The Best and the Worst Legislators
For 140 days the seventy-seventh legislature searched for its personality without finding it. This was a budget-trimming session in which money was tight. No, it was a free-spending session in which state expenditures increased by $14 billion.
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He revels in his reputation as the biggest, meanest bully in the Texas Legislature. "I think I better loosen my tie," he began menacingly before launching into a tirade against a title company representative who opposed his bill on surveys. At the end, the stunned committee chairman could only say to the poor fellow, "Welcome to the Texas Senate." When a Department of Public Safety employee failed to show up for a hearing, Harris wanted to issue a subpoena. Sure, the chairman nodded, we could do that. Or we could just call his office. The call produced the witness a few minutes later. Harris' bizarre grilling of DPS board member Colleen McHugh likewise prompted sympathy from other committee members. At a break, someone gently asked if she would like a glass of water or soda. "Chivas?" suggested Senator Mike Moncrief. Then there was the day that Moncrief was trying to pass a nursing home reform bill. When Harris, whose law firm has represented nursing homes, kept asking unfriendly questions, Moncrief noted that he might have a conflict of interest. "Will you shut up?" Harris exploded. Other senators were stunned.
Harris' defenders—and there are some—argue that he occasionally puts his bullying to good use, such as when he castigated the House for penny-pinching on Medicaid. Others point out that he fights for children in need of child support or health care. But on balance, his erratic behavior sends the wrong message to citizens, whether they are recipients of a tirade or witnesses to one. The Capitol and the government belong to the people, not to legislators. When Harris mistreats a citizen, he is mistreating his boss.
Fred Hill
If intentions were all that counted in politics, Fred Hill would not be on the Worst list. He holds heartfelt beliefs about ways that he would like to make the world a better place, and he fights for them. For years he has advocated cracking down on drunk drivers. Another of his targets is greedy lawyers. Worthwhile causes, to be sure. So what's the problem? Starting out with the best of intentions, he ends up with the worst of results. Like the cartoon character Yosemite Sam, he trains his gun on the enemy only to shoot himself when someone sticks a finger in the barrel.
Exhibit A: The House is debating a proposal to increase the amount of money that the families of Texas A&M bonfire victims can recover in a lawsuit against the university. Hill is worried that greedy lawyers will take too much of the money for themselves and leave too little for the families. So he offers an amendment to limit the lawyers' share. Who could object to that? Well, lawyers. The Legislature is full of them. They race to the microphone to defend their profession. The focus of the debate shifts from bonfire victims to plaintiffs lawyers. The moral force of the issue dissipates, and the proposal goes down in defeat. It was one of the lowest moments of the session—and the outcome was entirely predictable.
Exhibit B: Hill has tried for the previous three sessions to pass a tough bill making it illegal to have an open container of alcohol in a car. Three times he failed because the bill was too tough for Texas' alcohol-friendly culture. This year the bill passes, thanks to its new sponsor, Best honoree Jim Dunnam of Waco. Dunnam's bill isn't as tough as Hill's version, but it is a lot better than the current law, which requires an officer to see the alcohol being consumed, and it has the support of Mothers Against Drunk Driving. But that didn't stop Hill from complaining about its shortcomings. Or us from complaining about his.
Mike Jackson
Mike Jackson raises an intriguing philosophical question. He is the pluperfect example of furniture—a legislator so inconsequential that he is indistinguishable from the desks and chairs. But are there degrees of furniture? Is there a point at which a lawmaker is so removed from the norm of participation and contribution that he ceases to be furniture and becomes a Worst? This metaphysical issue, never before confronted, must be answered in the affirmative. Just as the finest examples of real furniture can evolve into museum-worthy art, so has Jackson, by doing less than any senator in memory, evolved into more than run-of-the-mill legislative furniture. Put him on display in the Bullock museum.
This is not to say that Jackson was totally idle. The highlight of his session was trying to amend a bill prohibiting teens from riding in the bed of a pickup by exempting hayrides. Too bad it failed. His own legislative program consisted of such featherweight bills as an infinitesimal change in the rules for servicing portable fire extinguishers; the creation of the State of Texas Anniversary Remembrance Day Medal; permission for county auditors to audit the promotion and development funds of navigation districts; and the like. You could pick the student council president from most Texas high schools, put him in the Senate, give him a competent staff, and he could have done as well.
Jackson wasn't the only senator with a light legislative package; his Harris County colleague, John Whitmire, filed even fewer bills. But the comparison doesn't help Jackson one bit. Whitmire is a player. He had a leading role in getting Bill Ratliff elected lieutenant governor. He asks intelligent questions in floor debate. He's a factor in the budget-writing Finance Committee. He is extremely knowledgeable about criminal-justice policy. One of the bills Whitmire handled—a study to create a system of drug courts—could have a significant impact on public policy. None of this can be said for Jackson. The House, with 150 members, can afford a few featherbedders. The Senate, with the same workload spread among just 31 members, can't afford even one.
Carlos Truan
High maintenance, low performance: if Carlos Truan were an automobile engine, he'd have been relegated to the scrap heap long ago. Unfortunately, he is the dean of the Senate, practiced in the art of longevity—and nothing else. He doesn't do his homework nor does he contribute; he just takes up everybody's time. Sometimes it seems that if he would just go away, or at least forgo his oratorical meanderings, the Senate could wind up its business in half the time. "Carlos Truan" is a two-word rebuttal to the argument that the Texas Legislature needs to meet more often than 140 days every two years.
His specialty is the phantom complaint. He objects that a bill will do X when in fact it does Y. He worried that a bill setting accounting standards for school districts would hurt poor districts. (It would not.) He worried that a bill requiring consumer disclosures on credit life insurance would cause poor people to purchase it. (Not even close.) His questions reveal nothing except how unprepared he is. Once, he began to harrumph that a bill would deny college admission to poor children. Puzzled looks ensued around the chamber. An embarrassed silence filled the air, finally to be broken by Lieutenant Governor Ratliff: "Senator, . . . this is about bats." Truan had launched into a passionate argument about another of the author's bills, which had to do with educational opportunity, while the rest of the Senate was considering bat conservation. If Truan was for a bill, he still complained. After signing on as a co-sponsor of the teacher health insurance bill, he peppered the lead sponsor with hostile questions during floor debate and wondered aloud about national health insurance.
Even the trivialities were beyond his ken. One day he interrupted a committee hearing to introduce a group of young people whom he had just met. Oops. Wrong group. "Let the record reflect that we will not recognize you to introduce phantom constituents," said the chairman. Let the record reflect that we do recognize phantom senators.
SPECIAL AWARDS
BEST QUIP
Buster Brown, Republican, Lake Jackson
After the Senate formally declared the pecan the state's official health nut, he said, "I thought Senator Moncrief was the official Health nut."
BEST YOGI BERRA-ISM
Tommy Merritt, Republican, Longview
When asked who had helped him draw up a redistricting plan that neither the Democratic leadership of the House nor the Republican caucus endorsed, he replied that he had done it "single-handedly, with the help of others."
MOST DUBIOUS ARGUMENT
Eddie Lucio, Jr., Democrat, Brownsville
Urging his colleagues to adopt his bill delaying the start of school until later in the summer, he said, "Not one of the senators on the floor today started school before Labor Day and we all turned out fine."
BEST PROP
Gene Seamon, Republican, Corpus Christi
Protesting the proposed new boundaries for his district, which stretched from Corpus Christi into the Rio Grande Valley, he donned a life jacket to show that he'd have to go across the bay to reach his constituents.
FURNITURE
The furniture list for the seventy-seventh legislative session—recognizing those who participated little more than the desks and chairs—consists of a single person, Governor Rick Perry. This fate befell him not by chance but by choice. Having ascended to the governorship by filling a vacancy, he opted to lie low and play safe, an aspiration that proved to be within reach. His legislative program was lighter than helium. His top priority—shutting off a primary challenge in 2002 from U.S. senator Kay Bailey Hutchison—lay outside the Capitol and appears to have been attained. On the rare occasions when he got involved in a big issue, his intervention came late and was not welcomed. He said he would not try to halt the hate crimes bill but got caught doing so; in the resulting uproar, the bill gained the support it needed to pass. Senators in his own party were furious when he scotched a fee plan to fund nursing homes; they said he had reneged on a deal and he said he hadn't. His accomplishments included holding the line on taxes, some good appointments, and little else. His limitations, however, were noticeable only to insiders; outside the Capitol, Perry's absence from the fray did him no harm. He didn't lead, but the Legislature found its way without him.
MALAPROPS
The Legislature has a colorful language all its own. The mixed metaphor ("a time bomb headed for a banana peel") and the redefinition of a term ("rig count" to describe the number of television cameras on tripods) are staples of the legislative lexicon. This session's special contribution was the malaprop—the misuse of a familiar word. Our favorites:
arthur n. One who writes a bill. "Who is the arthur of Senate Bill 5?"
mute adj. Without practical significance. "That's a mute point."
ominous adj. Referring to the combination of many elements into one. "What happened to the ominous courts bill?"
physical adj. Pertaining to government spending. "What are the physical implications of this bill?"
president n. A principle or ruling that serves as a guide for future decisions. "This bill sets a bad president."
spend v. To waive or bypass. "I move to spend the rules."
susceptible adj. Agreeable to. "The amendment is susceptible to the arthur."
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