It might surprise you to find out that choosing a Republican candidate for governor is a lot like ordering dinner.
The political menu, compiled by young GOP campaign staffers, reads this way:
Sam Steiger: "He's a lot like Mexican food, spicy and substantial. But he'll upset your stomach in the long run."
Evan Mecham: "Thanksgiving leftovers. You know how it is, you can never seem to get rid of the turkey."
Fred Koory: "Jell-O. Sweet and pleasant as a side dish, but way too insubstantial to be a main course."
Fife Symington: "Vanilla ice cream. Cold and bland."
Bob Barnes: "He's not even on the dinner menu. More like breakfast. Froot Loops maybe. Or some kind of flake."
Hmmm. Makes you think about eating Democratic this year, doesn't it?
While the candidates might be distressed to learn, with barely a week to go before the September 11 primary election, that their campaign workers are chuckling over food metaphors instead of pounding the pavement to corral supporters, this bit of campaign memorabilia says a great deal about the state of Republican gubernatorial politics. There are a lot of choices, but none of them is especially appetizing.
It wasn't supposed to be this way. Only a scant few months ago pundits and public-pulse watchers were rubbing their hands in happy anticipation of a political bloodfeast. With this cast of hopefuls, a rollicking, fire-and-brimstone showdown had to be in the offing.
A passionless millionaire developer, an ousted governor hungry for political redemption, a grizzled maverick ex- congressman with a checkered past, a friendly but oafish county bureaucrat and an enigmatic nutty professor, all competing for a chance to become the first Republican governor to sit a full term since 1974. For those still suffering withdrawal pangs from the gaffe-a-day turmoil and bitter rhetoric of the thirteen-month Mecham era, this campaign would be a fix made to order.
When the dust settled from the collision of this diverse quintet, the GOP would surely have one man who had successfully run the gauntlet, someone toughened, proven and ready to go forth and do battle with the Democratic menace, Terry Goddard.
It never happened. Sure, the candidates went through the motions-- there were the expected allegations about Steiger's wild-and-woolly history, and Symington and Mecham, representing opposite social poles, sparred cautiously at local forums and debates. But unbelievably, the campaign trail remained a relatively placid place all summer, and the candidates, who have spent countless hours and millions of dollars maneuvering for blocs of GOP turf, have failed to convince half the Republican electorate that any one of them is worth voting for.
As September breaks, some polls show nearly 50 percent of Arizona Republicans are still "undecided," a staggering figure which by itself transforms all polls into inherently worthless compilations of jumbled numbers and clears the way for an anything-goes primary circus. This fact hasn't elicited much happiness in Republican ranks. Steiger and Symington both have expressed frustration over their apparent inability to solidify their positions and break away from the pack. Koory's campaign is as it has always been, dead in the water. And Barnes is clinging to his solid percent support.
But who is that, over there, grinning that familiar grin? It's Evan Mecham, veteran of six gubernatorial races, and he has found plenty of reasons to be smiling. No one is openly predicting victory for Mecham just yet, but insiders are nervously eyeing the horizon over Glendale way, because it is clear that something there is stirring, something most thought had been put to rest long ago.
Mecham has been steadily gaining in the polls this summer, overtaking Steiger and moving into second place behind Symington. He is touting a new legitimacy, earned when he survived a July legal challenge to his campaign, and enjoying the warm electoral climate, which is providing perfect weather for yet another miraculous political comeback.
His campaign comes on the heels of a large, unpopular tax hike--passed after months of inactivity by a contemptible, lethargic legislature--and in an election year when activist groups in record number are scrambling to by-pass lawmakers all together and pass their own laws through ballot initiatives. Voters seem to be even more disgusted than usual with their elected leaders, an attitude which serves as a perfect breeding ground for Mecham's antiestablishment, throw-the-bums-out rhetoric. But most of all, there is that huge bloc of undecided voters, those who don't know or don't care, who threaten to resurrect Evan Mecham, once again, from the political grave.
"Undecideds" often never do decide, and so stay home on election day. A small turnout would be a Mecham boon, as his dedicated hard-core followers will find a way to make it to the polls, even if they have to crawl through broken glass. In a five-way race, where significant blocs of the vote are fragmented among at least four viable candidates, this devoted squadron of Mecham Militia could be enough to capture another surprise win for the ex-governor.
Steiger has been preaching this apocalyptic vision for months, issuing weekly press releases reiterating the same theme--low turnout means a Mecham victory, and that in turn means a Goddard win, a tonic as unpalatable to Republicans as a huge spoonful of castor oil. Impossible, you say? Well, just ask Burton Barr. He ought to know.
Four years ago at this time, Barr was riding high after two decades as Arizona's most powerful legislator. He was the seemingly unstoppable favorite to win the Republican nomination and the governorship. Favored strongly in the polls, this consummate political insider was the closest to a sure thing ever seen in Arizona. Then the bottom dropped out.
In a stunning primary-night victory, Mecham captured the nomination and set the GOP on its ear. Barr was defeated, but he's still around--and he's been watching this year's campaign with a jaundiced eye.
"This is a similar situation to 1986," Barr says, "and just like then it will depend on how many people get out to vote. When I ran, people thought I was going to win it, so they didn't think it was important.
"People don't think Mr. Mecham has a chance this time, but they're wrong. He continues to hold a set percentage of the voters, and he has a good chance to do it again.
"Understand this: If we get low turnout, Mecham could very well be the nominee."
The stakes for the GOP are high. Whoever is the next governor will have a hand in drawing the new Arizona district lines, a task that will have an enduring effect on the state's political make-up for the next decade. With that in mind, what Republican party officials say they want most is not an ideologue, or a candidate who fits a certain "issue profile." This isn't a race about issues anyway, they say, and, in fact, there is very little variance among the candidates on the basic conservative agenda. This is a race about politics--the real question to the candidates is not what will you do on the capitol's ninth floor, but how will you get there?
What the Republican party hungers for is simple political meat and potatoes: a candidate who can unite the various GOP factions and win.
So ponder the menu, and carefully place your order. None of the dishes may tempt your taste buds, but some are assuredly more palatable than others. Bon appetit.
MDRVJ. FIFE SYMINGTON III
J. Fife Symington III is used to buying things.
Some might say it's a family tradition.
In his book The Right and the Power, Watergate special prosecutor Leon Jaworski recounts how Herb Kalmbach, a California attorney and Richard Nixon's personal lawyer, admitted offering foreign ambassadorships to wealthy Republicans in exchange for hefty campaign contributions to aid Nixon's 1972 re-election bid. Such outright sales of ambassadorships are a seamy, albeit traditional, method of filling out the U.S. diplomatic corps.
The prosecutors brought charges against Kalmbach for offering the then-ambassador to Trinidad a move up to a high-visibility European ambassadorship--in exchange for a $100,000 donation. The ambassador, evidently weary of working in a diplomatic backwater and longing for the prestige and perks of a post on the Continent, wrote the check.
The ambassador? None other than J. Fife Symington Jr., father of the Arizona gubernatorial hopeful. Unfortunately for the elder Symington, a Nixon aide vetoed Kalmbach's offer and all Symington got for his $100,000 was a trip back to Trinidad and some bad press during the Watergate investigation. Nixon, of course, riding the largest campaign war chest ever assembled up to that time, was easily returned to the White House. Kalmbach went to jail.
Symington is hoping he'll have better luck in the governor's race than his dad did in the 1972 ambassador sweepstakes, and he's spending far more than $100,000 to ensure it. Symington admits to shelling out $1 million on the primary race alone, and pollsters and politicos estimate it could take two or three times that to wage a winning campaign against Terry Goddard in the November general election.
Symington has been shoveling fuel into his campaign engine at a frenetic pace. While other candidates struggle to raise enough shekels for a few minutes of television time, Symington sends out eight-minute video tapes touting his campaign to hundreds of state Republicans. But it hasn't come easy.
A source within the Symington campaign says several of the developer's business ventures are stalling, forcing the diversion of money away from the campaign. Fund raising, under the sluggish economy and the strict Proposition 200 finance law, has been difficult. "The money has been very slow," says the staffer, "and I don't believe Fife has as many resources at his disposal as people think. Everyone involved in the real estate industry is hurting--Symington is no exception.
"Plus, he's not turning audiences on. He's still in the country-club mind set. Potential contributors see that."
Ironically, it may be the amount of money Symington has already spent that is deterring others from chipping in to his campaign effort. After all, what has all that money bought him so far?
Even after spending $1 million, Symington has failed to emerge conclusively as the favorite. He may hold an edge in the polls, but the presence of large numbers of undecided voters this late in the race indicates his constituency may be "soft" and changeable, with many poll respondents simply reacting to a name they recognize as a result of the multitudinous Symington TV commercials.
One gets the sense that, after sixteen costly months on the stump, Symington has achieved name recognition but failed to truly penetrate the public's consciousness. He is known but not understood; a shadowy, vague presence on the electoral scene acknowledged more for his bushy ivory eyebrows than any political utterance. His problem is not name recognition; it is character identification.
Symington, 45, has spent much of the campaign battling accusations that he is a rich dilettante, offering his services to rule Arizona out of a Maximilian sense of noblesse oblige. "I'm just a regular guy," he says. But the fact is that most regular guys don't grow up on wooded, rambling Maryland family estates, attend the finest private schools and universities and develop multimillion dollar office/hotel complexes. This kind of patrician pedigree is viewed with special disdain by many rural Arizonans. Red necks and blue blood do not easily mix.
Indeed, it is outside metropolitan Maricopa County that Symington faces his greatest challenge. As one out- county GOP official says, Symington is "about as popular as a sushi bar out here." And everybody knows that in out-county Arizona, the name for sushi is "bait."
"To rural Arizona, Fife Symington doesn't connect," the official says. "He doesn't relate. He's an out-of-state rich boy and that doesn't sell."
Symington's behavior during the 1985 battle to gain approval for the Camelback Esplanade, a development touted as a "world-class" conglomeration of offices, shops and a hotel, adds to the perception that he is a rich interloper, throwing money around to gain advantage. His offer of $1 million to a neighborhood group opposing the 24th Street and Camelback project to gain its support left a bad taste in the mouths of many. In addition, Symington, who was then serving as secretary of the state GOP, donated $15,000, gathered from what he says were "ten or fifteen different people," through the Republican party to the candidate running against the Esplanade's most vocal city council opponent, Ed Korrick. Symington was accused of using his role as a party official to get around campaign finance laws, which limited contributions from an individual to $200.
Symington, pointing to an attorney general's report on the incident which cleared him of any wrongdoing, bristles at the mention of the donation; his face flushing with anger.
"It was a joint campaign contribution," Symington says. "The AG's Office investigated and concluded that everybody had done everything properly . . . don't imply otherwise. It's one of those things that people will always bring up, and we'll just issue the AG report, and say that you can see here that everything was done in accordance with the law.
"And if you have a problem with that, then, well God bless you, and I'll see you later."
He reacts with similar indignation when questioned about his business dealings. The Symington campaign is proclaiming that Arizona, badly mismanaged for decades, desperately needs an experienced businessman to restart the lagging economy. But he refuses to discuss his own business credentials. He won't address charges that he is attempting to unload his interest in the Esplanade, which is sitting half-empty, or that several banks are calling in their Symington loans and he is being forced to dig deep into his own pocket to finance his gubernatorial bid. Other rumors suggest he is seeking escape from the Mercado project, a sweetheart partnership between the City of Phoenix, an Hispanic development consortium and the federal government, whose major tenants have been primarily governmental or quasi- governmental agencies. The Mercado, too, is far from putting out the "no vacancy" sign.
Even his ability to consolidate opinion and, as he says, "bring people together," a large part of his businessman's electoral pitch, is under fire. Critics note that not even a massive television campaign orchestrated by four of the hottest hired guns in Phoenix public relations, retained at a cost of $500,000, could help the developer pull the trigger on the originally proposed Esplanade project. He had to settle for a scaled- down version of the complex. (Ironically, the man doing the scaling was then-mayor of Phoenix, Terry Goddard.)
"Look, I'm not responding to a lot of rumors and innuendo and things that get repeated," Symington says. "My record is well established and I'm very proud of the things I've done . . . I do development and I do politics. They're two separate things and I try to keep them that way. And that's it," he says, waving off the question with a sharp flap of the hand.
It is at such moments that Symington's composure and normally genteel manner give way to a truly fierce temper, which he has been known to vent on other candidates and staff members alike. One staffer says the candidate "is unaccustomed to answering for his actions," and can be driven into a snit over any attempt to make him account for suspected mistakes or ethical violations.
"The funny thing about it," the staffer says, "is that even when he is angry, his voice doesn't rise or change tone beyond just a twinge of sarcasm. The voice is atonal, without accent or flaw, but without a shred of character, either."
Politically, that blandness is a double-edged sword. On one hand, Symington's steadiness and lack of flair are reassuring in a fatherly way. He represents security and a firm hand in a state still reeling from years of political trauma. But it is also, well, boring.
He smiles rarely and is visibly uncomfortable without the businessman's uniform of jacket and tie. His brilliant blue eyes turn icy and his back stiffens at the slightest hint of criticism. He gives every appearance of being, in the words of opponent Sam Steiger, "uptight." He is clearly the most moderate and mainstream of the five candidates, supporting a Martin Luther King Jr. holiday, compromising on abortion and refusing to pledge, as Mecham and Koory have done, not to raise taxes. But while he may have the right stuff to appeal to a wide spectrum of voters, he lacks the humor and warmth needed to reach them.
Symington's defenders say such criticism is superficial; they talk of his sincerity and true desire to lead the state away from the divisiveness of the Mecham years and into a new governmental age, one that has as its trademark efficient, competent managerial leadership. It's true, Symington speaks to the public with serious, Boy Scout earnestness. But some, like Lincoln Ragsdale, suggest Symington's sincerity lasts only until the glare of the television lights disappear. When they go, so do his promises.
When it was revealed last month that Symington belonged to the all-white Paradise Valley Country Club, Democratic leaders charged him with racism. In an effort to throw water on the charge, Symington offered to sponsor a wealthy black Valley businessman, Ragsdale, for membership in the club. Ragsdale now calls the offer "a joke."
"This whole thing is a farce," Ragsdale says. "Of course I want to belong to the club, but Symington's offer means nothing. I don't hear anything from him. People, especially politicians, say these things but they just aren't real."
What clearly is real are the traps Democrats are already setting for the Republican front-runner. Goddard supporters are gleefully anticipating the easy shots they can take at Symington for donating $2,000 to Goddard's last mayoral bid. It is a sound bite waiting to happen: "Goddard. A candidate so good, even his opponent gives him money."
Symington's rapidly fluctuating position on abortion also gives ammunition to the Democrats. The candidate has shifted ground on the highly emotional issue three times in the last year. He began the campaign with the rigid proclamation that abortion was wrong except in cases of rape, incest or where the life of the mother is in danger. A few months later, campaign sources say, Symington toned down his stance at the urging of his family, saying abortions were allowable, as long as they were confined to the first trimester. Now, after what the sources call "extended lobbying" by campaign manager Bunny Badertscher and aide Annette Alvarez, Symington says abortions should be permitted until the fetus is "viable," a rather nebulous concept at best.
"Nothing hurts a candidate like being viewed as inconsistent on abortion," a Goddard supporter points out.
Symington's problems do not end there. His inexperience in gubernatorial politics has allowed him to alienate much of the state Republican party structure, a move he may live to regret should he face Goddard in the general election.
"His problem," says a GOP official, "is that he is a political neophyte. He has succeeded in alienating a large segment of the party activists just because he is so inexperienced politically."
It started with his campaign signs. The first batch that popped up last spring were missing one key element--they didn't identify the candidate as a Republican. "It sounds like a small, stupid thing," the official says. "But to the party, it was a sign of what was ahead."
In early August, Symington offended the party's worker bees, the precinct committee people, by publicly discounting the importance of their political opinions. Fred Koory's campaign conducted a poll of almost half of the 2,879 committee people, the grassroots organizers who serve as the party's backbone, and found that 38 percent supported Koory. Symington held 10 percent support.
When asked by the Mesa Tribune to respond to the poll results, Symington replied haughtily, "Come on. A poll of precinct committeemen, and you're going to print this? What's the world coming to?"
So serious was this error, the official adds, that if he had been running the Symington campaign, he would have "grabbed the candidate and shook him."
"[The committee people] are the guys who are out there in the trenches," the official says, "going door to door in precincts. They're informed, and a lot of people ask them what they think. After Symington's remark, it will be a cold day in hell before they tell voters to support him."
Should he advance to the general election, Symington, who says only that his remarks were "misinterpreted," will need such baseline party support to unite the far-right Mecham contingent behind him. It may be a difficult task, as members of the right have notoriously long memories and equally short fuses, and Symington has given them ample reason to carry a grudge.
Symington launched his campaign by declaring that Mecham needed a "punch in the nose," and offering his services as the man to give it to him. His battles with Mecham have escalated, as the two men continually sniped at each other during joint public appearances. There seems to be genuine animosity between the two politicians, and little wonder. To Mecham, Symington is establishment with a capital E, the very personification of the Phoenix power brokers that he has built a career tangling with. To the cultured Symington, Mecham is an uncouth, ill-mannered bumpkin.
But Symington will need the bumpkin's help in the general election, for he cannot defeat Goddard without the estimated 20 percent or so of the Republican party who have pledged their souls and votes to Mecham. It's a problem even the high-powered Washington political consultant Jay Smith, who is on the Symington payroll at $10,000 a month, cannot help him with. Smoking the peace pipe after the "punch" comment will require much personal bowing and scraping from Symington, who Mecham says would "not be a very good governor, but probably better than Goddard."
What's more, Mecham's supporters believe Symington actually tried to sucker-punch Mecham by using the legal system, instead of facing him on the field of battle man to man. It is for this reason, and this reason alone, that Symington sprinted to the word processor in July to compose a letter urging Parker resident Dennis Ingram to drop his lawsuit aimed at removing Mecham from the ballot. Ingram, it was learned, had signed a Symington nominating petition in March, and Symington knew he had to act quickly to reassure Mecham supporters that he had no intention of sticking a dagger in their leader's back--not in a courtroom, anyway.
Symington downplays the problem. "All Republican voters will rally around the successful candidate," he says. "I believe I can unify the party. My contest is with Mr. Mecham, not with his supporters." If he truly believes that, charges of naivete may be understated. The Mecham Militia is widely considered to be an unabsorbable voting bloc, exclusively dedicated to one man and his populist cause--to speak the truth and needle the insiders and power brokers who are out of touch with the people.
From that perspective, nobody needs to be stopped more than J. Fife Symington III.
MDRVSAM STEIGER
"He hasn't accepted the status quo," Mark Almaraz says of Sam Steiger. "I like his approach, he's up-front, and I get a sense of confidence in what he says, even if he's sometimes wrong.
"I like his honesty. Steiger, no matter what, says the truth."
Pretty standard political rhetoric from a campaign supporter, right? Anyone involved in the GOP race will tell you that his candidate is as honest as the day is long.
But these aren't the praises of a rank-and-file Republican. These compliments come from an unlikely source--Almaraz, a student at Arizona State University, is also a Communist. He's thinking about voting for Steiger simply because he believes the tough- talking ex-congressman tells it like it is.
The fact that a former state chairman of the Young Communist's League is considering putting down the hammer and sickle and pulling the lever for Steiger says something about the boundaries of the candidate's constituency--like maybe that there aren't any. The vivid contrasts in the backgrounds of his supporters and campaign staff illustrate the broad personal appeal of a man whose friends in Prescott comfortably refer to, in the same breath, as "dear old Sam" and "that son of a bitch."
Almaraz might be surprised to know that Steiger's campaign manager, Joyce Downey, was an aide to General John Singlaub, a former president of the World Anti-Communist League, who was allegedly involved in smuggling arms to the Nicaraguan contras. Finance director Edith Richardson, who along with Steiger was a key member of the Mecham administration, also ran John Conlan's 1976 bitter anti-Steiger bid for the U.S. Senate; a race known as one of the nastiest and most divisive in state-party history. The author of Steiger's position paper on drugs is a lifelong liberal--and a convicted drug offender. Even Ed Buck, organizer of the Mecham recall movement, has pledged his support.
The far right and the far left, ex-cons and homosexual activists; they all have one thing in common--Steiger. What attracts such a dizzying variety of individuals to this man?
Part of the appeal is, as Almaraz says, the impression that Steiger's blustery candor and biting wit act as a razor blade, cutting away the hyperbole and intentional distortion so prevalent in politics and government, and revealing the cold, hard truth beneath. He attacks lawyers and liberals with vigor, and portrays himself, as does Mecham, as a voice for the people.
He is unafraid to take on even the most powerful and admired with his acidic wit. He once wrote of Senator John McCain, who spent six years as a Vietnam prisoner of war, "in my war (Korea), you didn't get to be a hero by getting captured. And if you did, you at least tried to escape." Such drollery, while not without its costs ("John and I," laughs Steiger, "are not close."), reaffirms the image of Steiger as a modern-day Mencken, verbalizing what we all feel, but are afraid to say, about the absurd persons and events around us.
It's an odd role for a man who admits his own credibility can be called into question with ease. In fact, he wonders why more people, especially his fellow candidates, haven't done just that more often. "Come on," he says, "it would be a simple thing to hit me pretty hard. There certainly are enough things to talk about."
It's true. A complete run-down of Steiger's rabble-rousing rap sheet would require a book. Maybe someday it will get literary treatment, as his "white lies," close scrapes and assorted misadventures have become part of Arizona lore, told and retold in political circles with varying degrees of reverence and disgust.
Steiger shot two wild burros near his Prescott ranch; Steiger painted a crosswalk across the street on Prescott's Whiskey Row in defiance of a state agency; Steiger berated a Department of Public Safety officer who pulled him over for speeding, telling the deputy that his "ass sucks buttermilk"; Steiger lied to the state attorney general; Steiger is a deadbeat who refuses to pay damages won against him in lawsuits; Steiger chased construction workers out of his house with a rifle; Steiger . . . it goes on and on. Some of the stories are truer than others, but all contain an element of fact. The protagonist in these tales, while he may quibble over details, takes credit for them all--and with a certain amount of pride, too.
Chris Johnson: Pullquotes are marked for sections they should be used in. It is not necessary to use ALL the pullquotes designated for a particular section.
There are a lot of choices, but none of them are especially appetizing.
As September breaks, some polls show nearly 50 percent of Arizona Republicans are still "undecided"--a staggering figure.
But who is that, over there, grinning that familiar grin?
"Understand this: If we get low turnout, Mecham could very well be the nominee."
pullquotes for symington section.
Symington's problem is not name recognition; it is character identification.
As one out-county GOP official says, Symington is "about as popular as a sushi bar out here."
For instance, Steiger was convicted of extortion in 1988 for threatening to fire a state parole board member from his part-time job as a justice of the peace if he didn't cast a vote on the board as Steiger had instructed. At the time, Steiger, then a Mecham aide, lied about making the threat, not only to the press but to the state attorney general. Although the conviction was later overturned, such an act of dishonesty would be enough to finish the political career of almost any other candidate. But for Steiger, the mention of the incident in a public forum just gives him an excuse to get a laugh.
"Let's put it this way," Steiger told a group of about 200 Republican women in June. "I did not demonstrate an excess of candor . . . I lied to the attorney general the same way I would lie to a thief who asked me if I had any money in my wallet."
It is better to have a governor who is well versed with the art of prevaricating, anyway, Steiger says.
"It's important that the governor can judge when someone is lying to him," he cracks. "The scope of my experience contributes to my ability to do that." The women erupt into laughter. All is forgiven. As one spectator puts it, "Sure Sam has done some wrong things. But he admits it."
His brand of devil-may-care political standup electrifies Republican gatherings. After wading through Symington's dull monotone and Mecham's by now hackneyed anti-Arizona Republic/Phoenix 40 rap, the crowds come alive at Steiger's stream of gruff, folksy witticisms and dry political one-liners. If nothing else, it's refreshing. "Tell a lawyer joke, Sam!" one spectator hollers. Steiger obliges. "What do you call 200 lawyers buried up to their necks in sand? You call for more sand." The laughter returns.
He is the only candidate who will admit that he wants to be governor out of a deep-seated psychological need to gratify his own ego. "I'm running for governor, warts and all, not only because I can make a real difference in this state, but because it will make me feel good," he says. In between tossing off quips and stroking his own psyche, however, Steiger has managed to emerge as a self-styled "issues candidate," as well. He has promoted the governor's little-exercised line-item veto power and discussed at great length the potential of alternative energy sources like solar power. The issues, like Steiger himself, are somewhat offbeat for this gubernatorial campaign, and he has managed to thrust them into the public debate.
But it is for his ability to work a crowd that Steiger is feared by fellow Republicans and Democrats alike. "Let's get serious," one Republican official says. "There are only two candidates who have a chance of beating Goddard: Symington and Steiger. Fife because he's got all that money and Steiger because he's so damn likable. You can always get money, but you can't buy that kind of charm. Steiger is a bigger threat."
Steiger has made much out of his self-bestowed status as the "only candidate who can beat Goddard." The aw-shucks-wink-and-a-nudge approach to explaining away past indiscretions is a hit in friendly territory like the GOP women's gathering, but how would it play statewide with Democratic hecklers in the audience? They're sure to be armed with tougher stuff than the same old Steiger stories the candidate has learned to disarm with practiced ease, and are less likely to view Steiger's occasional penchant for bending the truth with amusement.
Democratic strategists point out that a repeated willingness to admit to past mistakes with a grin and a joke doesn't in itself make you honest--it just makes you predictable. Steiger has certainly been predictable, exhibiting the ability to tell a fib or compromise a principle, when he deems it necessary, with a chilling casualness.
During his years in Congress, Steiger crusaded against the Emprise Corporation, the racetrack conglomerate with reputed underworld connections and an alleged tie to the murder of Arizona Republic reporter Don Bolles. Steiger and Emprise became the most bitter of enemies, as Steiger attempted to get federal and state officials to shut Emprise down, using the company's 1972 felony conviction for illegally hiding its ownership of a Las Vegas casino as a lever. The feud made national news when Steiger angrily denounced the company from the House floor and as both sides exchanged numerous lawsuits throughout the mid-1970s.
Steiger was in court so often, in fact, either suing or being sued by Emprise, that by 1977 he owed $60,000 in legal fees. Emprise's high-powered lawyers had prolonged one lawsuit against Steiger for three years, and the legal costs were bleeding him dry. By then an ex-congressman, Steiger admits that to escape the suit, he made "a deal with the devil."
Steiger suddenly reversed his aggressive stand against Emprise and wrote then-President Gerald Ford, an old friend from Congress, asking Ford to pardon Emprise on its felony conviction. Emprise, in turn, dropped the suit.
"They had me by the balls," Steiger says now. "So I wrote the damn letter. Then I called up Jerry and told him to forget the pardon. Well, it wasn't pretty and it wasn't nice, but I did what I had to do."
Some might call this pragmatic and clever. After all, the heat stayed on Emprise officials--they received no pardon, and Steiger got out of his pickle. Others suggest it simply illustrates that Steiger is susceptible to political pressure and blackmail.
There is, too, the matter of water.
A key topic of debate in a Steiger- Goddard race would undoubtedly be the issue of water transfers. The Valley needs to establish sources of additional water by the year 2025, and Goddard has been criticized during his tenure as mayor for trying to rape the rural counties to get it. Steiger, on the other hand, is on the record opposing water transfers from rural areas--an odd stance for someone who has devoted a tremendous amount of time and energy to a parade of schemes aimed at doing just that. Throughout the last decade, Steiger acted as a water broker, trying to arrange, for profit, the kind of transfers he now openly disdains.
Ken Bennett, owner of Prescott's Bennett Oil and a Steiger ally, notes that Steiger has a long-standing interest in making water deals. "Sam recognizes, as I do, that water is very valuable," Bennett says. "This is the desert, and someday I'm going to wish I had a gallon of water for every one of gas I have right now. Sam knows that, too."
During the mid-1980s, Steiger attempted to sell water to the City of Phoenix from wells he owned in the Big Chino Valley near Prescott. His idea was to build a pipeline to carry the water to the city and use the natural fall of elevation to produce hydroelectric power, which would support the energy needs of the pipeline and produce extra power to sell back to utilities. Salt River Project caught wind of the plan and shot it down, claiming that Steiger would be draining the headwaters of the Verde River by pumping such vast quantities out of the Big Chino.
In addition, Steiger tried to put together water deals in 1986 for an Oklahoma firm in the Butler Valley area west of Phoenix. The plan was to use the valley as a "water bank," where excess Central Arizona Project water could be deposited for use in dry years. This idea, developed by Engineering Enterprises of Norman, Oklahoma, was a good one, according to state water officials. So good that the Central Arizona Water Conservation Project decided to use the state land in the valley itself, by-passing Steiger and the company.
Steiger tried again with a project where cities would purchase underground-water rights from farmers, who would, when a city needs water, stop farming and route their water into a nearby metropolis. "This was a perfect plan," Steiger says, "because the farmers made money, the city got its water and everybody was happy." But again, the plan was rejected by state water officials.
Steiger now says his position on water management has been misunderstood. Yes, he did try to make money off selling water, and he believes it is wrong to totally outlaw the transfers. The key is never to take more out of a rural water basin than will be "recharged" back into it in any given year. "That way you never mine them and deplete rural resources," he says. "Really, my position on water is quite consistent."
Maybe so, but the water issue demonstrates again that while Steiger is clearly a charming personality, he is packing a trailerload of political baggage. There are enough skeletons clunking around in his closets to fill a cemetery, accumulated during a lifetime of wheeling, dealing and politicking, and the boneyard spooks some Republicans. In light of his past record, there just has to be another bombshell waiting to explode and destroy his chances of winning against Goddard. The party, they say, can't take that risk.
His supporters fire back that people who make this charge don't understand Sam Steiger. If that's true, then it is at least understandable. Steiger is far more complex than his reputation as a curmudgeon and one-liner specialist would suggest. To get a fix on Steiger, you must first understand where he comes from.
Steiger is a child of the city, raised in Manhattan as a street-wise New Yorker, who left the metropolis for the wilds of Arizona to ride on the rodeo circuit. He has spent a lifetime defying convention, always playing unrepentantly by his own rules. Through a stint in the Korean War, nearly a decade in Congress (where he earned an award as the nation's outstanding conservative legislator in 1974), two stormy marriages, the arrest and conviction of his sons for growing marijuana and his current campaign, Steiger has kept his home in Prescott.
It is there, where he has also fought small-town political wars, that friends and acquaintances paint a picture of two men. One is a hard-drinking, womanizing, ambitious scoundrel, a man who craves notoriety and whose public career has been a contrast of triumphant successes and demoralizing failures. The other is a frank, kind, honest man who lives by an Old West code of honor, treasures his friendships and stands by his family in times of crisis. They are, at least in part, both Sam Steiger.
Ken Schaffer, a former Prescott mayor who is supporting Symington but who calls himself a "longtime friend of Sam's," is reflective of the mixed but powerful feelings Steiger inspires. On one hand, Schaffer seems exasperated by Steiger's lack of "polish." He says Steiger used to drink too much (alcohol plays a prominent role in almost all Steiger stories; the candidate now says he has quit drinking entirely). He recounts the standard list of Steiger transgressions, and adds that Steiger would have "made a great governor 75 years ago, when his kind of behavior was more acceptable." He concludes with, "There is only one Sam Steiger . . . thank God."
But then Schaffer suddenly softens, saying Steiger is a "man of great personal integrity."
"You know," Schaffer says, "Sam has a keen mind, and he supported his kids when they needed him." (Steiger's twin sons, Gail and Lew, both did short stints in jail for growing marijuana on a Prescott ranch in 1980). He's really a fine man."
This dichotomy, expressed by most who know him, is symbolic of the course of his public life. Steiger achieved notoriety and prestige as a U.S. congressman, but was destroyed in a battle for a state senate seat in 1978. He is able to mount a fast-running campaign for governor, but impotent in his efforts to control the outcome of a city council election in a small northern Arizona hamlet. It is the latter that best illustrates the rapid rise and fall . . . and rise again, of his political fortunes.
In 1985, Steiger helped launch a group called Prescott Forward, which sponsored a slate of candidates, nicknamed "Steiger's Storm Troopers," in that year's city council election. In the intimate world of small-town politics, word quickly spread that the slate was Steiger's attempt to pack the council with votes that would help him gain approval for yet another water deal--a plan to sell the Big Chino Valley water to the City of Prescott. Fiercely independent, Prescott voters responded to this hint of conspiracy as could be expected. Only one of five Storm Troopers was elected.
Ken Bennett, the lone winner, says Prescott liked Steiger when he was a "brash young congressman out in Washington telling people what to do. But they liked him less when he came back here and started telling our people what to do."
"Sam was the kiss of death in Prescott for a while," Bennett says. "His popularity was at an all-time low. But he was back to being a hero with that crosswalk."
"That crosswalk," which Steiger took it upon himself to paint across a Prescott street after the Arizona Department of Transportation eliminated it, threw Steiger into a court battle with the state and transformed him, overnight, from a frog into a prince again in the eyes of the locals.
"ADOT wouldn't paint it, the city and county won't stand up to the state to get it done, but Sam Steiger is willing to have a few beers and then go out and do it himself," Bennett says. "People loved it."
What Steiger must do to boost himself to a primary victory, observers say, is paint some symbolic crosswalks. It is what he does best, attracting voters with his defiance of convention and traditional authority. The image of the rebel sells, not just in Prescott, but everywhere.
Steiger maintains he is ambivalent about the outcome of the race. "I've won, and I've lost. Certainly, I want to win this time. But winning is no guarantee of anything," he says.
"Hell, I could cure cancer and they'd remember me as a son of a bitch."
MDRVEVAN MECHAM
It's called the 20 percent theory, and it goes like this:
If Evan Mecham controls 20 percent of the GOP electorate, as many pollsters say he does, and 80 percent of them turn out for the primary election (as their past record of voting indicates they will), then Mecham is assured of 16 percent of the Republican primary vote.
He is also assured of a win.
The logic goes that in a five-way gubernatorial race, 16 percent is an awful lot. Especially if voter turnout is low, as tradition and circumstances dictate it probably will be. The highest GOP primary turnout of the decade was an anemic 38 percent in 1982, with the last two elections, in 1986 and 1988, being an even lower 33 percent. If Mecham were to capture 16 percent of even a record-breaking 40 percent turnout, well . . . do the math yourself.
That's the basic idea, and while there are obviously problems with the theory (Is 80 percent a realistic turnout figure, even for dedicated Mechamites?), it proves one thing: Reports of Mecham's political death have been greatly exaggerated. He's back.
So are the powerful emotions he evokes. A group of ASU students, disgusted at the prospect of the ex-governor's reemergence into public life, has set out to sabotage his campaign with singular ingenuity that only Mecham can inspire. The students obtained Mecham's 1-800 number, which he established to take orders for campaign literature, tee shirts and voting information, and set up a phone bank to make repeated calls. Every time the 1-800 number is answered, it costs Mecham money.
"If we keep calling," one of the students says, "we figure he'll have a little less money for TV commercials."
This is still the same Mecham who inspired the largest grassroots political effort in state history--the recall--and he obviously hasn't lost his touch for alienating large segments of the electorate. His recent reference to a few "good blacks" (as opposed to the majority of "bad" ones, presumably?) who support his campaign touched off another round of Mecham-bashing reminiscent of early in his administration when he rescinded the Martin Luther King holiday. In fact, much of his campaign has been vintage Mecham, reminding all of the old days, circa 1986-88, when Mecham was the story of the hour.
The far right and the far left, ex-cons and homosexual activists; they all have one thing in common--Steiger.
"I lied to the attorney general the same way I would lie to a thief who asked me if I had any money in my wallet."
While Steiger is clearly a charming personality, he is packing a trailerload of political baggage.
"Sam was the kiss of death in Prescott for a while. But he was back to being a hero with that crosswalk."
Still the master of the non sequitur, Mecham continues to painfully contort sentences into bizarre patterns and fragments, connected by grammatical devices unknown elsewhere in the English-speaking world. "We will move forward on that, to do that, I never said there that, it would, be a thing for all who know me know I will," Mecham cryptically told one Republican gathering this summer, in reference to his antidrug policy. He remains a court reporter's worst nightmare.
Likewise, he retains a brazen ability to stare down the facts. He steadfastly refuses to acknowledge that he raised taxes in 1988, dismissing the charge as simple distortion. Nevertheless, $93 million in "tax equity adjustments" were approved by Mecham that year, including new taxes on soda pop, long-distance phone calls and vehicle licensing. Confronted with that information, Mecham says only that "They should have allowed me to stay in office."
"If I had remained, there would have been a balanced budget that year," he says. "And in January, when I take office again, there is going to be a $200 million cut to offset the damage that has been done throughout my time away."
Mecham's campaign rests on the same foundation planks it always has--no new taxes, local control of schools and basic services, and a whole range of "moral issues," like abortion. He has also made a point of responding with the usual zeal to the perennial charge that he is a racist, ridiculing those who lambaste him for such comments as "good blacks." "What have we come to when the use of the word `good' is not appropriate?" he says. "People who criticize me are the ones with the trouble . . . I don't want to hurt nobody's feelings, but they accuse me of being insensitive and then go and say anything they want about me. What about my feelings?
"I think all the critics are the biggest insensitive clods. Where is their sensitivity?"
It is indeed the same old Mecham. But his campaign, in some ways, is a different game this time around. He has failed to garner support from even one Republican legislator or sitting official. Even former supporters like District 21 Senator Jerry Gillespie, who rode into office in 1988 on the waves of pro-Mecham sentiment produced by his impeachment, have abandoned him. Always an outsider, Mecham has solidified his position as a Republican pariah, the wayward son whom none will claim. Yet his popularity continues to hold steady, and may actually be growing.
There is certainly growing impatience with Mecham among mainstream Republicans. When he rises to speak at public forums, there is a mass rolling of the eyes, accompanied by a shifting in the seats and a nervous titter. They've heard it all before.
It was the special interests, Mecham says, the Phoenix 40, and the Arizona Republic who dispatched him from office. They saw he was making progress, getting rid of drugs, cutting waste and nixing taxes, and they stopped him. If he can only get back to the governor's desk, he says, he'll finish what he started. It is a story he has repeated hundreds of times since his 1988 ouster from office, and the GOP is clearly growing weary of the rerun.
But the fact remains that a large bloc of the party believes Mecham is mainstream, and pledge to support him, once again, in his current gubernatorial crusade. It's a large enough bloc, according to some poll watchers, to give him the victory--and the public redemption--he desires.
His popularity has been further solidified among this group by the July challenge to his campaign by Parker resident Dennis Ingram. The Supreme Court challenge, orchestrated by former La Paz County Attorney Don Moon, tried to disqualify Mecham from the ballot on the grounds that once impeached, a former governor may not run again. But the court sided with Mecham, and he emerged from the event stronger than before.
The challenge not only gave Mecham's candidacy a new sense of legitimacy, but it gave credence to his argument that he is the target of the rich power brokers, who know they can't defeat him in an honest election and so are forced to seek devious means to bring about his demise. Along with his continuing battle against the King holiday--passed by the legislature, he says, over the wishes of the electorate--Mecham has mined an abundance of fuel for his populist machine.
To those who refuse to believe Mecham is a threat, the only real question is, who will pick up his supporters for the general-election battle with Terry Goddard? But the answer may be: Nobody.
Symington sullied his reputation with the far-right by his offer to figuratively punch Mecham in the nose, and the image lingers that he was involved in the intrigue of the Supreme Court challenge. Plus, it is doubtful that any candidate Mecham condescendingly refers to as "Fifey boy" will get much support from the Mecham camp. Steiger is also widely suspected of involvement in the effort to disqualify Mecham, mostly because of Moon's connection to Steiger campaign coordinator Joyce Downey and a reportedly close friendship with the candidate. The problem with that theory, Steiger says, is that it isn't true. "I hate the little creep," Steiger says of Moon. "I would never have anything to do with him."
Koory is at least as conservative as Mecham, and could appeal to his supporters, but he remains the longest of long shots. In any event, before observers declare Mecham's campaign to be carrion and his supporters as the spoils of war to be divided up at will, there is a little matter of a primary election to be settled. Mecham doesn't want anyone to forget that.
"I appeal to a broad base of the public," Mecham says, "and everyone will see that on September 11. I don't give a diddly damn about the naysayers. They can just wait and see."
MDRVFRED KOORY
Fred Koory is a nice guy. Most everyone agrees on that.
But Koory is learning the harsh lesson that while nice guys in Arizona don't always finish last, they are a pretty good bet for fourth.
Despite the almost universal good will expressed toward the engaging, jovial Koory, his campaign for governor is moribund, stuck in neutral far behind the fast pack of Symington, Steiger, and Mecham. He presides over a campaign that never crashed, simply because it never took off.
On its face, Koory's lack of success doesn't make sense--on paper, he is a winner. An experienced manager, Koory has served on the Maricopa County Board of Supervisors since 1978, and had a solid, if unspectacular, ten-year career in the state legislature. He's gotten endorsements from some of the state's top Republicans, and he has carefully courted all the Right People. Next to Mecham, Koory may be the most rabidly conservative of all the candidates: opposing abortion in all cases except to save the life of the mother or in cases of rape or incest, opposing a paid state King holiday and vehemently pledging to raise taxes "not one red cent." But Koory tempers his hard-line stance with a soft-spoken, friendly demeanor; a personality described by a former colleague on the board of supervisors as being that of "a big teddy bear."
But critics point out that voters don't want a stuffed animal at the capitol, they want a governor, a leader. In the words of one GOP official, "unfortunately for Fred, voters don't elect milquetoast."
Koory's problem seems to be that he is a gentle candidate lost in a shuffle of stronger personalities and controversial men. A relatively anonymous background and a little campaign-trail bumbling haven't helped, either.
While the supervisor post is an important one, county officials rarely make headlines, and Koory was no exception. His two biggest accomplishments while on the board--the widening of Bell Road and the improvement of county records management and storage--failed to quicken the pulse of the electorate. Fellow board member Carole Carpenter says Koory was a "very reserved" county leader, and thinks that while he "is a friendly person, people may not feel like they know him, because he wasn't very visible."
"Everyone has a different style," she adds, "and Fred's is relatively quiet. He is not the kind of individual who likes to take a lot of risks."
His behavior during campaign appearances has been mystifying at times, too, as he has advanced positions fraught with baffling inconsistencies. For instance, he suggests educating children on the dangers of AIDS, but insists that sex not be discussed--an educational high-wire act at best. He also says he opposes a King holiday because he doesn't support paid holidays for "nonpresidential Americans." But his support for a Columbus Day is logical, he says, because Columbus was Italian. Figure that one out.
On occasion, his performances have been downright hapless. What can you make of a former U.S. Marine who appears flustered when faced with tough questions from a group of adolescents, as Koory did when he faced a room full of inquisitive students at a northwest Phoenix high school in May?
Ideologically, Koory is Evan Mecham with a friendly face. He is the natural heir to the conservative voters who support Mecham, and the Koory strategy has been based on the eventuality that the ex-governor would self-destruct or be forced out by legal challenges during the campaign, leaving Koory to pick up the banner of the right. According to one Republican official, that's still the plan. "Don't feel too sorry for Fred," the official says. "If something dramatic were to happen to one of the other candidates, especially Mecham, he could make a serious move. Watch him."
That may be the case, but as the campaign draws to a close, Mecham appears to be gaining ground instead of stumbling. These days, Koory sits in his Phoenix office, surrounded by pictures of himself with the pope, Oliver North and other famous personages, and wonders what happened to his textbook campaign. Even bringing in North for a ringing campaign endorsement last April failed to attract much attention, as it failed GOP senate candidate Keith DeGreen two years earlier. Ditto for his self-proclaimed "Koory tax watch," held at the capitol in June. Although Koory says he "feels good" about his weeklong on-location monitoring of the legislative budget battle, the legislature passed a $265 million tax increase regardless of his presence.
Koory is clearly frustrated at his inability to make an impact. Perhaps if he had more money, Koory suggests, shaking his head at the $1 million Symington is reportedly spending on his campaign. "Give me that kind of money," Koory says, his voice rising, "and the other candidates would be so far behind they would look like ants."
He apologizes. "I'm sorry to unload like this," he says. "I don't get a chance to do this too often." It's understandable; Koory has a lot at stake. He is the only candidate who gave up a paid political job to seek the governorship, and he recently donated a whopping $110,000 to his own campaign. For a candidate who has never placed above fourth in a gubernatorial poll, that is an amazing leap of faith.
Koory still believes. He will tell you, without blinking an eye, that this is still a horse race. He unveiled a new set of television commercials last week, and is still talking like a front-runner.
"I have only lost one election in my life," he says. "I can't fathom that I'm going to lose another because I don't have the right kind of personality, whatever that means."
MDRVBOB BARNES
Then there's Bob Barnes.
He's been characterized on the campaign trail as being everything from a shill for Evan Mecham to a certified lunatic. But he has never, ever, been characterized as a contender.
"Sure, it get's discouraging," Barnes says. "But I have something to say." Say it he does, at length. The problem has often been that he says it in incomprehensible ways, branching off into inscrutable tangents understandable only to the speaker.
He is an eccentric, a highly educated professor of business management with doctorates in both international business and world politics, who has done a four-year stint in Cairo, teaching at the American University there. He may have, as Mecham, his former boss and current adversary says, "plenty of brainpower." But he has left most race-watchers wondering if he is the proverbial nutty professor and questioning his motives for remaining in the race.
Barnes elicits a certain amount of admiration for his determination and willingness to needle the powers that be into recognizing his right to run as a legitimate candidate, even if he doesn't have a million bucks, a legion of devoted fans or a string of witty one-liners.
At the start of his campaign, state GOP chairman Burt Kruglick did his best to exclude Barnes from the candidates' joint appearances, even going so far as having Barnes bounced out of a party fund raiser featuring Dan Quayle. But Barnes' tenacity won out; nearly broke and driving a beat-up dinosaur of a car, Barnes has trudged from one campaign event to another, demanding to be treated as an equal to the "big boy" candidates. He has earned a place, of sorts, among them.
But people still shake their heads and exchange puzzled looks when he begins to speak.
His sentences often begin with the phrase, "You might be interested to know that . . . " People rarely are. He has a knack for fantastic yarns, linking together widely divergent crimes and abuses with his opponents, creating a network of elaborate, tangled conspiracy theories.
He describes himself as the first appointee of the Mecham administration, and although he was fired from his position on the governor's management and audit team by Max Hawkins in February 1988, he expresses no ill will toward Mecham or Hawkins. It is this bond that has led to speculation that Barnes is a surrogate dirty trickster sent by Mecham to hurl charges at other candidates and "raise issues" too controversial or delicate for Mecham to touch without soiling his hands.
It's not all that fanciful a proposition. Until recently, Barnes has been vindictive in his assaults on all the candidates except Mecham, even accusing Steiger, during a debate broadcast on statewide TV, of being connected with the death of Arizona Republic reporter Don Bolles. But last month on KTAR, Barnes denounced Mecham for allegedly commenting to him that "Terry the fairy must go." Some say merely raising suspicions about Goddard's sexual preference is a benefit for Mecham, whose constituency recoils at the possibility of a homosexual governor. (Goddard denies he's a homosexual and says the issue is raised only as a vicious campaign tactic.)
All traces of campaign sleaze could be eliminated once and for all, Barnes says, if only his fellow candidates would consent to an "integrity test" on a lie detector machine. It's a proposal he first made in his book on the Mecham governorship, The Mecham Happenings . . . Guilty or Not? The book, printed privately and distributed by Barnes personally, connects the Mecham impeachment with international drug trafficking, organized crime, George Bush, and the CIA. The combination makes for fascinating reading--for the kind who believe Jimmy Hoffa is buried in the end zone of Sun Devil Stadium.
Perhaps Barnes' only enduring mark on the race has been his comment that when he first underwent a lie detector test, the test revealed little brain-wave activity. His exact words, repeated to smirking audiences all over the state, were that the test found him "brain-dead."
Barnes now says he made up the quote to attract attention during a radio show. He wonders at the reputation that his joke has earned him.
"Gee, you don't think people really believe I am brain-dead, do you?" He pauses and sighs. "Well, maybe they do. If so, that's just stupid."
In Arizona politics, circa 1990, that may just be the last word.
If Mecham were to capture 16 percent of even a record-breaking 40 percent turnout, well . . . do the math yourself.
Mecham steadfastly refuses to acknowledge that he raised taxes in 1988.
Mecham has failed to garner support from even one Republican legislator or sitting official.
"I don't give a diddly damn about the naysayers," Mecham says. "They can just wait and see."
here's the pullquotes for koory
Koory presides over a campaign that never crashed, simply because it never took off.
Koory is seen "a big teddy bear," but critics point out that voters don't want a stuffed animal at the capitol.
Even bringing in Oliver North for a ringing campaign endorsement last April failed to attract much attention.
pullquotes for the barnes section
Barnes has a knack for fantastic yarns, linking widely divergent crimes and abuses, creating a network of elaborate conspiracy theories.
cj: if we use anything from barnes be sure to use this!!!
"Gee, you don't think people really believe I am brain-dead, do you?
