The Best Legislature Money Can Buy

Creating policy for 30, soon to be 40 million Californians required knowledge, patience, and above all humility. I came to understand in my first years in Sacramento that there was a rhythm to the legislature. Most change would be gradual. Neither I nor anyone else in the process for that matter was gifted with revelations from on high as to how the world should be structured. 

I came to recognize that public servants, good and bad, came in all shapes, sizes, ethnicities, and religions, and that opponents on one issue could be allies on another. 

Treat everyone with respect until they show they are not deserving of it, or to paraphrase the famous phrase, “the same people you meet on the way up, you’ll likely meet them on the way down.” 

While political parties were becoming increasingly aligned in ideological vaults, many issues before the legislature did not neatly track the straight jackets Republican and Democratic activists demanded and neither did the vast majority of the public fit neatly in those purity silos. Issues such as water policy had as much to do with geography and security of supply as party loyalty. Northern California farmers with senior water rights and excess water to sell, though conservative by default,  would have very different perspectives on water markets than San Joaquin Valley farmers, also self-identified conservatives, with insufficient supplies and junior water rights. 

In the many years that I would work in the Capitol I was lucky enough to work for legislators like Art Torres, Bill Lockyer, and Joe Simitian. These were smart, dedicated public servants, who rarely if ever mixed public policy with the need for campaign cash. However, sadly, these fine learned gentlemen did not make up a majority of the “honorable” members of the California legislature. 

Some of the best and most honorable people I would ever meet would disagree with me on policy - and some of the worst would vote as I hoped. Senator Torres once remarked that many of the kindest people he would ever encounter were moderate Republicans. They cared deeply about their fellow citizens and often recognized how lucky they had been in their lives. Of course others, usually those from the splenetic right wing of the Republican party could be narrow minded bigots, and/or intolerant religious fundamentalists, convinced that God, or at least his only son, was providing direction as to how to run heaven’s golden acres - and that direction shined only upon white, heterosexual Christians from a certain type of family. 

Many of these neanderthals I would find fit very well Governor Ann Richards description of Bush the Shrub, “Born on third base, thought they hit a triple.” And of course there were no IQ tests required for access to the ballot. Knowledge of the Constitution, democratic ideals, nor a basic understanding of American history, let alone economic literacy were deemed unnecessary for holding public office. The now long deceased California Journal, a monthly magazine that covered California government in depth, did a yearly poll of those working in and around the Capitol. One of the questions involved rating the members based on intelligence. It was an annual event when the survey was published, worthy of joyous parties. Okay, sometimes life could get dreary in the fall when the session adjourned and the legislature was not in session.

Staff would gather around in offices and watering holes adjacent to the Capitol and start at the top, working their way down the list. In the top twenty were familiar names - Senate Pro-Tem David Roberti and Speaker Willie Brown plus an assortment of top lieutenants. The fun really started when you got down near the bottom of the heap. There was the Senator from Oildale who claimed that climate change was caused by seaweed - because we were growing more for sushi. He opined that disappearing and endangered species were nothing to worry about as, and I quote, “No one misses dinosaurs, do they?” Who among us could argue with such a poignant observation.

Another of the luminaries from the south San Joaquin was the featured speaker at a “Kern County Candlelight Vigil” featuring burning crosses. His defense, “I thought I was addressing a church social.” I kid you not. You can look it up!  

Off the record, a veteran columnist for the LA times concluded that, “there must be something in the pesticide laden water or the acid fog in that end of the valley.” There were events that if they were proposed in a movie plot would be rejected as implausible. Often, “stupid beautiful,” best described the actions of duly elected politicians. 

There was the case of a Corcoran Democrat who first got caught soliciting ten-dollar hookers in West Sac for a golden shower, and later with a marijuana stash under his bed when he reported a burglary. A KIngs County jury actually bought the story. Clearly, Corcoran produced a class of criminals that broke into homes and left illegal drugs behind for the victim. Who knew that was a thing?

Near the top of all lists of ignominious pols driven by short-sighted avarice, you had the smarmy, oleaginous, chair of the Senate Business and Pimpability (ehr Professions) Committee, Senator Kilgore Grimshaw. Grimshaw, a saturnine Lilliputian gnome from the squalid Mojave Desert berg of Bagdad, was of indeterminate age, paunchy, with sartorial tastes running to clashing polyester in checks and plaids, accented with loud floral ties. He was renowned for both his cigars and ostentatious adornments. 

Though not actually of the Jewish persuasion, he wore a Chai as large as a freeway Exxon sign, always flashing gold against his copious chest hairs and snow-white Guayabera. He had once said to a senior staff consultant for a Senate Committee, who was inquiring as to Grimshaw’s voting intention on a particular bill, “If your secretary blows me, you’ve got my vote.” A class act all around. 

Grimshaw rode around town in a jet-black Cadillac Escalade with oversize wheels, rims that would make any rapper proud, and heavily tinted glass, referred to among Capitol staff as the Grimshaw “fucktruck.” Embarrassed Sergeants could be forced to drive this public service taxpayer subsidized vehicle to his McMansion estate to the east of town, for chores that ranged from picking up laundry and Russian “dates” flown in from Vegas to feeding the good Senator’s cat.

On his modest Senate salary, he accumulated numerous valuable properties around town, amassing a small real estate empire. It was all managed by his girlfriend, the scheduler for an Assembly member who loathed him. Representing one of the most polluted regions of California, with groundwater contaminated by leaking World War II-era rocket fuel and too many carcinogens to list, Senator Grimshaw could not be bothered with those issues, preferring to spend his time sorting existential crises among the various regulated entities that came before him.

His girlfriend’s boss, a pint-sized and aged African American gentleman from a South Los Angeles district, got wind of Grimshaw's numerous illicit activities and alerted the FBI. Before Grimshaw was taken away in chains, the Senate Sergeants were forced to pry the two apart on the Senate floor, with the soon-to-be guest of the Federal prison system calling his accuser a dirty black S.O.B. and the smirking old man windmilling his arms Redd Foxx style and shouting to the Sergeants to lock up the “mother fuckin’ cracker.” 

Several years into my time in the Capitol, the influence of the campaign cash-infused mother’s milk that greased the political world had become obscene. Members would solicit campaign contributions while discussing their votes on upcoming bills with lobbyists over expensive adult beverages. The law required a member to show up at an event to receive what was euphemistically called “an honorarium,” essentially a legal bribe. Senator Grimshaw would demand an honorarium for a speaking engagement where he was scheduled to share his insight into such earth-shattering professions as eyebrow threading and the proper use of tiny fish in pedicures. 

Grimshaw would hold “informational” hearings on these subjects in Palm Springs, Vegas, and Maui. His normal protocol was to fly into town, be driven by chauffeur to a luxury hotel or spa, collect the maximum honorarium of $10,000, and never be seen again - at least at the public event.

The depressing part, as I would discover, is that the public, as cynical as it is about the workings of the political system, largely get it wrong. In the public mind, lobbyists hand over campaign contributions in a direct quid pro quo for votes. In addition to being illegal, the truth is much darker and less transparent. So long as the American public refuses to publicly fund campaigns, politicians, unless they are independently wealthy, have to raise money to run for office. 

In California, where a Senate seat can require expenditures of millions for television ads and mailers, this is a substantial impediment to many would-be officeholders. Wealthy special interests, or “stakeholders” in the political vernacular, have that cash. Fundraisers where lobbyists socialize with elected officials are a regular part of the legislative calendar. They are particularly intense when deadlines loom. To paraphrase a former Assembly Speaker and State Treasurer, Jesse Unruh, a larger than life figure from a different, if less enlightened time, “if you could not drink their liquor, eat their food, screw their women, and then vote against them,” you belonged in a different business. 

Years of study and reams of academic papers have concluded that you cannot prove the connection between campaign contributions and votes. This allows politicians, both Democrats and Republicans, to hold steady to the rare bipartisan party line - convenient for those who have succeeded at the game - that they are not influenced by the interest groups that fund their campaigns. Heavens to Betsy and cross their pure political hearts, all the lobbyists get for the millions they spend influencing public policy is access and a chance to make their case!

In the watering holes surrounding the Capitol building, it is the norm for twenty such events or more to be held as critical votes approach. A lobbyist for an environmental NGO, prohibited from making campaign contributions, once remarked, “They should paint the dome red because inside, the state’s citizens were getting fucked without even a little lube.” 

But in my humble opinion, as a more recent student of American democracy, the people have no one to blame but themselves. They refuse to tax themselves directly to pay for campaigns, which would diffuse the power of moneyed interests, instead preferring a system in which politicians rely on the very parties that duty requires them to regulate for the cash to remain in office. 

In reality, the public pays for campaigns in additional costs to nearly every product in the marketplace. Is it no wonder that President Teddy Roosevelt’s well-reasoned theory, that in a democracy government must have sufficient tools to regulate the most powerful economic entities, has largely been ignored. Unfortunately, it has been made nearly impossible by successive opinions of a conservative Supreme Court that has equated money with speech, somehow concluding that the founders believed that a poor man’s soap box was the equal of a rich man’s checkbook!

Grimshaw represented the shallow end of the intelligence pool at the capitol. If there were a senior yearbook for legislators, he would likely be chosen most likely to be indicted, though in this group there would be stiff competition for the award. The ultimate problem with Grimshaw and his ilk was that their lust for power and its trappings greatly exceeded their talent or intelligence, easy marks for a prosecutor, state or federal looking to make a name hanging a political scalp or two on his/her belt.   

At the other end of the list there existed a far more dangerous cohort - those with intelligence, ambition, lust for power, and a complete lack of ethics, morality, or common decency. These boys and girls were capable of serious damage to the body politic. In this vein I give you Senator, soon to be congressman, Brigham Smith, a Mormon elder, direct descendant of Brigham Young, a rabid homophobe, anti-semite, and racist, who of course would rise rapidly through the ranks of the newly ascendant right flank of the former party of Lincoln.

Smith’s perfidy came to a head while still a member of the Senate over a vote on legislation reforming medical malpractice awards, an issue of continuing conflict as doctors and lawyers battled it out over the years. California had fairly stringent limits on awards in these types of suits, which was a source of rancor and embarrassment to the Trial Lawyers Association of California, or the TLAC. 

The TLAC was a powerful presence in Democratic circles, providing large amounts of campaign cash to all. Since most liberal Democrats generally agreed with them on the issues - corporations and negligent parties should make their victims whole; large awards were necessary when deep-pocketed businesses misbehaved; and the threat of lawsuits provided a reasonable incentive for good behavior - TLAC usually prevailed on issues of liability. 

However, medical malpractice sat on a fault line, not to mention the fact that docs and hospitals were also large campaign contributors, though of course these never had any discernible impact on voting behavior. That is, at least, according to politicians and some surprising academic literature on the subject. The problem was that OB-GYNs were closing down practices and fleeing the state. Docs were victims of their own PR. People expected perfection, and when anything went wrong and any baby was not perfect, lawsuits ensued. As a result, the cost of malpractice insurance was soaring, if available at all, and the legislature had an issue confronting it that actually required thoughtful action. 

Senate rules require a majority vote of the membership for a bill to pass. In a committee of eleven, the magic number is six. Not voting is the equivalent of voting no, otherwise known as “taking a walk” in Capitol vernacular, usually done when a member does not want a “no” vote recorded. It is important to remember that there were six liberal democrats on the committee who were generally reliable TLAC votes on issues of civil liability, along with two moderate Dems. Thus, if the two moderates voted with the Republicans, TLAC would still achieve their ends with a narrow 6-5 vote.

Senator Zapata, whose wife had had several issues in delivering their two children, was sympathetic to the doctors’ arguments. The bill before the Committee, supported by the medical association, hospitals, and insurance carriers, would limit damages in certain situations beyond the control of the delivering physician. It seemed to have the six votes needed to pass. Three Republicans, the two moderate Dems, and Zapata, who would support it at considerable risk to his political future. TLAC expected, and usually got 100% support from the Democrats and did not brook “disloyalty” as they viewed it, kindly. 

The bill was heard at midday, and after several hours of testimony a vote was called. As the night wore on and members came in from presenting bills in other committees, the vote stood tied at 5-5. Senator Brigham Smith was nowhere to be found. The supporting lobbyists went to his office, to no avail. The Senate Sergeants were sent out to find him and also came back empty. Not voting had the same effect as voting no. This was a deadline hearing, and if Smith could not be found then the bill would die for the year. 

Zapata was not happy. He was taking a risk and crossing TLAC and Senate leadership was not something one did lightly. Everyone had assumed, wrongly as it turned out, that Smith, a conservative pro-business Republican who often attacked rapacious allegedly anti-business trial lawyers in floor speeches, was a certain yes. Zapata grew suspicious and asked me to check Smith's campaign filings with the Secretary of State. What I found shocked us both and explained his disappearing act. Brigham Smith, scourge of liberals and free market, laissez-faire, supply side-trumpeting rock-solid conservative, was the second largest recipient of Trial Lawyer campaign cash after the Senate leader. The bill died an ugly death, tied 5-5, when Smith took a walk for a supposed “family emergency.” Zapata, no virgin to political intrigue and double dealing, claims to this day that Smith’s duplicity on this bill was “the most craven, amoral display of butt-licking venality I would witness in my long career in public office.”

Here is the interesting academic point that I would discover. Political scientists studying the impact of campaign contributions traditionally cover Congress. Unfortunately, that way lies a slot canyon with no exit. In Congress, massive bills contain hundreds, sometimes thousands of provisions. It is literally impossible to determine the impact of campaign contributions on specific legislative outcomes. 

The Smith vote sent me scampering for an explanation. The previous year I had taken a teaching gig at the University of California, Davis (yes, I was now working in politics and teaching, the two careers recommended by that expensive counselor for a fulfilling life), which put me in an academic frame of mind. When the session ended in September, I was determined to get to the bottom of what I now thought of as the Brigham Smith dilemma. You see, under normal poli-sci analysis Smith was proof positive that campaign contributions were, at the least, hard to connect to outcomes, and possibly had no effect whatsoever. 

Smith was a large recipient of TLAC money and yet voted against them 98% of the time. What could be more clear? However, in California, unlike the US Congress, the legislature operates under a constitutional requirement called the single subject rule, meaning that no bill can have more than one purpose. This differed greatly from the massive Christmas tree bills in Washington where you might find funding for a nuclear sub in an agriculture appropriations bill, or a new bridge in Alaska funded in a healthcare continuing resolution for a whooping cough outbreak in American Samoa. In the California legislature it was actually possible to determine what bills were being lobbied and by whom. 

I carefully analyzed Smith’s votes, initially scrutinizing floor votes, where he was a consistent vote against trial bar interests. And then I hit paydirt when I examined Judiciary Committee votes. So long as the six liberals held steady, Smith always voted against the trial bar and for business backed proposals. But - and this was the aha moment - if any of the six liberals on any issue voted against TLAC, Smith was a firm supporter of the attorneys’ position. In short, he was their $50,000 insurance policy! Let me be clear. Brigham Smith, God-fearing man of principle and Mormon church deacon, righteous opponent of communists, liberals, and queers, received large campaign contributions from trial lawyers, and voted against them 98% of the time, only voting with them in the rare circumstance where it actually mattered! Fifty thousand, when issues could mean millions, was a very smart and strategic investment!

Even in a world where myriad fundraisers on the eve of critical votes received barely a shrug, one Senator stood head and tails above the rest. Let me introduce Senator Alvin Skylark of the lovely San Fernando Valley community of Shaman Ark. In addition to the strong arming of lobbyists, numerous conflicts of interest involving shady real estate investments and a reputation for treating staff like personal servants, Senator Skylark utilized Senate Sergeants, the security detail for the institution, for such Senatorial services as picking up laundry, arranging hotel “dates” with various escorts, and walking his pet French Bulldog, Boss Tweed. 

Several years before I arrived at the Senate, Skylark barely escaped jail time when a pair of 16 year old “interns” were overheard by a Sacramento Bee reporter on a flight to San Diego, discussing the sexual preferences of one Alvin Skylark. The “honorable” Senator only beat the the statutory rape charges when the jury deadlocked, finding the teenagers too sleazy to be judged “of a tender age.” 

And despite all this, Skylark remained chair of the powerful Insurance Committee in the State Senate - one of the prime coveted “juice” assignments because in that committee insurance companies and their agents, trial lawyers, doctors, hospitals - and ANYONE who had or needed insurance came weekly, expense accounts and  hats in hand, to pursue public policy, or to be less generous, to screw California policyholders out of their hard earned dollars. 

As the 80s rolled into the 90s and legislators money grubbing became endemic, there was a buzz around the capitol that the FBI just might have been tipped off and could be roaming capitol halls. A few members who had skated along the knife blade of legality cleaned up their acts. Others, believing themselves bulletproof, tested the gods and just kept on rockin to the same old tune. David Roberti, an otherwise honorable man, the President of the Senate, defended committee appointments for such known miscreants as Skylark, with the almost believable defense, “the public elected em, what am I to do?”He placed my boss on the Insurance Committee to “keep an eye on things, and let me know what Skylark is up to.”

How Skylark directed public policy outcomes to the interests of the insurance industry was beautiful - if a cynical criminal display of pure hutzpah, could be thus described. I was not born yesterday, and after practicing law and working in politics for several years, I believed I had witnessed everything that people could do in the service of cheating their fellow humans. But the sheer ingenuity of the ongoing graft carried out by Skylark and his henchmen was remarkable. The scheme worked as follows: 

Bill analyses, describing what proposed legislation would do if enacted, which included lists of support and opposition, would be withheld from public view until 12:55, when they would be placed on a table at the rear of the darkly paneled ornate 19th century committee room on the 1st floor of the capitol building. The Committee file, that is, the list of bills to be taken up that day could run to 70. Along with the actual analyses, prepared and approved by Skylark and written by his hand picked committee staff, a separate list would be distributed listing bills placed on what is known as “the consent file.” These are bills deemed to be non-controversial, that is, with no opposition, and voted on as a whole, not heard individually, in order to save time. In theory, technical statutory fixes fully vetted with all interested parties and deemed not to require a public hearing. Senate Rules and custom allowed any member raising objections to pull a bill from consent, thus requiring the bill be heard in public during the noticed hearing.

The Committee had 9 members, with 5 affirmative votes needed to move a bill from committee. Skylark, unlike every other committee chair in the Senate, who operated on what was euphemistically referred to as “Senate time”, meaning whatever time, usually a minimum of 15 minutes to a maximum of an hour later than the noticed start time, would gavel the hearing open at precisely 1 o’clock. And with four other members making a quorum, all shtupped by lobbyists with gobs of insurance industry campaign cash, seated around him, would promptly take up for a vote the “Consent File,” on which upwards of 95% of industry supported bills would appear. Few better exercises in rent seeking and shameless screwing of consumers had ever been devised in the annals of California.

My boss, Senator Alex Zapata, was placed on the committee precisely to bring this farce to an end. At the beginning it mostly worked. He and I would arrive in committee at 12:45, Senator Zapata taking a seat at the far right of the horseshoe shaped dais. I sat slightly below in an ornately scrolled oak chair upholstered in red velvet, where we would await release of the analyses by Skylark’s staff. When we received our binders, we would each take half the analyses and quickly identify bills that seemed fishy. The problem was that Zapata also sat on the Health Committee which met at the exact same time. I know, I know, to the uninitiated this seems ridiculous, but that is too big a fish to fry here. 

Several weeks in, after pulling dozens of bills from consent, Zapata approached Skylark and informed him that in his absence, I was deputized to pull bills from consent. He presented the chair with a letter officially deputizing me and describing in detail which actions I could take in his stead. At the top of this list was the ability to remove bills from consent. Skylark said he understood and added his signature at Zapata’s request to show his understanding, and for two hearings things proceeded as before. 

At the third hearing things changed abruptly. I was alone as 1PM approached and handed the list of bills to be removed from consent to the chief consultant, Sid Schwartz. Schwartz told me he was not authorized to remove the bills and I would have to speak directly to the chair. I approached gingerly. There were Senators who staff could approach without fear. These Senators of both parties knew other members' staff and treated them with respect. Alvin Skylark was not one of these Senators. In addition to his well earned reputation as a sleazy corrupt predator, he was also known for his nasty temper and bad case of “memberitis.” Other members' staff were lowly creatures deigned unworthy of Senator Skylark’s valuable time. 

When I handed the list of bills to Skylark, the Senator moved so close his nose was nearly touching mine. Eye to eye, Skylark nearly spat at me. “Tell your boss if he wants the bills removed he needs to come down here himself.” I protested and handed him the letter on the Senate letterhead, signed by my boss and countersigned by Skylark  authorizing me to remove bills from consent. Skylark glared his malevolent sicario sneer at me, turned the document over once in his hand, then tore it in half, crumpled the pieces and handed the shredded document back. He then went back to his seat awaiting a quorum. 

I nearly sprinted to the 4th floor where Zapata was seated in the Health Committee hearing testimony. The Sergeant waved me on to the dais where I leaned over Zapata and whispered what had just taken place. Zapata, furious, pushed his chair abruptly back and headed out the side door to the 4th floor members only elevator, just outside the hearing room where the kindly old elevator operator awaited. Down to the 1st floor we went. Skylark had just gaveled the hearing live when Zapata entered from the side and strode abruptly to the chair’s seat at the center of the dais. 

The room was filled with lobbyists and staff, quietly murmuring awaiting the start of the hearing. When Zapata was spotted by those in the audience, but before Skylark was aware of his presence, the room got deathly quiet. He quickly came up behind the chairman, tapped him on the shoulder and nearly shouted, “I need to speak to you.” Skylark tried to keep his cool, but was clearly rattled. Zapata was a large man and was looming over Skylark who was still seated. The Sergeants froze momentarily. No one in the audience had a clue what had precipitated this confrontation, but in the usually staid and boring Senate, this looked like it might be interesting. 

Skylark tried to push his chair back to stand, but Zapata was too close behind. He pushed again and Zapata still did not budge. The Sergeants finally got between and managed to create enough space for Skylark to stand. And right there, in front of god and the California insurance industry, in open hearing the two Senators got in a shouting match. Zapata demanded to know why Skylark refused to follow the agreed upon protocol and why he had ripped up the authorizing document. Skylark first told him to “go to hell,” and then, incredulously, shouted, “are you questioning my integrity, Senator?” The audience let out a collective moan - part shock, part  laughter, with a large part of actual admiration for the pure hutzpah of the spectacle before them. 

Zapata was not provided time to respond. Turning to the audience and nodding to the hulking presence of Newt Johnson, the powerful lead lobbyist for the insurance industry, all 6’5 300 pounds of him, leaning confidently against the rear wall of the chamber, Skylark motioned to the Sergeants, now back in control of the room, and announced that the hearing would be recessed for 15 minutes. Turning back to Zapata, furious, breathing hard from his rush to committee and slowly regaining composure, Skylark nearly shouted, “I want to see you in my office now! We need to settle this once and for all!”

The boss and I took a minute walking slowly back to the members elevator behind the shoeshine stand near the south entrance. We greeted the longtime operator of the stand, said hello to the elevator operator, Ms Helen, seated inside as the elevator approached Skylark’s 5th floor office, not sure exactly what to expect.

Entering by the public entrance, the secretary, a beautiful young woman in what best could be described as cocktail attire, asked us to be seated while she checked on the Senator’s availability. Zapata became increasingly agitated as we were left cooling our heels for another 15 minutes. We knew Skylark was back there and was simply playing with us. Finally, the young woman made her way back to the seating area, hair slightly disheveled, straightening her short dress, and ushered the two of us into Skylark’s office. 

While most Senate offices were sedate, with cool tones, classic art or prints, a couple of discreetly framed awards on the walls, paying some respect to the institution, this one was most decidedly different. No attempt at humility or even a nod to respect for the office. Skylark’s taste ran to French bordello chic, though that may be unfair to French interior design. His office would need an original Monet and Van Gogh just to rise to tacky. Everything was encrusted in gold. Gold statues. Gold picture frames of crude nudes. Gold lamps and braid around the doors. The place looked more like the lair of a banana republic dictator than that of a California Senator. 

Skylark, nearly luminescent under the red bulb in the Tiffany desk lamp, sat behind his desk, the usual smirk on his creepily dark handsome Eddie Haskell like face, not rising, motioned us to a pair of seats directly opposite the dark wide desk. He got quickly to the point. “This needs to stop,” he began. “You are disrupting my hearings and wasting my time. What will it take for you to stop your disruptive behavior?” Zapata was momentarily taken aback. “Not sure what you are getting at Senator? I simply wish to hear testimony on the bills.” 

“Give me a break Senator! That is bullshit! How much money will it take for you to stop removing industry bills from consent? Name your figure. I will have Newt get it for you.” 

Zapata was momentarily stunned. He shifted in his chair, losing composure while doing so. I could see him visibly attempting to get a grip on his rising anger. Zapata, whose skin tone normally shined a beautiful copper, looking the part of a proper Castilian gentleman, turned grey, a color I recognized from the rare moments when the Senator could not control his anger - a rare occurrence, but in the world of politics and the capitol, only a superhuman could be in control 100% of the time. After what seemed an eternity, he pushed back from his seat, stood to his full height and placing both hands on the desk leaning in towards the still seemingly in control Skylark, he finally spoke, at first almost a whisper but then rising to a shout as the enormity of what he had just heard fully hit home.

Senator, in your years here I have witnessed you engaged in numerous activities that were at best unethical and at worst borderline criminal. But this time you have crossed the Rubicon. What you just described is a felony and I will have no part of it! Now, as per Senate rules, remove any bill I or my staff request from consent or the next conversation we will have will be with the US Attorney!” At which point we stomped out the door. A couple feet outside when safely in the hall corridor, Zapata slumped against the door, his breathing slowly returning to normal. “I swear,” he began, “Skylark is sleazy and corrupt, but he is not that stupid. If I did not know better I would swear he must be wearing a wire.”

And as it turned out, to be discovered several months later after the FBI had raided the California State Capitol in what became known as “Clamscam,” Skylark had indeed been wired up. The FBI had taken him down several months earlier, and before it was all over, Skylark, along with several other Senators, lobbyists, and staff would find themselves behind bars in a federal minimum security country club in Lompoc. 

In fact, as soon as we had left his office, according to the transcripts publicly released at his trial, Skylark had placed a call to Newt Johnson. Johnson’s first question was direct and to the point and would form the basis of his Federal Hobbes Act conviction for corrupt practices. “How much money will it take for him to change his behavior?” Skylark’s response made Zapata a hero to many. “He will not play. No money. We have a problem.” 

Shortly thereafter Zapata was named the new chair of the Senate Insurance Committee with a mandate to clean house.