Tales from the Bureaucracy - The Civil Service

The best lesson proffered from my first foray into the bureaucracy falls under the heading, “be careful what you wish for.” Having spent my entire career in government working in the legislative branch, and prior to that, as an attorney, interacting with judges at both the state and Federal level, it felt like it was time to give the third leg of the stool, the executive branch, a try. It seemed an opportune time, as for the first time in 16 years a Democrat had won the Governor’s race and was appointing a new administration. 

I had helped my old boss get elected Attorney General, lining up critical environmental support. Problem was, the AG ran the Department of Justice where there were very few policy jobs.  Lots of opportunities for lawyers, but, having learned my lesson, I had no desire to return to the practice of law. This left me the option of remaining in the Senate while many of my colleagues were taking jobs in the new administration or asking the AG to give me a hand, which he did without any coaxing. A call to the incoming governor got me several interviews with newly appointed heads of various environmental agencies. 

One of the interviews should have planted a red flag, but I didn’t understand its ramifications at the time. The new Secretary of the Resources Agency, a highly talented, intelligent, and effective woman, with vast experience inside and outside government, concluded our interview, as follows: “the job is yours if you want it, but I’d recommend against it. I have jurisdiction over water supply, timber, and coastal resources. The interest groups are dug in and have no interest in compromise and both sides have the Governor’s ear. He is not a bold man, and I fear we will accomplish little.” She recommended I take a job offer at the Environmental Protection Agency as a Deputy, because in her opinion, there was a greater opportunity to make some progress on critical issues. I took her advice.

I accepted a position at the recently created California Environmental Protection Agency. My assignment was to restructure working relationships among several divisions within the Toxics Department and serve as its Legislative Deputy. 

The problems at the new job began almost immediately. I had experience with the law. I could draft, analyze, and understand the complexities of legislation and move nimbly through the legislative process. I was adept at finding compromise among competing interest groups, finding areas of agreement in places others missed. However, my greatest weakness, and a skill I seriously lacked, as I would soon discover, was the ability to motivate and manage people. 

I had never been a manager before. As an attorney I had a secretary, who in many cases knew the procedural rules of court better than I. In the Senate, I worked on legislation - I was not required in either place to actually manage people, and if I am being honest with myself, I was really bad at it. 

Being a good manager requires patience, which is not exactly my strong suit. I want my staff to simply do their jobs, but apparently this is an inappropriate attitude for a successful manager in the public sector. I know my impatience showed through, as hard as I tried not to let it. When having a face-to-face concerning work product, it strikes me that I should not have to listen to a litany of excuses relating to non-work events explaining why the request was unreasonable. But that would be the wrong approach, according to the manager’s class the state required, structured by the personnel agency in charge of these things!

Part of the problem pertains to the very DNA of the civil service system. On paper, these bureaucrats answered to me. They’re my direct reports, in corporate organizational speak. The problem is that they and I both knew that, as a political appointee, they were here before I came and would be there long after I leave. 

Early on, I was venting my frustrations to my dad, who fancied himself a successful small businessman, far more knowledgeable in the handling of employees than his over-educated offspring. After listening to his various suggestions on employee management, exasperated, I waited until he had finished and blurted out, “Look Dad, I can’t promote them or demote them. I can’t fire them or offer them raises for good work. They can ignore and or stall my work assignments, and they’ll lawyer up with union reps if I report them. Truth is, their only motivation to follow my instructions is their respect and/or devotion to me, and despite my charming personality and reputation as a cuddly curmudgeon, I am increasingly doubtful that this will happen.”

In an early example of my precarious position, as well as a case study in deserved humility, one of the department analysts who reported to me, came to my office requesting I interpret some complicated and extremely confusing language from a recently passed bill. When I couldn’t untangle it, I placed a call to the committee consultant in the Senate, who had written the published analysis, and as it so happened, had been my superior on the Senate Environmental Quality Committee when the bill passed. After looking it over, he let out a large guffaw! Barely controlling himself after reviewing the bill history and numerous amendments, he said, “well, I think I understand the problem. The Committee consultant worked out compromise language with the opposing interest groups.” I said, “thanks, which one of your esteemed colleagues crafted this totally confusing drek?” That’s when he started laughing uncontrollably. “It was you!” he chuckled. Ahhh, to be hoisted high upon one’s own petard.

Several months later I was visited by the Chief Deputy Director and unofficial agency psychologist. My office was lovely, a glass enclosed private space on the second floor of a modernist building a few blocks from the State Capitol. Lots of light and copious quantities of ferns. Outside my office was a cavernous room filled with identical cubes where sat the hundreds of career civil servants whose job it was to implement the many varied laws passed by the legislature and signed into law by the Governor. 

Luigi Genovese, sliding ponderously into the office, was an interesting character, not unlike many of the career bureaucrats I would get to know. He had grown up in Sacramento and attended college here as well. He had a master’s degree in psychology from a for-profit diploma mill, which he hung prominently behind his desk. 

Barely over five feet, well over 250 pounds, and balding, daily attired in an ill-fitting cheap suit and white button down oxford, invariably evidencing whatever meal he had recently consumed, protean in all things, he was a callow vacillator with regard to any even mildly controversial policy decision. He had advanced through the ranks of the bureaucracy by carefully avoiding the appearance of even a hint of strong opinions about anything, eventually rising to the position of Chief Deputy Director, and holding on to the position through successive Democratic and Republican administrations. He was totally amorphous, paddling slightly left as needed and then correcting back to the right if that were required to maintain his coveted position. My initial impression was of a mediocre talent who was humorless, thoughtful, intense, and a shameless opportunist.

Genovese, however, had a well-earned reputation as a master at managing state employees, so his knock at the door was welcomed. He waddled in, sweating profusely, a dark stain growing under the armpits and quickly plopped himself opposite me in the seat offered. After some small talk he got to the point. “The director asked me to stop by because you seem to be frustrated. He thought I might be of some assistance. Can I ask you a few questions?” he queried.

This was weird, but I went along. “You’re a professor, right?” He began. I nodded my confirmation.

“Who are your friends?” I was confused by this line of inquiry, and hesitated. “Are they ‘A’ students, ‘B’ students…?” He continued.

“‘A’ students, mostly, I suppose. Why?” 

“Why do you think they’re ‘A’ students?” 

I contemplated this for a moment. “Well, they work hard, want to advance in their careers, love learning... I don’t know,” I responded quietly, still not following where this line of inquiry was leading.

It was now 4:35 PM. Genovese theatrically swept his pudgy arm out over the now darkening room as most of the bureaucrats had made for the door at exactly 4:30.

“Who do you think they are?” He asked rhetorically. Before I could respond, 

Genovese went on without even catching a breath. “I see pictures of your children. If they bring home ‘Cs’, what do you say?” Still not exactly sure where this was going or how it related to my personnel frustrations, I said, “Not good enough. We do not accept ‘Cs’ in this family. You have to work harder.” 

The Chief Deputy looked pleased with himself, now grabbing a few tissues that I offered to dab the sweat from his forehead. “That is admirable when raising your, hopefully above average children, but that does not work here, and therein lies your problem,” he responded.

“You do have a fair number of A students in the workforce. True stars. Some are the most talented, mission driven people you will ever meet. They could double their money tomorrow in the private sector. But they rightly feel the work they do is important and they are gathering critical expertise that will benefit the citizens of this state for years to come.” 

“The vast majority of civil servants, however, are the C students of the world. And while that may seem negative, I don’t mean it that way. If you expect creative A level work from them you will be forever disappointed and frustrated. The key to success is to first figure out who your ‘A’ and ‘B’ students are. Nurture them. Stop by their desks. Ask about their families. Hug them close because they will have other opportunities.” I nodded. I was now tracking.

“Do understand that even the C’s are not monolithic. Many are bright and talented, but their work is a job, while for you it is a career. You take your work home and fret about it. They put in their 8 hours and leave it at the office. Their passions may lie elsewhere - budding artists, thespians, triathletes, etc. They will have outside interests at which they excel, and government work provides them the space with its 9-5 culture to pursue their passions.”

“Next, separate the ‘C’ students from the 'Ds’ and 'Fs’ in your mind. Chop up your assignments for your ‘C’ students into manageable bits. They’ll deliver that to you on deadline.” This was making sense.

“And what about the ‘Ds’ and ‘Fs’? I asked. There clearly was something to Luigi’s methodology! He quietly replied, “10% are the most worthless, lazy, whining, difficult people you will EVER come across. In the private sector they’d be fired for cause yesterday. Under civil service rules, which they have memorized, they are protected, they have aggressive lawyers, and most managers long ago determined that it was not worth the effort to fire them. You need to figure out who they are and segregate them or they can foul the entire organization.”

Now he lowered his voice. “This is not to be repeated, and I will swear to the Holy Virgin that this did not come from me, but the sad answer is that you need a paperclip room.” 

Now he had stumped me. “A paperclip room?” 

“Yeah,” he whispered, “a place you can put the ‘Ds’ and ‘F’s’ where they won’t pollute the entire workforce, and where they can spend their days counting paper clips! They are almost uniformly useless. A bunch of malcontents and shirkers the likes of which you have never seen.”

“One of our young managers actually tried to fire one and ended up in five years of ugly litigation that nearly destroyed her. Your only hope,” and with this he pointedly shifted his gaze to Tiffany seated just outside the door, “is that some other agency offers them a job, because that’s how most of them found their way here. They’re the other agencies’ washouts.”

So different from the legislature and the practice of law, but there it was, neatly laid out before me. My baptism by fire in the exigencies of the civil service system was, to put it mildly, highly unpleasant. When I first arrived at the agency I was presented with an open unfilled position that had been left vacant during the nearly year long confirmation process.  Among the many applicants was my administrative assistant, who informed me that her lifetime goal was to become an Associate Government Program Analyst, an AGPA in civil service vernacular, an underappreciated mid-level bureaucrat, adept at critical thought, and vital to any successful government program. 

This was a worthy ambition, though in her case it did raise an eyebrow, as she told me early on that her dad was a rocket scientist at Caltech and her younger brother taught physics at MIT. Tiffany had an A.A. in French from San Mateo Community College, which I could never forget because she greeted me every morning with a sing-songy, “Bonjour.” - a greeting that to my working class, plebeian, New Jersey bred ears, ALWAYS sounds pretentious, akin to nails on a squeaky Francophile chalk board!

The second applicant, Juan Gomez, was the son of farm workers from Huron, an impoverished company town in the San Joaquin Valley best known for the creative use of machetes on both lettuce and fellow residents. Juan was not only the first in his family to graduate high school but had gone on to graduate with honors from Cal Berkeley, and most recently from Boalt Hall Law School, one of the top schools in the country. 

Mr. Gomez wanted to work for a few years to pay down student loans and determine whether he wished to enter public or private service, before taking the bar. Long story short, Juan scored 198 of 200 on the test questions devised by the carefully chosen interview panel. Tiffany came in fourth of the four interviewees, scoring a whopping forty-five. We offered the job to Juan, who promptly accepted. I called Tiffany in to give her the news. She left, shrieking that I had ruined her life. 

The next morning, I came in early to find a typewritten, single-spaced, four-page letter describing in detail and with colorful language what a horrible, heartless human being yours truly is. She promised in closing that this matter was not finished. Later that day, a complaint arrived from her union rep claiming discrimination in the hiring decision.

It was hard not to laugh out loud after working my way through all the lawyerly weasel words to get at the substance of her grievance. She was actually claiming that, based on my former work for a Latino senator and the fact that the chief counsel was herself of Hispanic descent, we had discriminated in favor of Hispanic males. The complaint would have been laughable on its face but for one added detail. She named in the complaint the entire management team as part of the “conspiracy.” 

What this meant was that none of the executives could rule on her complaint, so we would have to hire outside counsel to defend us. Over a hundred thousand dollars of the taxpayers’ money and hours of depositions and interrogatories later, her claims were dismissed. Unfortunately, during that time she remained my very unpleasant and pissed off administrative assistant!

If ever “Bonjour” could me made to sound like, “fuck you and the horse you rode in on,” Tiffany managed that difficult feat following her failure to achieve her life’s goal as a clear result of my perfidy. She could barely look at Juan and spoke to him only if absolutely necessary. A lovely work environment, indeed. Several months after the litigation was laughed out of court, I received a call from the Department of Motor Vehicles. She had applied for an AGPA opening there and was a finalist for the position. I am certain she had listed me as a reference because she knew how desperately I wanted her to move along and would do nothing to hinder her career advancement in another agency. 

“She is a lovely person,” I lied. “She is punctual and works hard. She would be an outstanding contributor to the team at DMV. She is bilingual. I am sure she would live up to the highest standards that the department expects of its employees. And if any customer comes in needing a French interpreter, she would be extremely valuable. While I will be truly sorry to see her leave - she’s irreplaceable really, one of a kind - I would never want to stand in the way of her career advancement, and we just have no openings here that fit her skillset.”

Two weeks later, she was gone. I am sure that the DMV is a worthy recipient of her many talents!