The other major component of reform in Washington when I arrived was the mounting opposition to the concentration of power in the executive branch, a direct response to the problems of Watergate and Richard Nixon’s “Imperial Presidency.” As the Watergate scandal unfolded in the pages of The Washington Post, readers learned that the infamous break-in was merely the tip of the iceberg. The Nixon administration had spied on private citizens, used the Internal Revenue Service against political enemies, and routinely lied to and misled Congress and the American people.
Congress acquitted itself ably in its response to Watergate. On the legislative front, campaign finance reform established a new set of laws aimed at curbing the influence of money on elections, while the Freedom of Information Act encouraged government openness. Spurred by the Post stories, House and Senate oversight hearings enabled congressional investigators to dig deeply enough to bring all the facts to light and expose the full extent of the Watergate scandal. Congressmen and senators of both parties routinely stood up to the White House. And it was the House of Representatives that finally impeached the president and brought about his resignation.
The public’s view of Congress during Watergate was generally favorable. But I believe that the combination of two events that originated in the executive branch—Watergate and the Vietnam War—led to such widespread disillusionment with government that the American people eventually lost faith in the Congress as well.
IN THE MIDST OF THESE HISTORIC CHANGES, IT REMAINED FOR ME to figure out the day-to-day business of the Congress. My interest in health care led me to pursue a seat on the Energy and Commerce Committee, which has legislative jurisdiction over most health issues. Along with the Ways and Means Committee, Energy and Commerce is one of the two “power” committees in the House, because both have enormous responsibilities that encompass much of the American economy. Along with a handful of my freshman classmates, I got my desired assignment to Energy and Commerce, and when we drew straws to determine seniority, I came out on top.
As if by script, we were immediately plunged into a battle over the chairmanship of the Oversight Subcommittee that pitted Harley Staggers, a West Virginian who chaired the full committee, against John Moss, a reform-minded challenger from Sacramento. As a new member, I was courted vigorously by both sides and familiar with neither. Staggers, in his West Virginia drawl, told me, “I want to do what’s best for America, and I’m a good Christian.” It seemed a rather strange appeal for my vote. Moss’s entreaty was that he was in tune with the new generation and all that it stood for. When the time came for members to cast their secret ballots, most of my class and I sided with Moss, who prevailed.
Moss went on to become one of the great masters of the oversight process, and it was through his example that I first learned how it was done. He not only held hearings to highlight problems and abuses, but did so in ways designed to redound to his party’s electoral benefit. There is a tendency, even among elected officials, to think of a congressman’s various responsibilities—campaigning, fund-raising, legislating—as discrete enterprises. In reality, they’re closely connected. Moss demonstrated this by using his oversight power to spotlight many of the themes that would become critical issues in the 1976 election. These included the Republican Party’s countless abuses of power, but also such seemingly unconnected things as the Arab boycott of Israel.
In 1975, President Gerald Ford had said of the boycott, “Such discrimination is totally contrary to the American tradition and repugnant to American values.” Moss held a hearing in which he revealed that Ford’s own Commerce Department had solicited U.S. businesses on behalf of Arab nations that required them to boycott Israel. Moss knew that U.S. law required companies to notify the Commerce Department of requests to comply with the boycott and also whether or not the company did so. He invited Commerce Secretary Rogers Morton to testify and asked him to release the list of U.S. companies. Morton refused, effectively putting the Republican Party on the side of the Arabs. A public uproar ensued, and Moss initiated contempt proceedings against Morton, who finally yielded. In a presidential debate with Ford several months later, Jimmy Carter invoked the Arab boycott and vowed to outlaw any cooperation in a Carter administration.
Because the pace of legislation is slow and complicated and the process itself arcane, Congress is often difficult for the media to cover, especially television. But an oversight hearing, particularly on a highly charged issue, is an exception to this rule: Run properly, it has a clear story line, compelling characters, and frequent dramatic clashes. Furthermore, congressmen routinely tailor their presentations for television by using visual props and colorful sound bites. Moss had a keen awareness of this, and was even more effective because he generously allowed others to take the lead in questioning witnesses. His oversight hearings frequently made the evening news on all three major television networks.
I learned from Moss that oversight hearings were a golden opportunity to bring public attention to an issue, which instantly made it a higher priority for Congress. The practical effect of a successful hearing is that the media will immediately want to know three things: How did this happen? Whose fault is it? Why isn’t it being stopped? The ensuing pressure often forces the responsible party to take action or creates an imperative for legislation.
The other important figure I encountered on the Energy and Commerce Committee was Paul Rogers, a moderate Democrat from West Palm Beach, Florida, whose father, Dwight Rogers, had preceded him in Congress. Paul Rogers was the chairman of the Subcommittee on Health and the Environment when I joined in 1975, though he was best known for his nickname, “Mr. Health.” During his twenty-four-year career, he helped draft and pass such important legislation as the National Cancer Act, the Clean Air Act, and the Emergency Medical Services Act, among many others. But his skill as a chairman was what influenced me the most.
Having come from the top-down world of the California Assembly, I was astonished to see how Rogers ran committee meetings. Though a Democrat, he operated as though party affiliation did not exist, soliciting input as readily from Republicans as Democrats. When a bill was being considered by the subcommittee, he would walk us through it, section by section, allowing those members with specialized expertise to explain the importance of various issues and lead bipartisan discussions on what changes or amendments might improve them. Rogers always tried to reach consensus between Republicans and Democrats on how a bill would be modeled and what it should say. To my amazement, I learned that I—a mere freshman!—could influence a bill by speaking up and making a good point, which would shift the consensus in my direction. This was completely unlike the way Jesse Unruh had run the Assembly.
The genius of Rogers’s method was manifold. Because everyone’s views were considered, we all felt invested in the bill, even if it did not end up going our way. Because bills were never rammed through on party-line votes, Rogers could frequently put together different coalitions of Republicans and Democrats, which made it much harder for special interests to influence the process and much easier for us to pass good legislation. But most of all, the idea that a subcommittee possessed genuine expertise and that its decisions and legislation merited respect and deference from the full committee was widely accepted. During a House floor vote, for instance, it was common to hear members of both parties say, “The committee wants an ‘aye’ vote on the amendment” or “The committee wants a ‘no’ vote,” because everyone respected the power of the committees. Rather than a top-down system, the congressional process when I arrived was bottom-up, with benefits that were clear to everyone.
IN 1979, PAUL ROGERS SURPRISED EVERYONE BY ANNOUNCING HIS retirement. I had been in Congress for four years, and two Democrats senior to me appeared likely to bid for his chairmanship. The first opted not to. But the second, Richardson Preyer, decided to run. Preyer was a respected moderate from North Carolina, the very embodiment of an enlightened Southern Democrat. He was distinguished, honorable (he had been a j
udge), and staunchly for civil rights. But hailing from tobacco country, he didn’t think cigarettes were a health problem, as I did. And as a wealthy man whose family fortune derived from the Richardson-Merrill Pharmaceutical Company, makers of Vicks VapoRub, his becoming chairman presented a serious conflict of interest. One of the subcommittee’s major functions is overseeing the Food and Drug Administration.
My own view was that the caucus ought to select the best person for the job. I’d been active on the subcommittee and believed I knew more about health policy than most of my colleagues. And I cared deeply about health and the environment—it was one of the main reasons I’d run for Congress. So I decided to challenge him.
Despite a few cracks in the facade, the seniority system very much still held sway. The older generation, including such legendary liberal reformers as Dick Bolling, reacted angrily to my perceived impertinence. But I was not without support. The environmental, consumer, and labor groups all lined up behind me. And a kind of generational solidarity among the younger, reform-minded members took hold to counter the old guard. I focused my attention on a dozen or so of my subcommittee colleagues whose votes would determine my fate.
Congressmen choose their leaders for all sorts of reasons: friendship, substance, ambition, money, regional and generational loyalties, and sometimes, I suspect, simply on a whim. A successful politician must work creatively until he finds the right claim on his colleagues’ support. After I’d spoken with each of the undecideds, I tried to figure out who else I could contact to persuade to go my way. Tim Wirth of Colorado was a serious environmentalist. A number of my Los Angeles supporters agreed to lobby him on my behalf. Bob Eckhardt, a Houston liberal, was concerned about the influence of pharmaceutical companies. But I always suspected that he ultimately yielded not to my entreaties but to his daughter’s wish that he support me. Someone else I’d worked closely with, but who represented a Southern tobacco state, was Al Gore. Difficult as it must have been not to support a fellow Southern moderate, Gore, who was a personal friend, cared a great deal about the dangers of tobacco and the conflicts a Preyer chairmanship would pose. In the end, he cast a very brave vote for me.
Preyer’s allies did not roll over. Their main line of attack was to claim that I was attempting to buy the chairmanship by donating money from a political action committee to my fellow members. In California, giving money to one’s colleagues was standard practice and, more to the point, smart politics—Jesse Unruh built and maintained a Democratic majority by seeing that his legislators had the means to get reelected.
I brought this practice with me to Congress because it yields important political benefits. As with oversight hearings, the tendency is always to look at the issue of money in isolation—in fact, because the influence of money in politics is such a fraught subject, the tendency is probably stronger here than anywhere else. The widespread view of money’s role in politics is simply that it’s bad. But rather than think of it as “good” or “bad,” it’s more useful to think of money as a political fact of life, and to develop a realist’s understanding of how it flows and influences the business of Washington. Money is as important to the substantive work of Congress as a bill or an election. Everything intertwines.
To pass good legislation, you must first be surrounded by the right kind of people. When you find like-minded colleagues, you want to help in whatever way you can to make sure they stay put. Having a good committee lineup broadens the possibilities of what can be achieved (just as a bad one limits them). This is one reason why I spend so much time and effort trying to influence who gets on my committee. Before you can move legislation, you must first lay the groundwork by making sure that the right pieces are in place. It’s like chess. A single vote can be the difference between a strong acid rain provision and a weak one.
The luxury of a safe seat meant that I didn’t need to raise much money for my own reelection. Instead, from the time I arrived in Congress, I donated to those whom I considered valuable allies. Though it displeased some traditionalists, this practice has had positive results. Year after year, many of the members I supported have cast key votes on important legislation.
But when I went up against Preyer, this approach was bitterly disputed. Dick Bolling declared himself so offended that I had given money to people on the committee as to suggest that I be stripped of my seniority. The New York Times editorial page sided with my critics. At the time, the idea of being criticized for helping my fellow Democrats get reelected upset me. But I came to realize that the institution of Congress was changing, and that was sometimes wrenching for the young and the old alike.
I tried to focus on the immediate task by having lunch with every member of the committee to make my pitch personally. Some I went back to again and again. The work of a congressman involves a lot of process, and it is often far from glamorous. But experience had taught me that persistent effort pays off.
So far as I could tell, Richardson Preyer did not campaign very hard. Though courtly and well liked, he was also a bit diffident. Accustomed to the culture of seniority, he seemed to find the idea of politicking for a chairmanship ever so slightly demeaning, and so he would not deign to ask for votes.
Under House rules, a subcommittee chairman is not chosen in a head-to-head race. Instead, the senior member must bid for it and either be elected or defeated. When at last the day arrived, the voting went 16-14 against Preyer. In the next round of voting moments later, I became chairman of Health and Environment, and the great changes underway in Congress took another turn. It was the first time in the history of the institution that someone had won a subcommittee chairmanship out of the line of seniority.
CHAPTER 3
HIV/AIDS and the Ryan White Act
AS THE NEW CHAIRMAN OF THE HOUSE SUBCOMMITTEE on Health and the Environment, I did not expect to be plunged immediately into a serious public health crisis. But that is exactly what happened when the AIDS epidemic struck in 1981. The story of this epidemic illustrates how Congress is capable of both heroic actions and astonishingly damaging ones—often on the same issue—and how, in this case, lawmakers and public health officials persevered to pass the first major federal legislation dealing with the AIDS crisis, the Ryan White CARE Act.
One advantage of being a committee chairman is the additional staff who come with the job. I’ve always believed that a congressman’s responsibilities, beyond processing legislation, include staying attuned to important issues confronting other parts of the government. Staffers are invaluable in this regard, because by circulating through the agencies they can vastly expand a congressman’s range of knowledge. This is how I first learned about AIDS.
In early 1981, the “Reagan Revolution” had just gotten underway, and the new president was bent upon slashing domestic spending. His primary enforcer was David Stockman, a bespectacled math whiz who headed the Office of Management and Budget. Stockman pored over the federal budget looking for programs to cut, and recorded each one that he found in a ledger that everybody referred to as “The Stockman Black Book.” A member of my committee staff, Tim Westmoreland, returned from a visit to the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta to report that the Stockman Black Book was causing serious concern. Public health agencies like the Centers for Disease Control (CDC), the National Institutes of Health (NIH), and the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) all do tremendous work, and having staffers who know what they’re up to gives us an idea of what’s coming down the pike and how we might help. Reagan proposed massive cuts to health programs, and CDC scientists were alarmed about the potential effects. “There’s going to be a disaster,” Tim reported to me. “It could be an FDA disaster, an NIH disaster, or a CDC disaster, but if these agencies get cut something has got to give.” So in the summer of 1981, the Stockman Black Book had us all bracing for an epidemic—but we imagined that it would strike in the area of preventable childhood illnesses, since Reagan effectively wanted to cut the immunization budget in half.
I w
orried enough about this to hold a hearing on the proposed cuts, and brought in a Nobel laureate, the co-developer of the polio vaccine, to describe the public health crisis that could result. With the eventual help of Pete Domenici, a Republican senator from New Mexico, we protected the immunization program.
An epidemic came anyway. While Tim was in Atlanta learning about immunizations, a CDC scientist had suggested that he meet with a colleague named Jim Curran, who was described as “a VD doctor.” Curran had noticed an outbreak of a strange and deadly pneumonia that was showing up in gay men in Los Angeles, specifically in West Hollywood, which is part of my district. Today, Jim Curran is widely recognized as a hero in the struggle against AIDS, a Sherlock Holmes who first spotted the disease and raised the alarm among epidemiologists. In the summer of 1981, however, he was still making inroads into a community fearful of government (homosexuality was still a felony in many states) and not yet ravaged by the nameless and invisible disease that was already expanding geometrically and invisibly among its members. He turned down our offer of a congressional hearing to highlight the need for research money in this new area, fearing that the attention would hamper his efforts. But he promised to stay in touch. “I’ll call you when I’m ready,” he told us. The following January, Curran was ready. Feeling he had built sufficient trust in the gay community to move forward, he said, “I think we can withstand this.” Soon after, we convened what is known as a field hearing at the Gay and Lesbian Community Services Center in Los Angeles, where Curran and other leading health officials provided testimony. On that day in April 1982, a single reporter, from the Los Angeles Times, showed up to cover the first congressional hearing on the AIDS crisis.
The Waxman Report Page 4