Acrimony in Assembly at All-Time High

SACRAMENTO — In the spectators gallery high above the floor of the California State Assembly, the summer tourists are getting quite a show.

Down below, in opulent chambers first occupied in 1869, grown men and women are behaving like petulant children, sniping and whining and generally making a mess of the legislative process.

During one recent session, a veteran assemblyman flipped off a female colleague and refused three times to apologize. Another day, Speaker Doris Allen ordered that an enemy’s microphone be shut off, sparking enraged accusations of foul play.

Earlier in the month, a Republican referred to a Democrat’s recent cancer surgery and expressed hope that doctors had also “gotten the malignancy out of his heart.” Another time, Republican lawmakers stomped en masse off the Assembly floor, defying the Speaker’s order to remain.

What is going on here? There is more civility in a schoolyard sandbox, more decorum in a fraternity food fight. Engulfed by hostilities unprecedented in recent years, California’s venerable Assembly has degenerated into a rancorous playpen of shouting, threats and bitter vituperation.

“It’s terrible,” said Assemblyman Peter Frusetta (R-Tres Pinos), a gentlemanly freshman of 62 who is clearly appalled by the display. “There is so much hate here I can’t believe it. Hate is an emotion for children, not mature adults.”

The roots of the discord are many and include, most notably, Allen’s election as Speaker on June 5. Though she is a Republican, her ascension was scripted by Democrats and infuriated most GOP members, who preferred another candidate for the post.

Beyond that, analysts say the sour relations plaguing Sacramento reflect a broader political trend.

“There has been an increasing lack of civility in politics at every level,” said Sherry Bebitch Jeffe, a political scientist at the Claremont Graduate School. In part, she said, this stems from the ideological polarization of politics: “We’re electing people from the extremes of both parties. They are more rigid and collaboration becomes very difficult.”

There are, of course, those lawmakers who abstain from the ruckus and are embarrassed, disgusted or weary of the whole affair. But lately, the vocal minority have become so vocal that the voices of reason can scarcely be heard.

As those who follow politics well know, it is rarely a peaceful game. There are always intense disagreements over ideology, and the annals of the Legislature include many periods of acrimony.

Dissension flourished, for example, in 1988, when a group of disgruntled, rebel Democrats known as the Gang of Five sought unsuccessfully to topple Assembly Speaker Willie Brown. Eight years earlier, the house was seized by fierce Democratic infighting that culminated with Brown’s rise to power. That war was legendary, marked by betrayals, back-stabbing and malevolence galore.

On occasion, Capitol feuding has even exploded into fistfights. In 1974, a brawl between then-Assemblymen Louis J. Papan and Ken Meade landed Meade in the hospital with a concussion.

“We’ve had our share of hotheads here,” said an Assembly sergeant-at-arms who asked not to be named. “It hasn’t come to blows yet [this year], but with some of these guys, it could.”

Indeed, the sergeant said extra personnel have been shifted to the Assembly floor in case a physical confrontation erupts. And veteran observers of the Legislature say they have never seen the environment quite so venomous for so long.

“This is just astounding,” said Jeffe, who worked for former Speaker Jesse M. Unruh in the 1960s. “This has been the most personal, the most intense, the most vitriolic and most long-lasting hostility I have ever seen.”

Veteran lawmakers agree, noting that the expected partisan disputes over issues are now flavored with personal attacks. Sal Cannella, a moderate Democrat from Ceres in his third term, said the new style is “life-and-death stuff, a kind of animosity that is vicious and goes right to the soul.”

Much of the warring has taken place between Republicans, as they grapple with their anger over Allen’s election as Speaker. In a stunning political move, Allen--a Republican from Cypress--was hoisted to power by Democrats, enraging her GOP colleagues who supported Assemblyman Jim Brulte for the job.

Republicans view Allen as a turncoat who collaborated with Willie Brown, their archenemy, and sold out her party for personal gain. Despite Allen’s pleas that they lick their wounds and get back to work, they have continued to call her names and harass her, stoking what has become a civil war.

They are even waging an ugly war against her via fax, circulating anonymous flyers accusing her of everything from mental instability to drug abuse. One flyer, signed by the “Committee to Expose Puppet Regimes,” compares her speakership to the Vichy government set up by the Nazis in occupied France. Another suggests she relies on her dog for advice.

“The family fights,” observed Assemblyman Phil Isenberg (D-Sacramento), “are the bloodiest fights of all.”

Outside the Capitol, Republicans are pushing two recalls--and threatening a third--to punish Allen and two other lawmakers whose actions they did not like. One of those is Brian Setencich, a GOP freshman from Fresno whose crime was accepting Allen’s offer to serve as speaker pro tem.

Assemblyman Curt Pringle, a Republican from Garden Grove, has been one of Allen’s leading nemeses, acting like a persistent gnat by raising continual parliamentary objections on the floor. Allen, in turn, has stripped Pringle of his chairmanship of the powerful Appropriations Committee, ordered him moved to a more Spartan office and shut off his microphone during a speech on the floor.

Pringle admits he is an “in-your-face kind of guy.” But he defended the Republicans’ attacks on Allen, arguing that the public “should not expect us to quietly walk away from someone who has committed a traitorous act.”

Assemblyman Larry Bowler (R-Elk Grove), who vowed that Republicans would “take off the gloves” and “declare war” the day Allen was elected Speaker, said the conflict is a necessary part of the GOP’s battle for control.

“I’m a trained warrior, and my internal compass is set,” said Bowler, a deputy sheriff before his election in 1992. “Conflict is part of the game. If you want us all to get along, then elect all Democrats or all Republicans. Boy, would this place be boring then.”

Other Republicans, however, say they are growing disturbed by the tactics of their party. Assemblyman Brett Granlund, a freshman from Yucaipa, said that while he was dismayed by Allen’s election, he is anxious to “end the sideshow and get down to business.”

“Everyone said the prize was not the speakership, but getting a Republican majority so we could make a difference in public policy,” Granlund said. “Now we’ve got the majority, so let’s grow up and do something with it.”

While the Allen flap has been the centerpiece of this year’s rancor, many lawmakers say that old-style civility has actually been on the wane in the Capitol for years. Some even trace the roots of the trend back as far as 1974, when voters passed a political reform measure--Proposition 9--that severely limited lobbyists’ ability to wine and dine legislators.

“Before Prop. 9, there were lots of free lunches and cocktail parties where all the members--Democrat or Republican--would socialize,” said John Burton, a Democrat who has served off and on in the Assembly since 1964. When the booze dried up, Burton said, there were fewer opportunities for lawmakers to build friendships--relationships that had made it harder for members to pound on each other on the Assembly floor.

Term limits have also helped shape the new milieu, political observers say. Many newcomers to the Legislature--realizing they have only a brief time to make their mark--strike a more aggressive posture and may see no benefit to weaving lasting alliances with their colleagues.

This year, collegiality took another hit because the legislators’ usual get-acquainted months--November, December and January--were tainted by the session’s first speakership duel, between Brown and Brulte. Assemblyman Richard Katz (D-Sylmar) said the loss of that bonding time is evident on the floor.

“People are less willing to give someone the benefit of the doubt and more willing to believe in conspiracies or plots or intrigue,” Katz said.

So deep is the rancor here that several lawmakers were recently moved to make passionate speeches about it on the Assembly floor.

“We are just fleeting tenants here,” Assemblyman Bernie Richter, a maverick Republican from Chico, said last week. “We were given this house by other people. . . . I would hope that we could hand it off in as good a condition as we got it. I don’t think that can be so if we engage in this kind of behavior.”

A few lawmakers applauded Richter’s emotional speech, but most ignored it. After the session adjourned and the chambers emptied, Richter remained in his chair, his shoulders slumped, staring dejectedly into space.

When relations will improve is unclear. Katz, for one, says he detects little interest in detente.

Some lawmakers worry about the consequences. In the short term, there is disruption in the debate over the state budget. More lasting damage may be done to the public’s impression of politicians and politics in general.

This, in particular, troubles Assemblywoman Sheila J. Kuehl, a Democrat from Santa Monica. Though she’s a freshman, she calls herself “an old-fashioned legislator, who believes in civility and a code of behavior on the floor.

“I respect the process of democracy, which requires us to argue our points, stick to our guns and be strong on our issues,” Kuehl said. “When it gets personal and a politician diminishes the stature of his office, then it diminishes the stature of the Assembly as a whole. That’s what saddens me.”