One of the problems with applying
“appearance of impropriety” rules to Illinois and
Chicago politics is that most of the players are swimming in a
small political pond.
We’re constantly treated to stories
about how this or that political insider connected with Chicago
Mayor Richard Daley is representing a company that just landed a
sweet city contract. Look more closely, and you’ll probably
find that every bidder had signed up an insider in the belief that
his or her guy had more clout than the other guys, or that they
wouldn’t have even reached first base without a preapproved
pal on the payroll, or, more likely, because the insiders are just
about the only ones who know how to navigate the city’s
bureaucracy.
We all know that Gov. Rod Blagojevich
enthusiastically and without apology raises millions of dollars
from state contractors, board and commission members, state agency
honchos, and so on. Absent the weeks of research this would entail,
I’d bet a buck that several unsuccessful bidders were also
generous givers or had retained their share of politically
connected insiders to make their case.
As big as Illinois and Chicago are, the
political world here is comparatively tiny. Everyone knows everyone
in the game, and, for the most part, they are the only ones playing
that game.
Without making any excuses for
Blagojevich’s obvious excesses and a handful of highly
questionable deals, this is one reason the governor is failing so
badly at upholding his endlessly repeated oath to end business as
usual in Illinois and create a “new way.”
It’s pretty nearly impossible to run a
government — any government, anywhere — without making
somebody a big pile of money. And it’s usually the same
people making that money year after year because they’re the
ones with either the experience and know-how to win the contracts
or the wherewithal to get the job done. And that wealthy
tribe’s long-standing custom is to express its gratitude by
writing large campaign checks.
As a practical matter, the governor probably
can’t stop using the expertise and abilities of the people
who know how to get things done.
Blagojevich can, however, do what Daley has
done and prevent his campaign from profiting from the system he so
often says he wants to reform.
Last week, the governor refused to follow
Daley’s lead and support one of two bills in the General
Assembly that would ban contributions from state contractors and
vendors. But he went on to say that he was considering a proposal
to ban campaign contributions from lobbyists to legislators,
constitutional officers, and candidates.
It wasn’t difficult to see what was
really going on here. He might as well have just warned
the Legislature: “Keep messing with me on this issue, and
I’ll use my bully pulpit to exercise the ‘nuclear’
option.”
This is a pretty darned good pivot on the
governor’s part. He provides himself political cover for not
immediately following Daley’s lead while buttressing his
reputation as a reformer.
More important, though, it allows him to get
in front of the legislative proposals that are targeted directly at
him and, at the same time, stop those same bills dead in their
tracks. “I offered to quit taking contractor money, but they
wouldn’t clean up their own houses,” the governor could
say after his proposals are buried in a legislative purgatory and
he opposes whatever is left.
Blagojevich knows full well that editorial
boards throughout the state will suck up this lobbyist-contribution
ban as if it’s nectar from the gods. As a result,
legislators, who receive millions of dollars from companies and
individuals who register as statehouse lobbyists every year, will
likely flee those proposed contractor-contribution bans as if they
carry the avian flu virus because there’s no way they want
the governor using every possible opportunity to loudly beat them
about the skulls with this lobbyist-contribution ban.
Never mind that if the governor was truly
interested in proving his reform credentials, he would voluntarily
issue an executive order banning the contractor and vendor
contributions for himself and then use his heroic action to push
for even tougher legislative reforms. Rather, he seems more
interested in attaching the most internecine of poisonous pills he
can dream up to forestall the progress of a measure that exposes
gaping holes in his own ethics armor — and simultaneously
give himself some talking points whenever the subject is broached
by reporters and editorial boards.
This article appears in Feb 24 – Mar 2, 2005.
