children hit by a pickup truck just outside their San Diego County elementary school.

“I thought the bill was very straightforward and would help protect children,” Zettel said. “I never anticipated much trouble.”

The first bump in the road came in the Assembly Appropriations Committee, where Democrats balked because of the cost of posting signs warning of the higher fines.

Zettel was perplexed, given that her bill gave local jurisdictions a choice of raising the fines or not. But to keep the measure alive, she agreed to narrow it to six pilot projects around the state.

New problems surfaced in the Senate, where critics--Democrats, again--complained that low-income motorists would have trouble paying the higher fines. Zettel tried gamely to calm the controversy, but the bill stalled.

Now a Democratic assemblyman is floating a similar idea as part of a broader bill on pedestrian safety. Zettel figures one of two things will happen: “Either my idea gets hijacked, or we work together.” The lesson: Anticipate the opposition, and neutralize it. Early.

Despite that setback, Zettel managed to get five bills signed into law, an impressive record for a rookie Republican. But the year had its low points. Married with children and a resident of the same house in Poway for 28 years, she found little to love about commuter life.

And there were agonizing votes. Topping the list was a ban on certain types of assault weapons. The lobbying was fierce, and Zettel was one of only four Republicans to vote for it--a lonely place to be.

But more than anything, she says, 1999 will be remembered as proof of the power of politics to heal. To wit: her resolution naming a section of a San Diego County highway for a California highway patrolman killed during a high-speed chase.

“It was so personally gratifying, to be able to help the family in this way,” Zettel said. “It won’t bring their son back, but I hope it brings some closure, a little comfort.”

Slam-Dunk Bill Meets With Veto

It was the first bill he introduced, on the first day of his first Assembly term. For Alan Lowenthal--and the folks he represents back home--AB 23 was a biggie.

Its aim was to put Caltrans in charge of the southern portion of the Long Beach Freeway, a beleaguered, overloaded stretch now maintained by the city of Long Beach. The state agreed to the deal 20 years ago, but bureaucratic gridlock kept the transfer from going through.

Lowenthal, 58, figured the bill was a slam-dunk. Strong bipartisan support propelled it through the Legislature, and a few gripes by Caltrans were resolved with amendments. Or so he thought. Much to Lowenthal’s surprise, the bill was vetoed by Gov. Gray Davis.

“I went ballistic,” the assemblyman recalled.

No wonder. In November, Lowenthal faces reelection, a tricky test in a district that has traditionally favored Republicans. The freeway bill means a lot to his constituents, and could have given him great bragging rights on the campaign trail.

Since the veto, Lowenthal has won a promise that Caltrans will take over the stretch of freeway after all. The veto, it seems, was all a matter of miscommunication.

But the episode taught two lessons: Don’t assume anything, and build stronger relations with the governor’s office.

Those are just two resolutions Lowenthal has for 2000. Another is to strive for a seat on the Rules Committee, the powerful panel that governs how the Assembly runs.

Lowenthal’s interest in rules is shared by many freshmen, who were stunned by end-of-session shenanigans completely at odds with the democratic process they had been taught to heed. Exhibit A: A bill that sought to prevent discount giants Wal-Mart and Costco from expanding their operations to include groceries.

It wasn’t the content of the bill that troubled Lowenthal, it was the way it came to life. To short-circuit the legislative process and avoid scrutiny, sponsors hijacked an unrelated Assembly bill, gutted it and turned it into the Wal-Mart bill. A process that normally might have taken four months took less than a week.

“It made it very evident that there are certain unwritten rules, certain things about this place, that weren’t in our orientation manuals,” said Lowenthal, who nonetheless voted for the bill.

Despite such periodic disillusionments, Lowenthal proclaims his 1999 season fulfilling. Of 13 bills he introduced, seven were signed into law. He brought home a boatload of pork for his district, too--$1.8 million worth, everything from a senior citizens center renovation to expansion of an art museum. He also headed a committee--on housing and community development.

Back for Round 2, Lowenthal remains amazed at how term limits turn newcomers into old-timers virtually overnight.

“When I first got here, I didn’t have a clue how this place worked,” he muses. “Now, one year later, people treat me like an old-timer. Can you believe it?”

Replaced by a Classic Maneuver

Herb Wesson was losing sleep over it. Stewing about it. Fretting about it. And time was running out. The Death With Dignity Act--a bill to allow physician-assisted suicide--was heading straight for him. He had to decide.

Day in, day out, legislators are forced to make choices on policy matters that often tear them in two. In 1999, none traumatized the ranks quite like the Death With Dignity Act.

Wesson ultimately decided his vote was a no. But in the end, he didn’t vote at all. In a classic Capitol maneuver, he was temporarily removed from the Appropriations Committee by the Assembly speaker, who has such power under house rules. Replacing him was a member who voted for the bill, thus sending it on its way.

Wesson says the maneuver--one used off and on since the practice was popularized by former Speaker Willie Brown--did not bother him. “In fact, I was relieved. I really didn’t want to vote on that bill.”

But he might feel differently if it happened tomorrow: “I deal with things on an issue-by-issue basis. If it were an issue I wanted to vote on, I might get livid.”

Wesson, 48, had a busy year. “My life,” he said, “was a blur.” For starters, he was chairman of the Governmental Organization Committee, which oversees the gambling and liquor industries, among other interests.

He also set a brisk pace in campaign fund-raising, juggled other demanding committee assignments and carried 19 bills of his own--a big load.

Nine of those were signed into law, including one that makes it a crime to sell a laser pointer to a minor. The victories were memorable. The vetoes--seven of them--stung: “I think I pouted for 15 minutes. Well, maybe it was a day.”

Lessons were lurking everywhere for Wesson in Year 1: Line up support for your bills early. Don’t be afraid to ask stupid questions. Remember that even the hardest-working lawmakers can be doomed by pure politics.

He also found that there are downsides to political life: Back home in Los Angeles, he’s not anonymous any more. “I can’t go out without shaving and ironing my clothes. I might get caught.”

Earlier this month, Speaker Antonio Villaraigosa (D-Los Angeles) gave Wesson a key role in this year’s Assembly election effort: responsibility for increasing voter registration. Villaraigosa calls him “a rising star, a person who has already made a very large mark.”

Wesson is pleased, but said he knows better than to get all worked up about the praise.

“If individuals are saying things like that, then my mother should be proud,” he said.

“But what I want to be right now is the best assemblyman I can be. I’m determined to show that Herb Wesson is like the pizza man: He delivers.”