"As to the issue of integrity," says Hughes, "I think anyone who thinks that you can raise these questions against the speaker has to consider what must be one of the most respectful, honorable de-meanors in public life today."
Frank Jordan would beg to differ. And in the meantime, he does what incumbent politicians must do when facing a challenge: beg for money. Lots of it.
Two weeks ago, Jordan swore in three well-heeled appointees to the War Memorial Board. One was David Yoder, a pal of Jordan and his wife, Wendy Paskin; the second was Inn at the Opera manager Tom Noonan (who gave Jordan nearly $10,000 in in-kind contributions to his Friends Committee); a third was Claude Jarman, a Pacific Heights former child movie star willing to raise funds in exchange for the appointment.
Since Jordan expects to raise between $2 million and $3 million in this year's race, the help will be welcome. So welcome that he sued his own City Hall and backed a referendum to make sure he could spend every dollar he could grab by drop-kicking a new law that would have limited him to $1 million in campaign spending. Welcome, too, will be the help that could come from an improved relationship with city unions, which Jordan has recently been forging. (An effort last December by the Plumbers' Union to win early labor endorsements for Jordan flopped.) Meanwhile, more than 30 union contracts have been negotiated with the mayor's office. In most cases, the contracts are set to expire after this year's mayor's race, with the hint in the air that a re-elected Jordan will be generous to his union member supporters.
And what, in all this plotting, is going on in the minds of voters?
For many of them, Election Day will simply never come. They will decline to go to the polls and vote for anybody. Only about 45 percent of San Franciscans vote in the mayoral race, compared to the 60 percent who have showed up for elections that offer state and national candidates.
One reason for the low mayoral race turnouts: Many voters believe the system is so corrupt that the only sure losers are themselves.
Ironically, Jordan counts on this apathy to help him. One of his strongest suits in this election, analysts say, is his fund-raising ability (which nevertheless is not likely to beat the extraordinary cash that Brown will attract). Another is that Jordan's strong base are homeowners over 65 years old who vote without fail. Their influence is most strongly felt in low voter turnout elections.
It's a trend, of course, seen nationwide. American voters are disaffected creatures who rightly see the electoral process as "meet the new boss, same as the old boss."
"They're being used as targets by the political communicators," says San Francisco State assistant professor Gary Selnow, author of the book High Tech Campaigns. "They're being used as targets by the political communicators. Their views are not really being sought. The voter has been squeezed out of the process."
The squeeze play continued at Willie Brown's curtain raiser in Japantown last Saturday, an event marked by hoopla, political hacks, discards, and wannabes. At Brown's elbow -- startlingly -- were some of the very Jordan appointees whose deeds had led the public to call for the current mayor's head. There, applauding, stood the Rev. Eugene Lumpkin, the Jordan appointee fired from the Human Rights Commission after declaring that the Bible sanctions stoning to death lesbians and gay men. There, wearing a Brown button on elegant white, cheered Karen Huggins, the Jordan-appointed housing commissioner fired just 48 hours earlier for misconduct.
"This is absolutely unbelievable," Brown declared, but he was referring to the crowd before him. Standing next to him was Wilkes Bashford, his tailor and the man he represented on charges of cheating the city tax collector.
Close by the press pen, Clint Reilly and Jordan campaign aides were spinning like Maytags, whispering snide remarks to reporters when they thought Brown had said something dumb. An Alioto aide eyed the scene, testing for weak spots in the competition. Achtenberg's consultants guilt-tripped the progressives they recognized: "You should be for Roberta," they scolded.
And some wore brown shirts and waved "Brown for Mayor" signs in which the "o" in Brown soared like a shooting star. It was the same graphic used last year by state Sen. Quentin Kopp -- in a campaign run by Jack Davis.
Davis spotted Reilly, and the two shook hands like a couple of prizefighters touching gloves before the bell rings. Everything now was in readiness. For a race that has already run.
