The Best and the Worst Legislators
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Lyon had more complaints than a hypochondriac. Gritch, whine, moan: Lieutenant Governor Bill Hobby was stalling the abortion bill … Colleagues had failed to put him on the Torts Conference Committee … It’s so hard for a Democrat to get elected in his northeast Texas district (“When you talk to him about a bill, you don’t tell him that it’s good for Texas,” said one lobbyist. “You tell him that it’s good for him politically”). Maybe it’s harder for some Democrats to get elected than for others.
Jim McWilliams, 49, Democrat, Hallsville
Somebody help that man. His self-destruct button is stuck.
McWilliams’ involvement with AIDS-related legislation grew into a fevered obsession. Its symptoms:
––Grandstanding. McWilliams attempted to load AIDS-related amendments onto any legislative vessel that sailed by, even a bill defining rape of a spouse. On one occasion, the sponsor of a blood-bank bill agreed to accept McWilliams’ amendments—a routine process customarily accomplished with the stroke of the gavel. Not this time. McWilliams wanted to argue for his proposals. On and on he droned, one amendment after the other, purely for show.
–Ignorance. McWilliams and Mike McKinney of Centerville, the House’s only M.D., debated more than Lincoln and Douglas. McKinney kept pointing out medical booby traps in McWilliams’ amendments (one example: An amendment to require that positive AIDS tests be reported to the state health department was written in such a way that blood tests for all communicable diseases had to be reported).
–Hypocrisy. You might think that McWilliams, as a member of the Appropriations Committee, would do everything in his power to fund programs that combat AIDS. You’d be wrong. Instead, he did everything in his power to dismantle them. Why? McWilliams, it turned out, was on a vendetta against the state health department, which he accused of using “misleading educational terms and misleading figures,” though he failed to substantiate his charges.
–Tastelessness. McWilliams told a dumbstruck conference committee in open session, “I know the health department doesn’t do its job, because ten years ago I had gonorrhea, and nobody talked to my wife.”
All this might be amusing if AIDS were not such a terrible problem. Issues like testing needed to be addressed seriously, but McWilliams couldn’t do it himself, and worse, he preempted anyone who might have tried.
Meanwhile, he was spreading harm elsewhere. He tried to cut the agriculture department’s budget after Commissioner Jim Hightower canceled his appearance at a McWilliams fundraiser. His uninformed attack on the Human Services budget led a colleague to observe, “He acts like he’s morally offended by people being poor.” Remember the line from The Godfather: “It’s nothing personal. It’s strictly business”? With McWilliams, there is no difference.
Bob Melton, 43, Democrat, Gatesville
The Legislature’s answer to United Way: he’s always appealing for money. Lobbyists scatter when they see Melton approaching, because they know what’s coming. “He’s real basic,” said one. “He says, ‘You help me, I’ll help you.’” Said another, “He talks about money all the time.”
Melton is not the only legislator preoccupied with fattening his campaign treasury. But he is among the least discreet. “He leans on the lobby real hard,” says a victim. “He lets you know that he’s making a list and checking it twice.”
There are two rules about money in the Legislature. One is that you don’t solicit during the session. That’s a state law, designed to prevent bribes (by lobbyists) and shakedowns (by members). But the law applies only to individuals, not to groups. That loophole was all Melton needed to approach a tort reform lobbyist on behalf of the House Democratic caucus and say, “The trial lawyers [opponents of tort reform] have contributed, and you need to get in it.” The second rule is never mention money and issues in the same conversation. Melton insists he doesn’t. But a lobbyist remembers Melton asking, “Here’s where I can go with you. Is that enough to get help?”
If there is an excuse for Melton, it is self-defense. He is a maverick in a body where conformity is overvalued. He doesn’t kowtow to the lobby or the Speaker, and his independence has earned him well-financed campaign opponents. His reaction, however, has been to have contempt for the process, and not just where money is concerned. After winning a prolonged floor fight over his bill to provide counseling to prison inmates convicted of sex crimes, he didn’t offer the usual thanks. Instead, Melton told the House, “Welcome to the twentieth century.” As members booed and raced to the microphone to overturn the vote, Melton apologized, saving his bill—but not his reputation.
Pete Patterson, 52, Democrat, Brookston
The living proof of the adage that the Texas Capitol is built for giants but inhabited by pygmies. In the great march of time he plods along at the rear, decades behind, intellectually wrapped in the folds of the crocheted Confederate flag that dominates a wall of his Capitol office.
His legislative program was designed primarily to codify his prejudices as law. Nothing came close to matching his celebrated bill in 1985 to prohibit foreigners from owning land in Texas, but you’ve got to give the guy credit for trying. This year’s targets: illegal aliens, foreign oil, federal judges, and anyone who speaks Spanish. The last group was addressed in his proposed constitutional amendment to establish English as the official language of Texas. Patterson’s oratorical style can best be described as an inarticulate monotone; even native English speakers can have a hard time understanding what he’s talking about. Once he kept saying “repars” instead of “repairs” during a debate on the House floor. “Hah,” grunted a colleague standing nearby. “He wants to make English the official language, and he can’t even speak it.” Sometimes Patterson is not so great at understanding it, either. “He’s impossible to work with,” said one lobbyist. “I tried to explain a simple bill to him, but he just didn’t get it.”
Fortunately Patterson is ineffective (none of his controversial bills made it to the floor). But he’s not insignificant. He is the archetypal member of what might be termed the Ostrich caucus—a bipartisan group of legislators who think that all of Texas’ problems would be solved if the rest of the world would just go away and leave us alone. But it won’t. Maybe Pete will.
Al Price, 47, Democrat, Beaumont
For Al Price, all matters are black and white. He is the ultimate one-issue legislator: almost every subject is about race.
Take his role as a member of the Insurance Committee. Price accomplished what had been previously thought to be impossible—he made you feel sorry for insurance executives. At one hearing on insurance taxation law, Price asked the white male who had just testified, “Are you the only representative from your company [here today]?” The answer was yes, to which Price responded, “I’m sorry, because I would like to get a better impression of your company.” He then requested that the man, and subsequent male witnesses, bring black and female executives with them next time they come to testify.
At another hearing, one unfortunate witness during his testimony made the mistake of using the industry jargon for companies that meet state regulation requirements—“white list.” Price, in real life a pilot for American Airlines, used the phrase as a runway to take off on a diatribe on race.
The sad part is that Price’s concerns are legitimate and he is an intelligent, articulate legislator who could actually use his gifts to advance the issue most important to him. Instead, through small-mindedness and hectoring, he has squandered his potential influence. When he spoke during floor debate against authorizing private prisons—he argued eloquently that only the state should have the power to take away someone’s freedom—no one was paying attention.
And it was Price who suffered one of the most humiliating moments of the session. There is a forum for House members to address serious, individual matters, known as a personal privilege speech. It’s an option that’s rarely exercised. Price used it to ask his colleagues to table a bill introduced by another Beaumont legislator that would create a hazardous-waste research center at Lamar University, located in Price’s district. Price, who has been feuding with the university for years over its minority hiring practices, didn’t oppose the substance of the bill; he was miffed that someone else was carrying a bill affecting his district. As an indication of the esteem in which Price is held, fellow Black caucus member Ron Wilson rose to demolish Price’s claim that the legislation was local in nature. Price’s motion got 14 votes in the 150-member House.
Craig Washington, 45, Democrat, Houston
All session long the word from the Senate was “Craig is doing better.” Everyone, including us, rejoiced in the news. Had Washington, in his third Senate session, finally regained the form that had made him one of the great House members of all time? Alas, alas, the answer was no. As the session drew to a close, Washington committed the two most egregious blunders of the entire 140 days. He hurled unwarranted accusations of racism at Speaker Gib Lewis and forced an utterly pointless special session on tort reform.
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