PRESIDENTIAL SELECTION Edited by Alexander Heard and Michael Nelson DUKE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY k * t • '; M • 1 -- i - a \ ' • < % • « '<*• f ; ' " i ■I « " •/ i VV^ ' ... j ir\ .( I t i 4* t \ ' PRESIDENTIAL SELECTION Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2020 with funding from Duke University Libraries https://archive.org/details/presidentialsele01unse_2 PRESIDENTIAL SELECTION Alexander Heard and Michael Nelson, Editors DUKE UNIVERSITY PRESS DURHAM 1987 © 1987 Duke University Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper == Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Presidential selection. Includes index. I. Presidents—United States—Election. I. Heard, Alexander. II. Nelson, Michael. IK524.P69 1987 324-973 87-9164 ISBN 0-8223-0750-2 ISBN 0-8223-0785-5 (pbk.) 33 '^ .973 P9BH 1927 To our children Stephen Michael Christopher Sam Frank Connie ij ■4r Contents Preface ix introduction 1 Change and Stability in Choosing Presidents Alexander Heard and Michael Nelson i I Presidential Selection in World Context 2 Presidential Selection and Continuity in Foreign Policy Ralf Dahrendorf ly 3 Changing International Stakes in Presidential Selection Ernest R. May 32 4 Learning to Govern or Learning to Campaign? Richard Rose 53 II Voters and Candidates 5 The Linkage of Policy to Participation Gary Orren 73 6 Who Vies for President? Michael Nelson 120 7 Methods and Actors; The Relationship of Processes to Candidates John H. Aldrich ryy III New Campaign Elites 8 Public Opinion Polling: Command and Control in Presidential Campaigns James R. Beniger and Robert J. Giuffra, Jr. r8p viii Contents 9 The Three Campaigns for President Herb Asher 216 10 Regulating Campaign Finances: Consequences for Interests and Institutions Xandra Kayden 247 IV Presidential Politics and the Mass Media 11 Presidential Politics and the Myth of Conciliation: The Case of 1980 James David Barber 283 12 Television and Presidential Politics Thomas E. Patterson 302 V Provisions for the Unexpected 13 Presidential Selection and Succession in Special Situations Allan P. Sindler 331 Notes 366 Index 397 Editors and Contributors 411 Preface The way Americans choose their presidents has been studied ex¬ haustively. Scholars and journalists have created an enormous and important literature addressing campaign finance, nominating pro¬ cedures, the mass media, electoral participation, and other significant aspects of the subject. But the literature on presidential selection is also remarkably self-contained. Most studies of how Americans choose their presidents are simply that, studies of how Americans choose their presidents. In this collection of thirteen original essays we have not neglected traditional concerns. But we also have tried to incorporate three important themes into the study of presidential selection. First, what are the international implications of the U.S. presidential selection process? How does the process affect other nations? Does it enhance or diminish the ability of the United States to deal effectively with the rest of the world? Second, how do changing characteristics of the presidential selection process affect the shaping of public policies, and vice versa? How, for example, have changes in citizen participa¬ tion, campaign technologies, and campaign finance laws altered the balance of political power among important institutions and inter¬ ests? How might changes in communications policy modify tele¬ vision's role in presidential campaigns? The third theme, made especially timely by the bicentennial of the Constitution, is the influence of the Constitution on presidential selection. What are X Preface the effects of the constitutionally prescribed qualifications for the presidency? What provisions does the Constitution make for unusual circumstances, for selecting presidents outside the normal electoral channels, and with what effects? This book had its origins in an invitation to study the presidential selection process that was extended to Alexander Heard by the Alfred P. Sloan Foundation. To assist in that undertaking, prominent schol¬ ars from the United States and elsewhere were commissioned to write papers. The topics were carefully defined, individually and in relation to each other, to fill lacunae, but also to provide a well-integrated, comprehensive treatment of presidential selection. As the papers came in during 1983 and 1984, it became clear that although they had not been commissioned for purposes of publica¬ tion, a large proportion could with relative ease be revised into publishable form. Grouped together, they would make a collection of quality, timeliness, and unusual scope. In 1984 Heard invited Michael Nelson to serve as coeditor of the book that was now planned. Since then, with Nelson's guidance, the authors have revised their papers extensively to incorporate not only editorial suggestions but more recent events, such as the 1984 election and the temporary transfer of power from President Ronald Reagan to Vice President George Bush in fuly 1985. We have many people to thank in addition to the Sloan Foundation and the authors. The study of presidential selection for which the papers were commissioned was conducted in the Vanderbilt Institute for Public Policy Studies, of which Erwin C. Hargrove was director during most of the work and Clifford S. Russell at the end. Lottie M. Strupp, Assistant Director for Administration of the Institute, gave cheerful and essential support all along the way. Scarlett G. Graham and Kay L. Hancock, associates of Heard, contributed decisively in defining the original twenty-four topics on which scholars were com¬ missioned to write; Graham compiled the index. Nanette B. Fancher and Wanda Uselton, administrative assistants, and Thomas A. Under¬ wood, research assistant, helped at important stages. The work was done in facilities made available by Vanderbilt University. Alexander Heard Michael Nelson INTRODUCTION 1 Change and Stability in Choosing Presidents ALEXANDER HEARD AND MICHAEL NELSON For two decades politically active Americans have been preoccupied with proposals to change the way they choose their presidents. Sub¬ stantial change actually has occurred. Actions taken by the parties radically modified the means of nominating candidates; offical actions by government spread the suffrage and altered campaign fund¬ ing; and informal campaign practices evolved, some quickly and others gradually. These essays address the significance of four recent and important trends in the presidential selection process and one continuing concern. 1. Changes have occurred in the world context in which American government is conducted. 2. The pools of volunteers who dominate American politics—voters, contributors, political activists, aspiring candidates, and office¬ holders—have been changing. 3. The structure and technologies of presidential campaigns also have been changing, as reflected recently in opinion sampling, campaign coordination and organization, and political finance. 4. Innovations in the mass media have always affected political pro¬ cesses, but never more so than recently. 5. The presidency can become vacant between elections under many different circumstances. There is much disagreement about these 2 Introduction possibilities and the potential consequences if any of them should arise. The concerns, analyses, and proposals that appear here reflect the important attention that scholars are giving to the way Americans choose their presidents. A New World Context American presidential selection usually is studied as part of the unique set of circumstances, historical conditions, and traditions that constitute the United States. Comparisons are drawn between the present and previous eras. Is the modern system of primaries and caucuses, for example, more or less democratic, more or less effec¬ tive, more or less legitimate, than when national party conventions dominated the nominating process? Assessments of the influence of party organizations, the mass media, interest groups, financial con¬ tributors, issues activists, and others ordinarily accept the tradi¬ tional contours of American politics as fixed. Similarly, when pro¬ posals are made to reform presidential selection, often through changes in the constitutionally prescribed structure of the govern¬ ment, the normal frame of reference is past practice in the United States. Our interest here is not to propose a new constitutional system. But we do wish to explore whether Americans can benefit from considering the effect of present selection procedures on American international relations, and also whether they can learn anything applicable to the United States from practices for choosing political leaders that are followed in other nations. The issues, interests, and ambitions that animate American presi¬ dential elections are primarily domestic, but the consequences are at least as important to the world as to the nation. On the great issues of war and peace, Ralf Dahrendorf observes in bis essay on "Presidential Selection and Continuity in Foreign Policy" that it is the president of the United States who is largely responsible for "whether the world lives in a climate of tension or of detente, of arms race or of disarmament talks." Similarly, Ernest May, in "Chang¬ ing International Stakes in Presidential Selection," suggests that much of the international economy is dependent on presidential policies Change and Stability 3 that, although vitally important to people outside the United States, are not controlled by them. Both Dahrendorf and May discover obstacles to the responsible exercise of American military and financial power in presidential selection practices. Dahrendorf finds a potent tension between the imperatives of becoming president and those of being president: "Candidates for president are chosen and elected primarily for domes¬ tic reasons, yet once elected their most consequential responsibili¬ ties are in the international field." Electoral pressures may move a candidate to endorse a protectionist trade policy or to attack international agreements that offend certain groups—even at the risk of alienating allies and making all nations question the reli¬ ability of the United States as an actor in world affairs. "During the early primaries in particular," writes May, candidates "are often put questions by zealots who want to test the degree of commitment to their particular cause." Democrats in 1984, for example, outdid each other in pledging their fealty to such policies as a proposed "nuclear freeze" and the transfer of the US. embassy in Israel from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem. "Such performances make many Americans nervous," May observes. "Understandably, they make foreigners even more so." Dahrendorf also regards the sheer volatility of presidential politics as unsettling in its international consequences. Because "the role of the presidency is supreme" in foreign policymaking, new presidents can bring rapid and dramatic changes in policy that are disturbing to others. Dahrendorf characterizes as "staggering" and "unbelievable" the dramatic swings in policy that have occurred in recent years. Control of the presidency has passed from Richard Nixon and his "cynical geopolitics" to Jimmy Carter's "moralism of a good part¬ ner," and then to Ronald Reagan's "new patriotism of a combination of missionary isolationism and crude power motives." Yet Dahrendorf and May, despite full sensitivity to the difficulties to which the presidential selection process contributes, each find it, on balance, to be healthy. Prudence is the quality that foreigners most desire in American presidents, according to May, and prudence is what American voters have given them. "Most of the time, the nominating process [has] winnowed out just about everyone whose approach was not careful, prudent, and risk-minimizing," he argues. "In instances in any way exceptional, the voters nearly always chose 4 Introduction the more prudent-seeming candidate when the general election came around." Especially in the nuclear age, adds Dahrendorf, this desire for prudence has bound Americans and foreigners together, forging "an ultimate and unbreakable link between domestic and interna¬ tional affairs." May, too, finds solace for the international community. "The Amer¬ ican public that cares about foreign publics is very large and diverse, and it has been growing," he argues. Ethnic loyalties have always moved many Americans to political action in behalf of their ances¬ tral homelands. But nowadays other influences are at work, and in a less sectarian way: the internationalization of American business, widespread foreign travel, and the broadening effects of higher education. Although Dahrendorf and May, in their pleas for an international perspective on American presidential selection, are concerned about the interests of foreigners in the relationship between the selection process and the world, an American stake pervades this relationship as well. Presidents deal with the leaders of other nations on a host of economic and security issues. To the extent that their prior careers prepare or fail to prepare them for this task, the national interest presumably will prosper or suffer accordingly. Richard Rose's study of the career backgrounds of post-World War II leaders, and contenders for leadership, in the United States, Great Britain, France, and West Germany, suggests a degree of pessimism. The title of his essay, "Learning to Govern or Learning to Gam- paign?," poses a question seemingly answered; in Western Europe the former, in the United States, the latter. Rose finds that of the fourteen people who have been nominated by the two major political parties as candidates for president of the United States since 1945, almost all have been experienced electoral politicians, but only three (Dwight Eisenhower, Adlai Stevenson, and Richard Nixon) could claim "significant prior knowledge" of national security issues. Still worse, no president in the postwar era has had any direct prior experience with economic policy, either in govern¬ ment or the private sector. In contrast. Rose shows that European prime ministers are much more likely to have spent time as minis¬ ters of foreign affairs, economic affairs, or both. Even if they have not, they typically have served in cabinets at whose meetings inter¬ national issues were discussed frequently. Change and Stability 5 The differences Rose uncovers, more than anything else, manifest more fundamental and important differences between the American system and the parliamentary systems of Western Europe. Almost every aspect of politics and government in Western Europe is more institutionalized than in the United States—distinct party identities as compared to diffuse ones, unitary national governments in con¬ trast to the three-hranch, three-tiered American federal system, a mass media more constrained by law and custom than in a First Amendment society, and more. Conspicuously, the highly patterned, structured leadership selection processes of European democracies contrast sharply to the fluid, comparatively free-form set of activi¬ ties by which American presidents are chosen. Because the American presidential selection process is both com¬ plex and loosely structured, particular elements in it are much more likely to affect the overall character of leadership selection than in European countries. Campaign finance regulations, media practices, polling, and other details of electoral campaigning normally are not very influential in shaping and channeling political conflict in West¬ ern Europe. Americans, however, are required to expend great effort considering such matters. Not only does the fluidity and complexity of the process make the details consequential, but so does the great latitude for unintended consequences that arises from that fluidity and complexity because of the number of interconnections between the many elements of the process. Volunteer Democracy: Voters and Candidates The periodic encounters of two sets of volunteers are the essence of American democratic elections: voters seeking leadership and candidates wanting to supply it. The formal and informal rules that govern those voluntary efforts are important aspects of the presiden¬ tial selection process that merit attention. To understand what kinds of people voluntarily seek office, and what kinds vote, is of great consequence. Voters—in particular, the laws and procedures that govern their participation in elections—are Gary Orren's concern in “The Link¬ age of Policy to Participation." Orren finds American voters distinc- 6 Introduction tive in some significant respects. In other democratic nations, citizens vote at a high rate. Moreover, nonvoters do not differ sub¬ stantially in their social characteristics from voters. In the United States, neither of these conditions obtains. Voter turnout in recent presidential elections typically has been 50 to 6o percent, and non¬ voters are disproportionately poor, nonwhite, and less educated. Orren argues that such an unrepresentative electorate poses an organic issue in a system that relies on the electoral process to foster legiti¬ macy, representation, and civic education. Even worse, the gap between the voting rates of high-status and low-status citizens has been widening in recent elections and nonvoting soon may become habitual for large numbers of people. For American voters, participation in elections is almost entirely voluntary. Would-be presidential candidates not only must decide to seek their party's nomination, but face the important additional challenge of attaining the label "serious." What kinds of candidates succeed? Michael Nelson approaches this question in "Who Vies for President?" in the manner of Sherlock Holmes solving a case: "Elim¬ inate the impossible and whatever is left, however improbable, is the answer." The Constitution bars some people from consideration on the basis of age, nationality at birth, and length of residency. Although the reasons for these constitutional provisions may be archaic, and their effects sometimes unsettling (Henry Kissinger, born in Ger¬ many, could not have served as president even if, as secretary of state, the line of succession had reached him), the main constraints on would-be candidates for president are in the hearts and minds of voters. Nelson shows that, historically, the electorate's operative list of qualifications for the presidency has removed from consideration women, nonwhites, non-Christians, and bachelors. It also has stipu¬ lated that candidates have recent, prominent governmental experi¬ ence if they are to be taken seriously, which in recent years has meant service as senator, governor, or vice president. But, Nelson indicates, other standards and prejudices that were important to vot¬ ers in earlier periods, such as Protestantism, have been altered or abandoned, and changes in the current list may be occurring as well. If Nelson's main concern is for the influence of the U.S. Constitu¬ tion and American culture on presidential candidates, John Aldrich's is for the varying rules and procedures that the Democratic and Change and Stability 7 Republican parties have used to stucture nominations for president. In "Methods and Actors: The Relationship of Processes to Candi¬ dates," Aldrich asks whether changes in party rules that have occurred during four historical eras since 1872 (the most recent beginning after the 1968 election) have altered the kinds of candidates selected by the parties and, later, by the voters. In important respects, having mainly to do with the personal and political backgrounds of candi¬ dates, changes in rules apparently have made little difference. On the other hand, rule changes, especially more recent ones, have affected the kinds of campaigns candidates must wage to be successful, and therefore the political skills required of them. For example, "the need for public support induces a bias in the system that favors those who can best use the technology of public campaigning and who can invest the most and longest effort in campaigning." Modern Campaign Elites The number and representativeness of the voters who take part in selecting a country's leadership, and the quality of the candidates who are chosen, are important but not exclusive measures of the process. Also significant is how particular aspects of it shape politi¬ cal conflict in the larger system, affect the political agenda, and magnify or diminish the influence of various participants. Three essays give attention to, respectively, the actions of pollsters, party politicians, and interest groups as intermediaries between voters and candidates. Again, the comparison with Western European democra¬ cies is instructive. The British political scientist Dennis Kavanagh has observed that "in recent years candidate and issue factors have become much more important than political parties in deciding elec¬ tions in the United States. We talk in Western Europe about a vola¬ tile electorate, but it is on a much smaller scale than has occurred in the United States. . . . [ 0 ]ne reason for this change in the United States is called the 'new politics'. . . . the mass media, advertising, opinion polls, public relations." James Beniger and Robert Giuffra treat political pollsters as a new campaign elite in their essay, "Public Opinion Polling: Command and Control in Presidential Campaigns." The growing importance of polls in American politics is demonstrated, they show, by the fact that presidential candidates in recent elections have employed five 8 Introduction different kinds of polls—benchmark, follow-up, panel, tracking, and focus—at nine different stages of the campaign—from deciding to run to monitoring daily fluctuations in opinion during the weeks before election day. The influence of pollsters has risen sharply: can¬ didates use their interpretations of public opinion to help mold both the style and substance of campaigns. Inevitably, successful presi¬ dential candidates now maintain a close relationship with their poll¬ sters while in office. Part of the pollsters' appeal is the aura of certainty that surrounds their analyses. "Unlike the typical presidential adviser," Beniger and Giuffra write, "the pollster has the added advantage of being able to support his advice with seemingly objective quantitative data." The effects on governance may be profound. As presidents try to cater to public opinion, they may neglect their responsibility to lead by shap¬ ing public opinion with independent policies. Ironically, such a strat¬ egy may contain the seeds of its own failure. Beniger and Giuffra portray Jimmy Carter as a president whom the public regarded as vacillating because he "continually shifted positions in response to changes in Patrick Caddell's polls." In contrast, Ronald Reagan's success can be explained largely by his persistence in offering an unchanging set of appeals. To the extent that modern polling has made candidates more self- reliant and their pollsters more important in the presidential selec¬ tion process, traditional party politicians are correspondingly weaker. The role of parties in presidential campaigns also has been dimin¬ ished, Herb Asher argues in "The Three Campaigns for President," by campaign finance legislation enacted by Congress during the 1970s. Such legislation "created a situation in which three possible campaigns could be conducted simultaneously for the presidency — the candidate-dominated campaign, the party-directed effort, and a set of activities sponsored by concerned citizens and organizations independent of the candidate and party." But even this listing overrepresents the parties' influence because the candidate-centered campaign heavily influences the other two. A system that elevates the influence of candidates distorts governance and weakens the par¬ ties, Asher argues: the main concern of the candidate-centered effort with its many campaign specialists is for the short-term objective of winning and not the long-term goal of governing. Xandra Kayden observes in "Regulating Campaign Finances: Con- Change and Stability 9 sequences for Interests and Institutions" that the balance of power among interest groups in society has been affected by the recent campaign finance laws, not just the relative importance of candi¬ dates and parties. Public financing and effective restrictions on the size of campaign contributions, for example, have reduced the influence of big business in presidential campaigns while increasing that of organizations whose members are aroused by controversial moral issues. Disagreeing with some other authors in this volume, Kayden argues that the national party organizations have been strengthened in recent years by campaign finance legislation because of the unique services they can provide presidential candidates in a highly regulated system. She also sees a measure of stability and continuity developing in the campaign process in the form of profes¬ sional campaign consulting organizations. Such disagreement among the experts is not surprising. Clearly, new campaign rules and technologies, and the new or altered cam¬ paign elites they have produced, have transformed the presidential selection process profoundly. But the precise delineation and assess¬ ment of this transformation are not likely until time allows a longer and better informed perspective. Changing Communications The mass media, like pollsters, party politicians, and interest groups, are important in modern presidential election campaigns. Indeed, so pervasive have the media become in presidential selection that both political practitioners and political analysts have found it difficult to delineate the functions, importance, and proper place of media poli¬ tics. The chapters by fames David Barber, "Presidential Politics and the Myth of Conciliation: The Case of 1980," and Thomas Patterson, "Television and Presidential Politics," are two efforts to understand some of these issues. Barber's essay extends to the 1980 election the theory of the mass media and presidential politics that he first propounded in his 1980 book. The Pulse of Politics. The theory holds that the rise of various forms of national media in the twentieth century, notably newspa¬ pers, magazines, radio, and television, has caused presidential elec¬ tions to be dominated by the theme of "conflict" in one election, "conscience" in the next, and "conciliation" in the next, in an ever- 10 Introduction recurring cycle. In 1980 the pulsebeat produced a conciliating elec¬ tion, one in which "the public appetite [is] for solace and ease, unity and friendship." In harmony with this mood. Barber argues, candi¬ date Reagan offered voters a vision of America that was more myth than reality. The mass media, far from bringing him to terms on substantive matters, contributed to this "drift to fiction." Barber's concern for mass public mood swings in presidential elec¬ tions is not surprising, given the fluid, loosely structured American political system. Neither is the importance he logically attaches to the detailed activities of a campaign elite that in European settings is minor, the media. Patterson, like Barber, is concerned mainly with how well the voters are served by presidential elections campaigns,- like Barber, he regards the nexus between candidates and the media as crucial for this concern. Given the weakness of American political parties, the needs of the electorate in presidential elections can be met, Patterson argues, only if candidates can get their messages across on television and broadcasters can supplement those messages with objective report¬ ing based on facts and opinions independently obtained. Assessing recent research on television's coverage of presidential campaigns, Patterson concludes that broadcasters can perform their function adequately through news programs. But, by granting insufficient access, those same broadcasters have obstructed candidates' efforts to get their own appeals out. Voters are left puzzled about what the issues of the election really are. Special Succession to the Presidency The Constitution figures remotely in most scholarly treatments of presidential selection. The electoral college, whose methods of func¬ tioning are spelled out in Article 2 and the Twelfth Amendment, is now regarded not as a decisionmaking body but as a mirror or magnifier of the popular vote. The two-term limit on presidential tenure imposed by the Twenty-second Amendment is of obvious importance, but only when an incumbent president is sufficiently popular, vigorous, and ambitious to desire a third term. The essays of this volume have directed attention to the compara¬ tively free-form character of American politics. But the rules and procedures ordained in the Constitution are worth a closer look. In Change and Stability 11 fact, the Constitution shapes the selection process in a variety of subtle as well as obvious ways. Although, for example, the electoral college does not elect the president in the way the framers intended, its requirement that a candidate must receive a majority of the elec¬ toral votes to win has contributed to the creation and endurance of a two-party system. Its allocation of votes to states has ensured that when third parties are formed, those that are regionally based will fare better than those whose support is thinly spread across the nation. And its encouragement of bloc voting by states heightens the importance of the large, competitive states. Most important, per¬ haps, the electoral college's status separate from Congress allows presidents to claim an independent national mandate. If, in ordinary times, the influence of the Constitution on the manner of presidential selection is subtle, its influence in extraordi¬ nary circumstances is direct and controlling. Indeed, the Constitu¬ tion anticipates and provides for as many as a dozen contingencies that would require "unusual" presidential selection, that is, selec¬ tion by a method other than the normal one in which presidents gain office by winning a majority of the electoral votes. Articles I and II and amendments Twelve, Twenty, and Twenty-five, taken together, not only anticipate the possibility that no president will receive an electoral vote majority, but also provide for presidential selection in the event of the president's—and in some cases the president-elect's —death, resignation, conviction for impeachment, or disability. The Twenty-fifth Amendment also provides against the possibility that the vice presidency, whose incumbent is successor to the presidency in all constitutional cases of unusual selection, is unoccupied in time of crisis. In "Presidential Selection and Succession in Special Situations," Allan Sindler examines several provisions of law and Constitution that pertain to unusual selection. Sorting out the underlying issues, he finds widespread agreement with the longstanding belief that presidential vacancies should be filled by succession rather than special election, preferably succession by the vice president. Sindler applies two criteria to existing and proposed succession arrange¬ ments: first, do they assure that the presidency will be occupied by a member of the departed president's party?; and second, do they assure that potential successors will be people selected for their present offices by the departed president? 12 Introduction The American Way When Europeans discuss electoral reform, they usually concentrate on basic questions. They ask, for example, whether proportional representation or a system of single-member districts with a winner- take-all rule is best. Only such basic possibilities really affect politi¬ cal activity in the highly institutionalized European democracies. In the relatively free-form American political system, proposals to change the manner of selection usually—and appropriately—are at the level of minor detail. Unlike in Europe, political reformers in the United States do not often feel the need to resort to massive institu¬ tional change to cope with the ills they diagnose. The proposed reforms in these essays were not designed as an integrated set of recommendations. Yet they share in common the quality of “institutional tinkering." Thomas Patterson, for example, offers a detailed proposal to set aside network television time during the four weeks prior to a presidential election for a series of evening broadcasts in which the candidates could speak directly to the vot¬ ers; journalists could question the candidates; and the candidates could debate each other. Such a proposal, Patterson argues, “asks neither candidates nor broadcasters to compromise their respective advocacy and scrutiny functions. Instead, it combines those func¬ tions in a complementary way that would enable candidates to pre¬ sent their agendas and broadcasters to assess them." Richard Rose makes a detailed proposal for reform in his essay. Rose, whose ideal nominating process would “balance considera¬ tions of intraparty ideological preferences, electoral appeal, and effec¬ tiveness in office," suggests that a national presidential primary be held by each party with convention delegates awarded to candidates in proportion to their share of the vote. Ordinarily, Rose predicts, no candidate would win a majority of delegates in the primary, which would restore the convention's role as the true forum for presidential nominations—a much desired outcome, in his opinion. Although Herb Asher and lohn Aldrich make no specific proposals, their indi¬ vidually expressed preference for enhanced party control of the nom¬ inating process is in accord with Rose's. Gary Orren and Allan Sindler share an ambivalence about the magnitude of electoral reform they desire. Orren would prefer to see voter registration made compulsory, in frank acknowledgment that voting, like taxpaying, is a duty and should be treated as such. Real- Change and Stability 13 izing that such a view would run counter to American individualist values, however, Orren instead endorses a variety of proposals to make registration easier and more convenient for potential voters. Sindler, whose preference would be for constitutional amendments that would, for example, eliminate the "faithless elector" problem from presidential elections, nonetheless emphasizes reforms that could be accomplished by the less elaborate process of simple legislation: reconfigure the line of succession to assure that partisan control of the presidency could not change if the office became vacant, and make clear that if the presidential election winner were to die before the electoral college formally cast its vote, the victorious vice presidential candidate would be elected instead. Even these authors' bolder proposals would not fundamentally alter the existing system. Other contributors make specific suggestions for reform, but only after expressing a broad satisfaction with the current presidential selection process. Michael Nelson applauds recent developments in the mass media and in campaign finance laws that have made it easier for persons who have built successful careers in the private sector to enter electoral politics at a high level, thereby broadening the talent pool from which presidential candidates are drawn. Xandra Kayden also commends the campaign finance laws for, in her view, strengthening the political party organizations. In addition. Nelson concludes that the recent democratization of the nominating pro¬ cess "has contributed to the breakdown of arbitrary barriers [to the presidency] such as religion and age, and seems likely to have this effect on racial and sexual barriers." Condemning remaining barriers to talent, he suggests that the Constitution's two-term limit and its requirement that presidents be natural-born citizens should be repealed. Finally, from his international perspective, Ernest May judges that, on balance, the American presidential selection process works well. He finds wisdom in the proposal of only minor reforms, those whose purpose would be to lead presidential candidates to inform them¬ selves better about international issues. Dahrendorf also eschews advocating substantial alteration of the process, not only because he thinks "American institutions have worked quite well," but also because the uncertainty of reform makes it impossible "to see how any other process can guarantee the emergence of different persons 14 Introduction [as president], let alone a different political stance by those who emerge." The recommendations of these thirteen independent political ana¬ lysts for improving the presidential selection process expose two general conclusions. The process is far from perfect; it needs adventi¬ tious improvement, not radical change. PART I Presidential Selection in World Context 2 Presidential Selection and Continuity in Foreign Policy RALF DAHRENDORF Three arguments are explored in this chapter. The first is that for¬ eign pohcy requires a greater degree of continuity than domestic policy in order to be effective. This has not always been fully recog¬ nized in the United States. The second argument is that the American tradition in international affairs recently has been transformed by changing international circumstances. After a period of pax Ameri¬ cana, the world order has become one of fragmentation and uncer¬ tainty, a circumstance that both increases and dissipates American power. Third, among U.S. foreign policvunakers, the presidency has a supremely strong position. But in view of the electoral and the decisionmaking process, this strength serves to aggravate the weak¬ nesses of American foreign policy. Continuity in Foreign Policy Continuity, consensus, and nonpartisanship are popular notions, even though they are at variance with the assumptions of the demo¬ cratic process. Most people like unity, but our constitutions know better, given our divergent interests and changing aspirations. Par¬ ties, competition, diversity—and as a consequence discontinuity and change—are the lifeblood of liberty. Such continuity as exists is based on agreement on the rules of the game; it is provided by the constitutional framework within which the democratic process takes 16 Presidential Selection in World Context place. Discontinuity is contained by the due process of politics. But foreign policy differs from most domestic policies. In the con¬ duct of foreign policy significantly more continuity is necessary. The reason is simple: if foreign policy is to be more than an empty set of announcements, it must become an effective pattern of action. In order to be effective, it has to be credible; in order to be credible, it has to be predictable; and in order to be predictable, it must be car¬ ried on with consistency over considerable periods of time. In a different context it would be intriguing to speculate why this should be so. Several possibilities come to mind. One is, as it were, the “nature of the beast." The foreign policy of a state is by definition an expression of its perceived interest as a total entity (its national interest), and not merely that of particular groups, sections, or classes. The directions of foreign policy must of necessity be determined by deeper currents of substance and style than can find expression in any single election. In practical terms this means that any demo¬ cratic government must combine, in its foreign policy, partisan inter¬ est with the desire to impress on others that it is acting on behalf of the country. Others must not be allowed to try to “sit out" a particu¬ lar government, hoping that the next one will soon undo what the present one is planning. If only for this reason, there is almost always a good case to be made for bipartisan foreign policy. The existence of “others"—other states, other actors—is impor¬ tant in another sense as well. The recipients of foreign policy do not always share the specific volatilities of the domestic electorate. They react more slowly and more gradually. When they notice new sig¬ nals, their initial reaction is often one of bewilderment, even anxi¬ ety. The international political system moves in longer waves than any domestic system. Acceptability abroad is certainly not the only criterion of success for foreign policy. In any case, a superpower can to some extent impose its will on allies and adversaries alike. But whatever the other criteria one employs to judge success, including the defense of national interest, they all lead back to the need for continuity, and the price of discontinuity. It would appear that the United States has paid this price on several occasions, and in several ways. Three examples may serve to advance the argument as well as illustrate it. Continuity in Foreign Policy 17 Narrow Interests and Wider Ramifications Sometimes foreign policy decisions are comprehensible in terms of immediate interest, but have ramifications that far outweigh such an interest. Two recent American examples are the sudden termination of U.S. participation in the final stages of the Law of the Seas confer¬ ence, and its withdrawal from the United Nations Organization for Education, Science and Culture (unesco). In both cases the U.S. position is at first glance quite comprehensi¬ ble. It is based on certain clear, if narrow, interests and convictions. In the case of the law of the seas, there was the desire of American firms to explore the sea bed in other parts of the world without impediments or restrictions. There was also the plausible political point that to set up a new international authority would not only be costly, but would prevent the effective operation of market forces. In the case of unesco it has been demonstrated that a disproportionate share of its budget is spent on central administration rather than on projects in the field. Moreover, the organization had ceased to pro¬ mote cultural freedom, and had become increasingly a politicized body in which resolutions were passed contrary to the interests of the United States. To such objections a more general suspicion sometimes was added: that the United States really did not need these international organi¬ zations and arrangements to achieve its own objectives. Develop¬ ments with regard to the laws of the seas will to some extent take place in any case, so it does not matter whether the treaty is signed and ratified. As for unesco, it appeared to some to be simply an expensive luxury. This, however, is where the conflict between narrow interests and wider ramifications comes into play. To act on the narrow rationality of the case, and on its apparent lack of importance, is to ignore certain wider, but predictable ramifications of these decisions. First, the obvious: if certain acts are not very important, why annoy oth¬ ers? It was clear to everyone concerned that many actors—countries, but also individuals, American and otherwise—had a stake in the Law of the Seas Conference and in unesco. Indeed, to create a cer¬ tain stir was one of the intentions of the negative U.S. decisions. But why should that be worth doing if the issue is of only modest importance? 18 Presidential Selection in World Context It is not difficult to see the political answer to such questions: there are domestic constituencies—protectionist, inward-looking, conservative—that are pleased by acts of international defiance. Does this matter? It is not too farfetched to claim that in the minds of the alert public all over the world, if not in the analyses of governments, American attitudes to the law of the seas or unesco are extrapolated into other international arenas. There is at least a lingering suspicion in many people's minds that a country that is cavalier in its approach to some international arrangements is per¬ haps not quite as serious as it claims when it comes to negotiating a reduction in arms, or anything else for that matter. However genuine U.S. protestations to the contrary may be, the impression persists. When this happens, the preference for immediate interests becomes an obstacle to substantive decisions of foreign policy. A minor dis¬ continuity stands in the way of major continuities. The Shocks of Change The most important single change in post-World War II American foreign policy may well have been the set of decisions announced on August 15, 1971. On that day. President Richard Nixon and Treasury Secretary John Connally suspended the convertibility of the dollar into gold and imposed a surtax on imports. These measures were accompanied by statements from the president and Secretary Con¬ nally which argued that the United States has the same right as any other country to put its own interests first. In view of the serious decline in international monetary reserves and the threats to its competitive position, the president argued, the United States' ability to guarantee its security was in jeopardy. The issue may sound tech¬ nical, but it meant that the United States was putting the postwar system of stable exchange rates guaranteed by the dollar, and of free trade guaranteed by American policy, on notice. The existing system had guaranteed the free world, and perhaps the rest of the world, that there was a reliable yardstick of economic progress. Currencies were pegged to the dollar (which in turn was tied to U.S. gold reserves) and trade followed reliable rules. Thus the shock of change was enor¬ mous. What Secretary Connally described as "fair" rather than "free trade" in fact meant a return to the economic war of all against all after two decades in which rules binding on all were upheld by Amer¬ ican power, and American responsibility. Continuity in Foreign Policy 19 Perhaps, the "Nixon shocks" (as they soon came to be called in Japan) were not even regarded by the administration as foreign policy decisions. Certainly, much of the preparatory work had been done in the Treasury Department. The then under secretary, Paul Volcker, had toured the world ceaselessly trying to persuade others to do something about the disequilibria of trade and money. Everyone knew that serious problems existed in the United States. Moreover, Volcker's attempts at civilized persuasion had largely failed, so that a certain impatience in Washington was understandable. But this is only part of the story. Here, we are concerned with three foreign policy implications of the August r 5 decisions, all of contin¬ uing relevance in the 1980s. First, the United States declared to the world that it no longer believed in the usefulness of the international system that it had been instrumental in building after World War II. Henceforth, the United States would prefer the foreign policy of states to the creation of mutually binding rules. Second, therefore, the United States preferred an international system that was governed by crude and often short-term interests to one in which such interests were subordinated to medium-term considerations of stability. Third, the United States demonstrated its intention to communicate with the rest of the world by fiat rather than by negotiation. It showed impatience with inconclusive processes of consultation, and a readi¬ ness to go it alone. Clearly, these are overstatements with regard both to American intentions and the effects of the measures of August 15, 1971. So far as intentions are concerned, the State Department clearly had not changed its internationalist approach. More important, there are indi¬ cations that the president himself was a bit shocked by the effects of his measures on the world outside. Ensuing negotiations soon led to the abolition of the surtax on imports, and when President Nixon hailed the agreement to continue international consultation on par¬ ity changes (the Smithsonian Agreement of December 1971) as "his¬ torical," he clearly hoped it would undo some of the damage from August. In fact, it did not. The international monetary system has never again been the same; as far as trade is concerned, America's partners will rightly remain on the alert. Thus, the events of August 15, 1971, had a lasting effect on the way the United States is regarded in the conduct of international affairs. An element of unpredictability now surrounds the world's perception of American foreign policy. It is widely felt that one never 20 Presidential Selection in World Context quite knows what may happen next. One element of this perception has to do with American skepticism toward international arrange¬ ments and institutions. The deeper questions concern the relation¬ ship between power and responsibility in the minds of those who are in charge of American foreign policy. The rest of the world, including America's allies, recognizes that it is going to be affected by Ameri¬ can decisions in which it is not going to be involved beforehand. But although the United States is by far the most powerful nation in the world and can force all others to live with the consequences of its actions, it cannot expect stable alliances to last while it is acting in a unilateral, narrowly national-interested manner. No doubt American decisionmakers recently have weighed all this: we are passing through a phase in which Soviet policy is geared at least in part to exploiting differences within the alliance, and also one in which the American budget deficit and its consequences make some sort of super-1971 all but inevitable in the near future. They obviously do not find the price too high—and who in Europe is to argue with them? But the point remains that if discontinuities in foreign policy take the form of shocks to the rest of the world, it becomes that much more difficult to build stable and predictable relationships. The Need for Consultation Other countries are not immune to the temptation to conduct their foreign policy by surprises rather than by evolution. But if smaller powers go their own way without consultation, they immediately feel the consequences. Great Britain's short-lived attempt to uncou¬ ple its economy from the world, and France's unilateral introduction in 1986 of visa requirements for citizens of most countries are two among many examples. One major change in foreign policy by a smaller power in the 1970s took a very different form, however: Germany's Ostpolitik, for which the "grand coalition" of 1966-69 laid the groundwork, and which was formally initiated after Willy Brandt's election as federal chancellor in 1969. In the immediate and narrow sense, Ostpolitik involved a new relationship between the Federal Republic of Germany, the German Democratic Republic, Poland, and the Soviet Union. The conclusion of treaties governing these relationships was therefore the proximate Continuity in Foreign Policy 21 objective of the new policy. But the ramifications of Ostpolitik were clearly wider. For one thing, the new approach to the East raised questions about Berlin, such as, were Berliners to benefit from the new travel possibilities opened up for other Germans? But any ques¬ tion touching on the status of Berlin directly involved the three Western powers, the United States, Britain, and France. Also, recog¬ nition of the German Democratic Republic represented a fundamen¬ tal change in a position that Germany had asked all its friends to uphold; it therefore had to be explained. Above all, it had to be demonstrated that the normalization of relations with the East would not detract from Germany's Western commitment. All this meant that the conclusion of the treaties was in many ways the simplest and most straightforward part of Ostpolitik. The difficult task was to explain the precise significance of the new pol¬ icy to friends, allies, and neutrals. An enormous amount of energy and considerable time was expended to do so. At times, the protago¬ nists of the new policy became impatient with this process. But Chancellor Brandt and Foreign Minister Scheel insisted on seeing it through. In retrospect, it can be said that if the Ostpolitik was effec¬ tive, it was above all because of this seemingly unending process of information, explanation, reasoning, and persuasion. The example may be exceptional for several reasons, but it is rele¬ vant to one of the evergreens in America's relations with the world, and notably with Europe, namely, consultation. In one sense, con¬ sultation is, and always has been, a red herring. When people say there has been a lack of consultation, they are merely describing a malaise, not explaining it or offering remedies. The imposition of a surtax on imports would not become palatable if American ambas¬ sadors chose to present the case in the capitals beforehand. Lack of consultation thus is not always what it seems to be. In particular, it is not remedied either by declaring a "Year of Europe," as Secretary of State Henry Kissinger did in 1975, or by setting up yet another joint committee or regular meeting. What is needed to cope with the issues that underlie complaints about lack of consultation is probably two things. The first is regular meetings between those responsible for decisions at all levels, that is, political leaders, parliamentary leaders, administrators, advisers, and communicators. It has sometimes been argued that the retreat of the East Coast foreign policy establishment and the rise of new 22 Presidential Selection in World Context elites from the South and the West has broken traditional ties across the Atlantic. There is also a certain political reluctance on the part of congressional leaders to be seen traveling abroad too frequently. Nevertheless, a number of unofficial arrangements exist that facili¬ tate informal meetings, and there is still a great deal of travel to and from the United States. The second, more important need is for foreign policymakers to go out and patiently explain changes in policy to everyone. In providing such explanations, even change will have to be placed in the context of continuity if it is to make sense to others. In other words, "expla¬ nation" must mean more than simply telling others that this is what is going to be done and here are the reasons why. Connections must be established with what was done in the past and what is being done in other areas. A new policy must be made plausible to an anxious constituency. At any rate, such is required if one wants to minimize the friction that otherwise would occur and produce a more sophisticated effectiveness than that of sheer power. The "Nixon shocks," the law of the sea, and Ostpolitik are not random examples, and others could be cited. For example, one day the saga of the Strategic Defense Initiative (sdi) will be written. From the initial "ultimatum" to allies to express their willingness to par¬ ticipate within two months, through the tortuous negotiations of agreements that are virtually devoid of substance, to an as yet unknown destination—this story will confirm the present argument. It is preferable, and to some extent necessary to observe considerable continuity in foreign policy. Tax or welfare reforms may become effective once they have passed all parliamentary and legal hurdles, whether they have been agreed to by large or small majorities, and whether they are reversals or mere adjustments of an existing regime. But foreign policy remains shrouded in uncertainty and surrounded by doubt if it is sprung on others by a new president, or by a president who has discovered a "new way forward." The Presidency and Foreign Policy To say that there is insufficient continuity in American foreign pol¬ icy is not to say that there is no continuity. Any history of the United States would emphasize certain consistent themes, notably those of isolation and intervention, withdrawal, and the attempt to impose Continuity in Foreign Policy 23 moral standards on others. The postwar decades saw the emergence of an international order guaranteed by the United States, a pax Americana. Even if some recent changes cast doubt on the continu¬ ity of this condition, American domination remains a fact, and with it the prevalence of American values. Consciously or not, then, the theme of geopolitics has been added to those of isolation and intervention. Such continuities form the background for any attempt to turn from perceptions of American policy and its setting to those who actually conduct it, from responsibility to those who are responsible. In this chapter, our concern is for the role of the president, the effects of the electoral process, and the relation between domestic pressures and international needs. The Role of the President In the making of foreign policy the role of the president is supreme. None of the constraints that operate on the presidency can be regarded as an effective buffer on an individual president's influence, so vacil¬ lations and idiosyncracies of policy are to be expected. American foreign policy is as sensitive to domestic and international pressures as the president is. More than any other field, foreign policy is presi¬ dential policy in the United States. The overstatement of this thesis is almost too obvious to require explication, but it is overstatement that can be substantially defended. Consider first the structure of the foreign policy process. There are, to be sure, several actors other than the president, and they are of evident, if limited importance. Constitutionally and by tradition, the Senate plays a major part in shaping and, more particularly, in checking foreign policy decisions. For many years now, individual senators have been among the most prominent policymakers in international affairs. Their names are associated with important foreign policy measures, and in some cases, with diplomatic assignments. Since Vietnam, there has been an increase in Senate power. Yet when all is said and done, the Senate is too big, too diffuse, and too distracted by other things, and is not in a constitutional position to initiate major foreign policy decisions. In addition to the Senate, there is what one might call the foreign policy constituency or, less politely, the foreign policy establish- 24 Presidential Selection in World Context ment. It used to consist of public-spirited, widely traveled members of the old Eastern families, mostly professionals and businessmen, who met regularly, were in and out of government, and always were at hand to advise, go on missions, or shape views. With a certain democratization of foreign policymaking in recent years, and a shift of power from the East to the South and West, this group also has changed. In the 1980s it is much less an identifiable establishment than it was in the 1950s and 1960S; it is more diffuse, both geograph¬ ically and by affiliation. The Council on Eoreign Relations no longer represents it fully, but neither does the Georgetown Center for Strate¬ gic and International Studies or the Heritage Foundation. The sepa¬ rateness of foreign affairs from most other policies elevates the influence of individuals and groups who rely more on thought and information than on constituency politics. But this influence has to be exercised through those who have power, mainly through the presidency. There are, of course, pressure groups that wish to advance their special interests through foreign policy. Farmers and the auto indus¬ try are two obvious examples of economic lobbies. Ethnic groups also play a large and increasing role. And, in response, the House of Representatives now appears to play a growing part in influencing foreign policy. Once again, though, it is important to note that influence is not power. In one sense the influence of the State Department on the foreign policy process is obvious. It also is clear that at times it has been a separate and identifiable actor in the policymaking process. Several secretaries of state, some quiet, others flamboyant, have rightly been identified with individual styles and directions in foreign policy. Yet there are major differences between the State Department and the foreign offices of many parliamentary democracies. One is that the State Department is not the main initiator of foreign policy. Another is that it does not serve as a systematic filter for foreign policy deci¬ sions that are made at the White House. Finally, the State Depart¬ ment cannot be relied upon to give continuity to foreign policy. There are subsidiary, yet important reasons for the limited role of the State Department; the absence of an independent electoral base for the secretary of state is one; the stunted opportunity structure of career diplomacy, with plum jobs both at home and abroad going to political appointees, is another. But the main reason is the supreme Continuity in Foreign Policy 25 position of the presidency, that is, of the president himself and his immediate advisers, notably in the National Security Council and its staff. Consider some of the cases discussed earlier. One is struck imme¬ diately by the overriding role of the president. The termination of American participation in the Law of the Seas Conference was announced by President Ronald Reagan immediately after his inaug¬ uration in 1981. The decision to pull out of unesco was made later, but also suddenly. Moreover, one suspects that in both cases, a domestic constituency was pleased, but the State Department was upset. This was certainly true on August 15, 1971. In all cases the president could have gone either way. There are no clear predictors in the system, nor are there institutional buffers to restrict the presi¬ dent's room for maneuver. As far as the international system is concerned, the president can, within a remarkably wide range of discretion, build or dismantle it. From any perspective, the changes in foreign policy from Nixon to Carter to Reagan were staggering. The greatest power in the world, within ten years, moved from the internationalism of cynical geo¬ politics through the moralism of the good partner to the new patriotism of a combination of missionary isolationism and crude power motives. In the defense field, then, it is no surprise that President Reagan explicitly dissociated himself from the policies of his predecessor. No president can predict entirely or bring about the ratification of important treaties, like salt ii. He may not be able to guarantee that certain weapons systems he regards as important for international as well as national reasons will be financed by Congress. But whether the United States operates from a position of conciliation and negoti¬ ation, or from one of strength, if not superiority, is to a large extent a matter for the president to decide. Thus it is in the hands of the American presidency whether the world lives in a climate of tension or detente, of arms race or disarmament talks. The president of the United States does not, of course, throw dice to determine what position to take. What he does—indeed what he can do—is influenced by the stance he took (successfully) during the election campaign and by his entire political posture. His position also has a great deal to do with the mood of the times, a vague but important notion that includes the prevailing mood of allies and 26 Presidential Selection in World Context adversaries alike. For example, in view of the exhaustion of earlier initiatives, the repeated succession problems in the Soviet Union, and a certain reversal of trends in public opinion in the free world, the early 1980s was not a very likely period to revive detente. But even so, there remains a considerable range of options to set the tone and initiate real developments that is available to the president at any one time. In sum, the supreme position of the presidency in foreign policy¬ making enhances the likelihood of frequent shifts and changes in policy. To be sure, it would be highly misleading to suggest that such vacillations are either random or total. There are constraints on American foreign policy that operate against the declared preferences of any president. President Carter's human rights approach to inter¬ national relations faltered on the exigencies of geopolitics even before the Iranian hostage crisis. President Reagan's second-term interest in arms control may well have been the result of pressures from home and abroad as much as his own preferences. But these constraints to a very large extent exist outside the institutions and processes of American politics. They are not the result of checks, balances, buffers, or strains toward continuity within the system. Selection and Election of the President At least some of the constraints that operate on the presidency in foreign policy are, of course, domestic. The president's general politi¬ cal posture as well as the more specific line he took during his election campaign already have been mentioned. In this connection another institutional thesis warrants discussion: the selection and election of presidents. Candidates for president are chosen and elected primarily for domestic reasons, yet once elected their most conse¬ quential responsibilities are in the international field. In these cir¬ cumstances American presidents are more likely than the leaders of parliamentary democracies to feel constrained by domestic pressures. They must pay a considerable political price for becoming interna¬ tionalists. Some are prepared to pay this price, at least in their sec¬ ond term. Once again the overstatement of the thesis is obvious. Some presidential campaigns in recent American history have been over¬ shadowed by international issues. Televised debates between the Continuity in Foreign Policy 27 candidates invariably have included foreign policy matters. Many recent candidates of both parties have publicized the recognition they have received in other countries. They have traveled, had their photographs taken with world leaders, even used their personal stand¬ ing to do what governments had failed to do, as when the Reverend Jesse Jackson persuaded President Assad of Syria to free an American prisoner. On the other hand, some parliamentary democracies have elected leaders who were quite untried in international affairs. Prime Minister Thatcher of Britain and Chancellor Kohl of Germany pro¬ vide the most striking recent examples. Above all, some apparently well-trained and well-tried leaders have turned out to be quite inept once elected, even as some rather unlikely men have found their way into the history books for their achievements in international affairs. When all this is said, it still remains that a presidential election system that is for all intents and purposes direct and popular, favors candidates who relate directly to the major concerns of the elector¬ ate. What has been described as the relative separateness of foreign policy is by implication a remoteness from most people's immediate concerns, at least most of the time. Thus, the Henry Cabot Lodges, Averell Harrimans, and Elliott Richardsons were always more unlikely candidates than the Johnsons, Carters, and Reagans. Even the combi¬ nation of domestic appeal and international flair that characterized John E Kennedy was very much the exception in American history. Correspondingly, apart from issues of war and peace, and perhaps the translation of ethnic and economic interests into international affairs, election campaigns tend to be dominated by domestic issues. Eco¬ nomic and social policy take precedence over foreign and even defense policy. In truth, things are not all that different elsewhere. All elections, whatever their international ramifications, are primarily about domes¬ tic issues. Yet the peculiarities of the American system are notewor¬ thy. First, there is the role of the president of the United States. If there is any truth to the argument of the preceding section, the presidency brings with it supreme power in U.S. foreign policy. In the present phase of world affairs, it is, moreover, power on behalf of the mightiest country of the world, power to build or destroy in military, economic, and political terms. Nothing in the presidential selection process prepares candidates for this power. Again, this would not be so problematic if there were institutional buffers and balances 28 Presidential Selection in World Context to guarantee continuity, or at any rate to complicate discontinuity. But there are not. Thus it is possible for a person who has been chosen for his ability to sell the electorate a certain style of leadership and certain domestic promises to move into the White House and find himself confronted with inescapable foreign policy decisions. He may even discover that although it takes time, energy, and frus¬ trating compromises with Congress and special-interest groups to implement domestic programs, foreign policy decisions can be made immediately. Either way, the disjunction between domestic pressures and international needs is evident. In this regard a glance at electoral behavior is relevant. In 1983 and 1984 several democratic leaders were reelected, notably Kohl, Thatcher, and Reagan. But even their reelections were partly nega¬ tive decisions. Many voters seemed to have turned against the leader of the opposition; incumbents benefited from weak opponents. More generally, much voting seems to have become negative. What used to be the advantage of office has almost become an electoral disability. In part this is because of the increasing volatility of the electorate. Many traditional allegiances have become loose and situational. In part it is traceable to changes in the socioeconomic climate. Who¬ ever is in power is likely to find it much more difficult to govern now than at a time of continuous economic growth. More people are worse off, or otherwise disgruntled, at the end of almost anyone's tenure of office than at the beginning. The result is frequent changes of government. Reagan to the contrary, this includes the presidency of the United States. In the light of the dangers of discontinuity, such changes are clearly a serious matter. They inevitably mean that whoever defeats an incumbent does so on the strength of being different. As a result, the temptation for new incumbents to pursue a discontinuous foreign policy becomes even greater than it is already. Thus, the new volatil¬ ity and the new negativism of the electorate serve to strengthen traditional American volatilities and reduce the effectiveness of for¬ eign policy. One other mismatch between domestic and international require¬ ments needs to be mentioned. Almost invariably, domestic political pressures operate against involvement and for withdrawal and pro¬ tection. This is a fortiori the case in a climate in which employers, unions, farmers, and sometimes even traders and consumers have Continuity in Foreign Policy 29 reason to fear for their economic position. Institutionally, it is no more difficult for the American president to stand up to such pres¬ sures than it is for the leaders of parliamentary democracies. But politically, such resistance is rather less likely. By selection and elec¬ tion, the president is above all trained to listen to domestic signals. International signals are clearly secondary, and even if perceived they will be more readily discarded. In addition, the president is more exposed than the leaders of parliamentary democracies. His supreme power in foreign affairs also makes him the obvious target of public criticism if his international actions cut across lines of vested inter¬ est. This in turn means that the president can only indulge in the separation of foreign from domestic policy to a limited extent. He has to think of trade-offs between domestic and international actions, which is likely to lead him to an anti-internationalist rather than an internationalist position. Finally, issues of international involvement or withdrawal are, constitutionally, the most likely to require assent by other bodies; the president cannot afford to have his policies rejected by the Senate very often. All this makes for what may be called a strain toward protection in the American presidency. It emphasizes the unusual, not to say exceptional nature of presiden¬ tial internationalism. It would be wrong to conclude this argument without listing at least some of the countertrends. There is a strong case for arguing that the tendency to elevate domestic interests and concerns in the process of selecting and electing American presidents is mitigated by several significant circumstances. No one elected to the U.S. presi¬ dency today can fail to be aware that the fate of the earth is in his hands. Responsibility for nuclear war alone provides an ultimate and unbreakable link between domestic and international affairs. More¬ over, the government is organized in such a way that this responsibil¬ ity is never forgotten. The proximity of the National Security Coun¬ cil and the national security adviser as presidential instruments of foreign policy tells part of the story. There are other institutional safeguards. Whatever changes in personnel may take place in the departments of State and Defense when a new president is elected, there is also some continuity. More important, new incumbents soon recognize some of the constraints on action, whether they like them or not. Few postwar presidents can be described as great statesmen in 30 Presidential Selection in World Context international affairs. (There is not even agreement on who they are.) By almost any standard great mistakes have been made by those responsible for American foreign policy. But not only has there not been a disaster with worldwide ramifications, at no time has there been even the slightest reason for doubt that on the major issues of war and peace, liberty, and human welfare, the United States is a reliable and predictable world power. As for reforms, this essay offers none. Once or twice in the course of the preceding argument, possible institutional changes have been hinted. For example, continuity of policy and also the explaining of intended changes might be better served if the American foreign service were to become largely professional. A political foreign ser¬ vice may be a convenience for the president, but it is an incon¬ venience for the credibility and predictability of his policies. In the same context the relationship between the White House and the Senate, and the ways Congress organizes itself for foreign affairs, may be comprehensible to the initiated, but foreign policy also concerns others who are far away. If a presidential promise of aid is rejected by Congress, the foreign policy effect is, to say the least, unfortunate. One wonders whether there are more readily comprehensible proce¬ dures than those presently in operation. However, when it comes to the central issue of this book, the presidency, institutional changes will not remedy practical deficien¬ cies. The United States should not, for example, abandon the system of presidential democracy and embrace that of parliamentary democ¬ racy. Nor should there be a foreign affairs test for presidential candi¬ dates or the establishment of yet another senior post in the foreign affairs field, or any other constitutional or institutional change in the presidency. This conclusion will disappoint some, but there are good reasons for it. Most proposals for change are spurious, which is reason for a degree of ironic reticence. More important, however, there is no per¬ fect institutional arrangement. By and large, and despite the doubts voiced explicitly or by implication in this analysis, American insti¬ tutions have worked well. One may criticize the stances American presidents have taken in international affairs, or, more generally, the kinds of people brought forth by the process of presidential selection and election. But no other process could guarantee the choice of different persons, let alone different political stances among those chosen. Continuity in Foreign Policy 31 What matters is something less complex, but in the end more effective. It is a lively public debate of international issues that is based on critical analyses of past behavior and a sense of present and future needs. It is, in other words, a development of the climate of informed opinion. If the present essay has made a small contribution to the shaping of such a climate, it has fulfilled even its "institu¬ tional" ambitions. 3 Changing International Stakes in Presidential Selection ERNEST R. MAY American presidents are chosen by American citizens. Whether del¬ egates to conventions, voters in primaries, or voters in the general elections, everyone with a formal role in the selection process has to be a citizen. Section 44ie of Title 2 of the U.S. Code makes it a crime for any foreign national to give money to a candidate, or for an Ameri¬ can even to ask for a foreigner's money. Yet many people not eligible to take part in presidential selection have a stake in the outcome. They do not necessarily accept all the pretensions of American presidents or presidential candidates. In 1980, for example, the London Economist commented, "President Johnson used to refer to himself as 'leader of the free world.' Presi¬ dent Carter seemed to imagine himself such after Afghanistan. Everyone promptly made clear that he was nothing of the sort."^ But many people in other countries care about the choice of American presidents. Some feel that presidential actions may affect their liveli¬ hoods, perhaps even their very survival. Others simply make Ameri¬ can presidents their totems—the world's equivalent of the British Commonwealth's queen. Press coverage is indicative. In Great Britain highbrow newspapers and magazines (such as The Economist] say almost as much about American as about British politics. Back in 1952, when the post¬ war world was beginning to take shape, the London Spectator commented on how the American rhythm has become the world's changing International Stakes 33 rhythm. While Americans went through the rituals of nomination, election, and postelection transition, said the Spectator, people everywhere else had a "sense of vacuum."^ The closeness of the British watch on American elections is reflected in the Social Sci¬ ence Index, an annual guide to periodical literature in the social sciences published in English. For 1976 it listed 106 articles dealing with that year's presidential election. Of these, eighty-two had ap¬ peared in British journals. That figure probably says more about the criteria of the Index than about the proportion between British and Americans writing on the subject. Still, in absolute terms, eighty- two is a large number. The attention given to American presidential politics elsewhere in the developed world is illustrated by an issue of Der Spiegel report¬ ing on the 1980 U.S. election. A Hamburg weekly that resembles both Time and the New Republic, Der Spiegel is both antimilitar¬ istic and chauvinistically German. It is anything but pro-American. Nevertheless, of sixty-six pages on politics and world affairs in its issue for November 10, 1980, twenty-two—exactly one-third—dealt with the United States. And the editors seemed to assume that their readers had a good deal of background knowledge about the subject. The lead story, for example, told of a conference at the German Foreign Ministry being interrupted so that the permanent under sec¬ retary could receive a bulletin on returns from Dixville Notch, New Hampshire, a hamlet long regarded as an election day bellwether. Other stories quoting the chancellor, members of the Bundestag, and figures in the West German business world contained unexplained references to past American elections, to public opinion polls, to people who had unsuccessfully sought nomination, to the electoral college, and to other matters that an American teaching an introduc¬ tory American government course would not necessarily take for granted as known by American college freshmen. And this was in a year when, in the view of the New York Times’s Flora Lewis, Euro¬ pean interest in the American presidential election was less than usual.'^ In 1984 a New York Times poll taken by telephone in Western Europe found respondents just about as well informed as Americans on the candidates and issues. The majority had clear preferences, with West Germans divided evenly between Ronald Reagan and Wal¬ ter Mondale but the French three-to-two for Reagan.'* From the very beginning of the campaign, when Mondale, Gary Hart, and other 34 Presidential Selection in World Context Democrats were vying for votes in the Iowa caucuses, mass circula¬ tion dailies such as Le Matin of Paris and the Stuttgarter Zeitung had correspondents on hand. Japanese newspapers had no fewer than twenty.^ Neither is extensive press coverage of American presidential cam¬ paigns confined to developed countries. In i960 James Markham surveyed major metropolitan dailies in South American capitals. During that year of the Nixon-Kennedy contest, with, of course, debates about policy toward Cuba and economic aid for the hemi¬ sphere prominent in the campaign, he found dailies in Bogota, Caracas, Sao Paulo, Montevideo, Buenos Aires, Santiago, and Lima giving U.S. affairs an average of fifty column inches (one-half to three-quarters of a page) every day. In the United States, by contrast —in spite of Fidel Castro—comparable dailies give Latin America an average of two-and-a-half inches a day (about as much as a stan¬ dard obituary).^ A study prepared for the U.S. Information Agency in 1976 reported almost comparable levels of attention to American politics during that election year in newspapers of the Middle East, North Africa, and South Asia.^ In 1984, just for the fun of it. Wall Street Journal correspondents asked taxi drivers in foreign cities their opinions on the American election. While a few drew blanks, the majority heard responses—and supporting arguments—not much different from those to be heard between LaGuardia and Manhattan or lax and Beverly Hills. In Canton, in the People's Republic of China, for exam¬ ple, a female cab driver said she favored Mondale because his run¬ ning mate was Geraldine Ferraro. She thought their victory would promote women's liberation everywhere.® What better evidence that, at least in symbolism, America's elections are the world's elections? To this evidence, one can react in at least four different ways. The first is to say "So what?" Foreigners can watch all they please. They are free to root from the sidelines. But the choice of presidents is properly the business only of Americans. Second, one can concede that noncitizens may have legitimate reasons for feeling that they have a stake in presidential selection but argue that the process already takes their interests adequately into account. A third possi¬ bility is to say that foreigners have a genuine stake, that the current process does not give them sufficient voice, but that the process ought not or cannot be altered to accommodate them. The costs Changing International Stakes 35 would outweigh the benefits. A fourth possibility is that the process should and can be altered, at least marginally. I lean toward this last view but can best explain why by first reviewing each of the alternatives. America for Americans? "So what?" is not an unreasonable response. Politics almost always spills over national boundaries. Greeks cared a lot about palace rival¬ ries in Persia. Those in one Greek city cared about election out¬ comes in another. So it has been throughout time. Even when Amer¬ icans seemed most safely isolated from the rest of the world, they were affected by and concerned about politics elsewhere. Southern¬ ers like John G. Calhoun were as much alarmed by the antislavery movement in Britain as by that at home, perhaps more so, for they had less leverage against British critics, and those critics were not so easily dismissed as irresponsible fanatics. Though the influence is clearer in retrospect than it was at the time, political and economic life in the United States was greatly affected by the turns in British politics that resulted in the Reform bills and the repeal of the Corn Laws. The economic historian Peter Temin argues persuasively that ups and downs in the American economy were due more to changes in British policy than to the war between Andrew Jackson and the Bank of the United States; it follows that the electoral fortunes of Jackson and his political heirs were correspondingly affected by what British voters did in their elections.^ Nor was the dependent relationship entirely a matter of specifics or entirely American-British. Issues were borrowed. So were styles. It is not easy to explain why the United States acquired colonies and had imperialism as a central campaign issue in 1900 without taking into account British "liberal imperialists" and others across the Atlantic from whom American politicians borrowed concepts and slogans. Nor is it easy to explain the preoccupation of Americans during the Progressive Era with procedural reforms except by refer¬ ring to seminal books such as Woodrow Wilson's Congressional Gov¬ ernment, which contrasted American procedures with British, much to the favor of the latter. American presidential politics has often been affected by foreign politics. Washington's Farewell Address warned against too close a 36 Presidential Selection in World Context mixing of the two. In different ways, the Federalist Alien and Sedi¬ tion Acts and Jefferson's isolationism aimed to keep American poli¬ tics American. The futility of such efforts became apparent after the late 1840s, when tides of immigrants made as much American as British the question of Ireland's future and about as much American as German such subjects as German unity and the place of the Catholic Church in German-speaking Europe. (Anyone who thinks today that candidates in presidential primaries go too far in testifying devotion to Israel should glance back at what presidential hopefuls felt obliged to say about Ireland in the nineteenth century.) From the colonial era down to the present, politics in other countries has influenced American presidential campaigns. Similarly, American politics has nearly always affected politics elsewhere. Attitudes toward the United States (or at least an imagined United States) have defined some British and European political fac¬ tions from the time of the American Revolution onward.^* In 1844 some people in Britain and Europe feared that the election of James K. Polk would mean conflict between the United States and Britain and, as a possible result, disintegration of the balance of power that protected the general peace. In 1852 and again in 1856 many abroad thought that if an American election went one way instead of another, it might bring in American involvement and encouragement of lib¬ eral nationalism in Europe, or American participation in the Cri¬ mean War, with either development having far-reaching effects. In i860, oddly, foreign commentators generally downplayed the signifi¬ cance of the four-way race principally involving Stephen A. Douglas and Abraham Lincoln. Most people abroad saw the slavery issue as domestic and likely to be patched up, as in earlier campaigns. Sub¬ sequently, they were seldom to underestimate how Europe might be affected by choices among American voters. Bismarck thought for a time that the elections of 1868 or 1872 might result in Germany having an overseas ally against Britain. In 1896 foreign apprehension about William Jennings Bryan, the advocate of free coinage of silver, matched that of conversant Americans.And so it was in quad- rennium after quadrennium. Since elections or political debates elsewhere have often affected American presidential contests, and people elsewhere have almost always seen the American choice of a president as significant for them, what, if anything, distinguishes the present from the past? Is Changing International Stakes 37 there anything different about the United States, and the present day, to differentiate foreigners' concerns about American presidential races from Americans' concerns about an election in the Federal Republic of Germany or in Japan or Israel, or from foreigners' concerns in 1896 or 1936? The answer clearly is "yes." The United States is so uniquely a world power, and is now so different from what it was even fifty years ago, that the interest of foreigners in current American elections cannot suitably be compared either with their interest earlier or with the interest of Americans in foreign politics today. In the first place, the size of the United States is not comparable to any other country, including the Soviet Union. In land space occu¬ pied and total population, the United States does have rivals. But in gross product, actual output of goods, resources, and money, numbers of educated or skilled people, laboratories, libraries, museums, and almost every other item measurable, the United States has no peer. Apart from land area and gross population, the Soviet Union comes close in only two categories—ready military strength and top-grade athletes. In economic and cultural life, the runners-up to the United States—and they far behind, at least quantitatively—are West Ger¬ many, Japan, France, and Britain. The Soviet Union is a minor lea¬ guer, struggling to stay ahead of South Korea and Taiwan. For people everywhere, whether in the developed West (including Japan), in the socialist world (including mainland China), or in the Third World, the United States is the metropolis. It is also, in Lady Barbara Ward Jackson's memorable phrase, the elephant in the bathtub. It may be, she said, a very kindly elephant. Nevertheless, it can cause others no end of discomfort when it takes it into its head to move.^"^ Second, only partly as a function of size, the United States has a capacity for independent action that, while not unmatched, is rare and has counterparts in few countries with significant resources. In this respect the Soviet Union is comparable. Although members of the Soviet Politburo have to think about possible reactions in satellite and other foreign capitals, they still can decide to do almost any¬ thing within their national capabilities. They can stage military invasions, try to subvert other governments, cut economic or other relationships, or drastically reallocate their own resources. They alone share with presidents of the United States the ability to order destruc¬ tion of much of the planet. The governments of most other powers 38 Presidential Selection in World Context do not have such latitude. As a practical matter, most other govern¬ ments cannot even move military forces over any distance without at least acquiescence from the United States. This is equally true for France aiding the Saudis at Mecca or supporting Chad against Libya, for Israel acting at Entebbe, and for Britain retaking the Falklands. Some can cross neighboring frontiers—China those of Vietnam or Iraq those of Iran—but, even then they are aware that the extent of action could be limited if the United States (or the Soviet Union) chose to interfere. Few nations have latitude for independent economic action com¬ parable to that of the United States. To say that is not to imply that other governments must do as Washington bids. Far from it, as Japan's economic policies prove daily. But the boundaries of possible action are narrower for other nations than for the United States, because American interest rates, American terms of trade, the supply of dol¬ lars, and constraints on transportation and communications set by American law and policy are critical determinants beyond the con¬ trol of people outside the United States (perhaps also beyond the control of Americans themselves). Neither is it quite to say that most seemingly independent nations are in actuality dependencies of the United States, although some surely are. To those nations that live by producing and selling raw materials, American trade policy and business conditions are governing forces. Citizens of those coun¬ tries or aliens resident within them who are supposed to have knowl¬ edge about or influence in the United States become by that very fact part of a ruling elite. Theorists who write of dependencia can point to real examples, but unqualified examples are rare. More typical is a nation not wholly of dependent status but rather lacking complete independence. The Federal Republic of Germany, to take a great power as an example, can choose among a wide range of policies. In the¬ ory, its government could decide tomorrow to leave nato, to pursue neutralism, to seek negotiated reunification, to become an indepen¬ dent nuclear power, break with the eec, attempt autarchy, and so on. In practice, Bonn's range of choices is limited not only by internal forces but also by German awareness of possible immediate con¬ sequences if its relationship with the United States were to alter significantly. The consequences would not be US. paratroops drop¬ ping onto the Rhineland but instead Eurodollars emptying out of accounts in Frankfurt, bmws piling up dockside in Fiamburg, and no Changing International Stakes 39 200,000 to 250,000 American tourists renting hotel rooms every year. Although, in practice, choices by the U.S. government are con¬ strained by awareness of possible effects in West Germany, the Amer¬ ican government—an American president—can more easily decide to act in disregard of those effects. In most instances, moreover, American decisions are constrained less by demonstrable realities than by beliefs. Dollars on deposit in West Germany and cancelable American orders for West German goods are matters of fact bearing on a decision made in Bonn. For an American president the deterrent to offending a West German government arises less from German holdings of American shares or awareness of the Volkswagen plant in Pennsylvania or concern about passenger miles for twa than from a supposition that, if pushed too far, the West Germans might leave the Western Alliance. The Soviets might then gain greater influence in Europe, and the result might someday be a situation of possible peril such as that in 1940. Such beliefs are not necessarily immu¬ table. The extreme example is that of South Vietnam, regarded by Americans one year as vital to their safety and a few years later as a liability. In terms of simple capacity to act independently (not, mer¬ cifully, in inclination to do so) the person most nearly similar to a president of the United States is a president of Libya. The present-day Soviet Union is not only less powerful than the United States in most dimensions, it is organized so as to conduct most of its affairs in isolation from influence by developments else¬ where. Except when they involve war or peace (a big exception), decisions by the Politburo are usually not of much moment beyond their own sphere. The role of the Soviet government in the politics of other countries is relatively formalized. Someone who wants to mea¬ sure Soviet involvement in another nation's politics can start by counting members of its Communist party. In any case, the organiz¬ ing theory for the Communist party of the Soviet Union supposes that its leaders know what is best for the world, are the vanguard of revolution, and need discipline only from Marxist-Leninist scripture and the party's own democratic centralism. There is no supposition that nonparty members elsewhere have any right to expect that Soviet decisionmaking will take into account what they think indepen¬ dently about their own best interests. Americans traditionally have professed beliefs that, unlike those of Marxist-Leninists, offer people elsewhere a basis for supposing 40 Presidential Selection in World Context that their opinions will count and should count. Broadly speaking, Americans have held individuals to be the best interpreters of their own interests. They also have held that the actions of governments should serve the interests of humankind. From the American Revo¬ lution onward, Americans continually have debated how their gov¬ ernment could best perform such service. Some were inclined to argue for setting an example for others to imitate, when and as they became able to do so. This was commonly accompanied by opposi¬ tion to active involvement in international politics. Others favored more active efforts to do good. In the nineteenth century, Henry Clay and leaders of the later “Young America" movement argued for help¬ ing others to get American-style governments. By the turn of the century the impulse was more to have the American economy serve the world's needs. In Woodrow Wilson these tendencies converged. His pronounce¬ ments during World War I and at the Paris Peace Conference repre¬ sented the government of the United States as one committed to helping all humans achieve both freedom and material comfort. The Senate repudiated his promise to make the United States a member of the League of Nations, and some Americans rejected Wilson's image of the role of the United States in the world. Henry Cabot Lodge ridiculed the notion that security for Americans depended on peace in faraway places. A president of the US. Chamber of Com¬ merce escaped being completely forgettable in history by saying that he did not think it the responsibility of his countrymen to provide a bottle of milk for every Hottentot. In general, nevertheless, Ameri¬ can leaders after World War I held to the position that the United States did what it did for the benefit of the rest of the world as well as for Americans. Even in the most workaday debates about tariff pro¬ tection for farmers or measures of autarchy to escape from the Depres¬ sion, few members of Congress were prepared to say that American policies should benefit Americans even if they hurt people else¬ where. No president dared do so. Since World War II the premise that the American government acts for, or at least should act for, the benefit of the world has gone almost unchallenged. Robert A. Taft and George Wallace are the only obvi¬ ous contenders for presidential nomination to have even come close to doing so. “Outs" usually have described the policies of "ins" as wrongheaded. The Republicans of 1952 charged Truman with misdi- changing International Stakes 41 reeling to a stalemated war in Korea, resources better used for rebuild¬ ing not only the domestic economy but also world trade. The Demo¬ crats of i960 attacked the Eisenhower administration for, among other things, inadequate efforts to improve political, economic, and social conditions in less-developed lands. Richard Nixon's language in 1968 resembled that of Republicans of 1952. While George McGovern was widely perceived in 1972 to be championing a new isolationism, he and his followers insisted indignantly that they were merely calling for a more prudent and humane approach to bettering conditions all over the world. Jimmy Carter in 1976 made much of his commit¬ ment to human rights. Reagan in 1980 contended that his election would permit America to achieve the strength—military, economic, and other—that would enable it to fulfill its global duty. As presi¬ dent, he launched "Project Democracy" partly to persuade people elsewhere of the essentially benevolent character of the American system of government. For most of two centuries, certainly for almost all of the last half century, Americans have given people elsewhere in the world abundant reason for believing that the American govern¬ ment will be and should be responsive to the interests and concerns of non-citizens. Because of the size and power of their country, presidents of the United States are able in unique degree to act to affect significantly the lives of people in other countries. Largely for the same reason, they are relatively free from constraints imposed by other govern¬ ments. The corollary is that people in other countries cannot expect their own governments to ensure that their concerns and interests will be adequately taken into account in the White House. Yet Amer¬ ican rhetoric, seemingly sincere and practically uncontradicted, gives people who are not U.S. citizens justification for expecting that Amer¬ ican presidents will act with full regard for them. On balance, both facts and logic give people who are not U.S. citizens a basis for believing that the presidential selection process ought to take their interests and wishes into account. American Voters as Surrogates for Humankind What of the hypothesis that foreigners already have a voice in presi¬ dential selection? It can be argued, on a theoretical plane, that the interests of noncitizens are accommodated because citizens apply 42 Presidential Selection in World Context the same criteria that noncitizens would apply, could they vote. It can be argued that, as a practical matter, noncitizens can influence presidential selection by means other than casting votes. The theoretical case hinges on an assumption that American citi¬ zens who go to the polls act on behalf of humankind. They are surrogates for non-Americans just as they are surrogates for other Americans who cannot or do not vote—those under eighteen, for example. Earlier, male voters were assumed to act on behalf of females. Still earlier, those with property were assumed to act for those with¬ out. Before independence, many Americans accepted the then pre¬ vailing British theory of virtual representation. What mattered was the official's belief that he ought to act representatively. William Pitt, the earl of Chatham, was no less prime minister for all the subjects of George II because his only formal answerability was to the three voters of Old Sarum. For American presidents it might be contended that what matters is not who originally chooses them but how they see themselves after their election. If they think they are leaders of the free world, they will feel responsible for (and to) peo¬ ple other than those who elected them. Short of that, it can be argued that, since they all care about the same things, American voters act for foreigners at the same time that they act for themselves. Looking back over the whole of Ameri¬ can political history, one is struck by the extent to which, in presi¬ dential selection, the electorate has seemed to put a premium on prudence. This has not been invariable. Andrew Jackson was expected to make more mischief than he actually did, and Polk was elected despite his making no secret of being prepared to provoke war —perhaps with Great Britain as well as with Mexico. Most of the time, however, the nominating process has winnowed out just about everyone whose approach was not careful, prudent, and risk-mini¬ mizing. In instances in any way exceptional, the voters nearly always chose the more prudent-seeming candidate when the general elec¬ tion came around. Henry Clay, who had something of a gambler's air, failed three times. Horace Greeley was resoundingly defeated by Ulysses Grant. William Jennings Bryan was, like Clay, a three-time loser. In more recent years, Goldwater and McGovern suffered defeats almost comparable to Greeley's. The only arguable exceptions were Theodore Roosevelt in 1904 and Ronald Reagan in 1980. Roose¬ velt's victory owed much to his having had three years as accidental changing International Stakes 43 president in which to demonstrate that he was not the "wild man" Mark Hanna had feared he would be. Reagan's first success was prob¬ ably due to the extraordinary drop in public esteem for Jimmy Carter, partly as a result of publicity about the hostages in Teheran. By 1984 Reagan benefited not only from his own good luck but from an appear¬ ance of having talked a much more radical game than he actually played. In choosing presidents, the American electorate generally attaches very high priority to prudence. In the nominating process as well as in general elections, Ameri¬ cans also have shown concern for leadership qualities. This was usu¬ ally secondary to prudence. Witness the parade of nineteenth-century presidents that inspired Lord Bryce in 1884 to entitle one chapter in The American Commonwealth, "Why Great Men Are Not Chosen Presidents." Witness more recently French savant Raymond Aron echoing Bryce by writing, "The American political and electoral system makes it inevitable that mediocre Presidents will continue to succeed one another." But desire for a president who would act prudently, not just sit prudently, accounts in part for the remarkable proportion of military men to be nominated for or chosen as presi¬ dent. It also accounts in part for the enthusiasm with which the voters returned to office presidents with records of apparent accom¬ plishment: Theodore Roosevelt, Wilson, Franklin D. Roosevelt three times, Truman, Eisenhower, Johnson, Nixon, and Reagan. The citi¬ zens who have chosen presidents, it can be argued, have paid atten¬ tion first to prudence and second to capacity for programmatic action. In addition, American voters have paid attention to personal char¬ acter or at least to the appearance of virtue. Some opposition to Aaron Burr stemmed from the feeling that he was morally unfit to succeed Washington and Adams. Clay suffered not only from a repu¬ tation for recklessness but also from suspicion concerning some of his business affairs. James G. Blaine suffered likewise. The best evi¬ dence is provided by Warren Harding who became, at least until Watergate, the symbol of what Americans did not want in a presi¬ dent. Absent scandals, and Harding's inability to separate himself completely from their authors, his presidency would surely rank as one of noteworthy achievement, for it saw, among other things, the capping of inflation, sharp increases in productivity and employ¬ ment, amnesty for World War I political prisoners (such as Eugene Debs), re-desegregation of facilities in the District of Columbia (made 44 Presidential Selection in World Context "Jim Crow" by Southerners in the Wilson administration), detente with Japan, and large reductions in armaments. But Harding himself seemed impure. Obviously, outcomes in the presidential selection process are influenced by more than the value preferences of American voters. It is nevertheless only oversimplification, not distortion of truth, to say that an important element has been concern by voters to have presi¬ dents who would be prudent, who ideally would also be leaders, and who could serve personally as models for the nation's children. From the beginning to the present, the exemplar has been George Washington. To the extent that all this holds true, existing presidential selec¬ tion processes do much to protect the interests of noncitizens, for the latter, if they had a voice, would surely put prudence high among their selection criteria. They want, above all, presidents who will not be reckless in diplomatic and military affairs. Broadly speaking, they also want presidents who will exercise prudent leadership, for they recognize that the capacity of other national leaders to set more than short-term courses is limited. But this theoretical argument can be carried only so far. At levels of specificity below prudence, leadership, and virtue, the criteria of American voters are not necessarily those that noncitizens would apply. Before 1917 and again in the 1930s, voters used commitment to isolationism as one index of prudence. More often than not, they applauded leadership that, in economic policy, was nationalistic and protectionist. Moreover, American voters, even in very recent years, have attached to personal virtue an importance many foreigners thought terrifyingly out of proportion. Even in countries such as Sweden and India, where editorial commentary about the United States often strikes Americans as sanctimonious, Watergate occa¬ sioned little moralizing comparable to that of Americans themselves. In most foreign eyes, Nixon was the president who had forged salt i and detente and the opening to China. It was hard to understand why a little looseness with the truth should lead to his unseating. To this day, many non-Americans remain incredulous. Occasionally, a visi¬ tor from the Soviet Union, Eastern Europe, or mainland China will draw his host into a place presumed to be free of listening devices and ask in a soft voice, "What really happened? How did the hard¬ line opponents of Nixon's policies contrive the coup that unseated changing International Stakes 45 him?" Even foreigners knowledgeable enough to understand why Nixon was taken to the block find it nevertheless disturbing that Americans make their presidents answer to an ethical code that has relatively little to do with the ability to protect and advance the interests of the people whose lives their actions may influence. Given this history, few foreigners are likely to feel satisfied that their inter¬ ests are in safe hands merely because, at some very general level, American voters choose presidents by the same criteria that they themselves would apply. Foreign influence in American Elections Here intervenes, therefore, the more practical line of argument. The 1980s are not the 1930s. Noncitizens do not have to depend entirely on coincidence between their standards and those of citizens. They have ways of influencing how American voters define prudence, leadership, and virtue. In the first place, directly or indirectly, many foreigners contribute to shaping American public opinion. Foreign governments, of course, maintain studied official neutrality. The chief exceptions are Israel and the Soviet Union. Israeli governments can come close to endors¬ ing candidates. In 1980, when third-party candidate fohn Anderson visited Israel, the government did its utmost to help him get favorable publicity at home, and Israeli officials acknowledged privately that they hoped thereby to draw votes away from Jimmy Carter.With much less adroitness, the Soviets have tried from time to time by word or gesture to help one candidate or hurt another. During most of 1984 they handled arms control negotiations in such a way as to help Democrats charge the Reagan administration with making no progress. "We do not understand the American electoral mechanism, and we know that we don't understand it," one high Soviet official said to a Christian Science Monitor reporter. "But we certainly won't help Reagan during the election."^^ When the Soviet govern¬ ment did decide to make an appearance of an arms control initiative. Foreign Minister Andrei Gromyko consulted openly and evenhandedly with both President Reagan and his Democratic rival. Mondale. If governments are formally silent and neutral, however, individual officials are not. Many political officers from foreign embassies and consulates, and members of foreign military, economic, and other 46 Presidential Selection in World Context missions talk more or less freely with American friends about Amer¬ ican politics. Many foreign journalists have friends among American journalists, and thousands of foreigners communicate with Ameri¬ cans traveling abroad—officials, journalists, businessmen, tourists. Americans linked with foreigners, either at home or abroad, are likely to be citizens with some potential for leading opinion within their own circles of acquaintance. Second, many American citizens are direct advocates for the inter¬ ests of noncitizens. According to Russell Howe and Sarah Trott, fifteen thousand Americans are employed as foreign affairs lobbyists. Millions of others have in varying degrees some other material link. They service, sell, or even produce foreign automobiles or electronic gadgets or they do business in one way or another with foreign coun¬ tries. Tens of millions are Americans conscious of ethnic or religious ties with foreign lands. While American Jews strongly concerned about Israel may be the most conspicuous such group, they are by no means alone. Witness the quadrennial trials of platform committees preparing planks on "captive nations"; Cyprus, Ireland, the two Chi¬ nas, South Africa, and the like. Some of these advocates are in the U.S. government—or hope to be. Many of the thirty to forty thousand members of the Foreign Service, active and retired, millions in the military services, and many thou¬ sands in intelligence organizations have formed attachments to peo¬ ple or places abroad. Some of these officials and ex-officials clearly count as molders of voter opinion. In any case, they compose the memoranda and cables and briefings and speech texts that embody the specific actions presidents take in response to voter opinion. Once in office, a president gets every kind of encouragement, both from the bureaucracy and from his own appointees, to regard himself as responsible for much of the world. Candidates for the presidency get similar encouragement because of the makeup of the public inter¬ ested in what they say about world affairs and because so many people inside the government (or nearly inside it, as, for example, analysts at the Brookings Institution or the American Enterprise Institute) want to help them voice "right" thoughts. Finally, independent of personal friendships, economic interests, ethnicity, religion, or official position, large numbers of Americans believe that presidents ought not to speak just for their own national interests. The American public that cares about foreign publics is in Changing International Stakes 47 fact very large and diverse, and it has been growing. During the isolationist 1930s only one eligible voter in eight had even com¬ pleted high school; fewer than one in thirty had been to college. By 1980 nine out of ten voters were high school graduates, and one in four had a college degree. Although the education received by many of these voters may have been of dubious quality, the statistics sig¬ nify that a much larger proportion of the electorate than ever before has been exposed to instruction about history and foreign cultures and international affairs. For many, travel has supplemented school¬ ing. Millions saw Europe and Asia in World War II. Unlike veterans of World War I, most of them came back with happy memories. Jet aircraft, a strong dollar, foreign eagerness for hard currency, and the enterprise of travel agents produced millions more travelers in the postwar years. Not counting many millions who went to Canada or Mexico, the annual number of Americans traveling abroad went above eight million in 1980 and, for the most part, continued climbing thereafter. Analysts of American public opinion long ago noted that the frac¬ tion of the people interested in foreign affairs is small; that, even within that fraction, the large majority copy views from a minority of comparatively widely experienced and well-read "opinion-leaders"; and that the opinion leaders in touch with members of Congress and those in touch with presidents tend to be different. The former are likely to be concerned for the protection of particular American interests while the latter are more likely to be cosmopolitans pursu¬ ing broad lines of policy or strategy conceived to be for the larger good.^® Trends in education and travel have worked to enlarge the "foreign policy public" and its leadership cohorts. The growth of multina¬ tional corporations, the Concorde, and other such developments should have caused the cosmopolitan cohort to grow relatively more rapidly or at least increased the presence of opinion leaders with a broad rather than a purely local or single-company sense of interest elsewhere. Suspicion of excessive nationalism hurt Taft in the 1940S and 1950s, Goldwater in 1964, and McGovern in 1972. It handicapped Reagan in 1980, and he and his handlers were careful to see that it did not do so the next time around. Sanford Ungar com¬ ments on the "extraordinary pains" taken by the White House staff to ensure publicity for Reagan's June 1984 tour of Britain, France, and 48 Presidential Selection in World Context Ireland, explaining, "Presidential staffers care about Reagan's image in Europe not only because they want him to be popular there, but also because a favorable reputation overseas bounces back across the oceans and enhances the President's ability to present himself at home as an able and well-accepted world leader."^^ Together with coincidence in general selection criteria, the practi¬ cal means available for foreigners to influence American elections go a long way toward ensuring that the interests of non-Americans are not ignored or even slighted when Americans pick their presidents. Nevertheless, as indicated earlier, I favor some modest efforts to make this assurance more sure. Foreign Gold? The period when foreigners' interests receive least attention is that of the presidential primaries. After the nominating conventions, can¬ didates get CIA briefings that cause them to concentrate at least periodically on foreign affairs. Their trainers prep them on questions that may come up in debates. Challengers of incumbents are under particular pressure to show themselves not at a disadvantage in knowl¬ edge or understanding of matters about which presidents might be able to claim expertise. Kennedy in i960. Carter in 1976, and Reagan in 1980 worked very hard to acquire an appearance of being knowl¬ edgeable about military forces, arms control, relations with the Rus¬ sians, regional security issues, the problems of developing countries, and international finance and trade. Looking back, one may question whether either Carter or Reagan acquired much lasting understand¬ ing as a result of these exercises. (Or Kennedy either, for that matter. Arguably, it was only the Bay of Pigs affair that opened his mind to learning.) Nevertheless, every speech, debate, press conference, or unguarded conversation with a reporter on a campaign plane offers a candidate an opportunity to alienate some group concerned with some particular part of the world and, in the process, to raise doubts among influential citizens for whom the overriding question is: Can this man or woman handle the larger global responsibilities of the presidency? Foreign commentators are almost as well positioned as Americans to take advantage of such openings. Before nomination, however, the questions asked of candidates tend to be more parochial. During the early primaries in particular. Changing International Stakes 49 they are often questions put by zealots who want to test the degree of commitment to their particular cause. The results do little to reas¬ sure foreigners about the intelligence or character of potential presi¬ dents. In 1952, although Eisenhower had just come from being nato commander and Europe's hero, the rhetoric he found necessary to use in order to defeat Taft for the Republican nomination resulted in his fitness for the presidency being questioned by practically every leading periodical from London to Berlin. The majority of foreign publications concluded that Adlai Stevenson's posture was more statesmanlike and that he would therefore win.^° Foreign observers have since become more sophisticated. They expect to hear non¬ sense during the primary season, and they do. In 1984, when Demo¬ crats competing in the Northeast talked at all about matters of high concern to foreigners, they did so in terms reassuring only to minori¬ ties with narrow preoccupations. To a man, they implied willingness to protect dying industries by putting up trade barriers. Each tried to outbid the others, first in wooing "nuclear freeze" proponents and then in pledging, if elected, to transfer the American embassy in Israel from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem. Such performances make many Ameri¬ cans nervous. Understandably, they make foreigners even more so. There may be no way to make the early competition for nomina¬ tion anything but auction bidding for special interest groups. It might be possible, however, to increase marginally the amount of attention paid during primary campaigns to broad issues of foreign policy and defense policy. One imaginable measure would be the introduction of highly visi¬ ble national security and foreign affairs briefings for all individuals identified as possible contenders. It would be in everyone's interest if all potential presidents actually saw a nuclear weapon, a missile test, a submarine, and an army exercise or if they talked, at least on American soil, with official representatives of a variety of foreign governments. A few days for such a purpose could be found in the slack season around Christmas or New Year's just before the election year. And almost no candidate could refuse if invitations were accom¬ panied by promises of foot after foot of professionally made video¬ tape for use later in the campaign. A second possibility would be to extend dissemination in the United States of samples of foreign reportage and commentary. Few Americans are aware of how intently foreigners watch American 50 Presidential Selection in World Context politics. Some public-spirited but determinedly neutral organization, such as the League of Women Voters, could assemble a fairly chosen sample of excerpts or summaries or translations and mail them out during the primary season. Some voters might be influenced by knowledge of how foreign observers rated the candidates. If so, the candidates themselves might feel earlier and greater concern about foreign audiences. Yet a third approach would open the way for foreigners to become special interest groups to be wooed during the period of presidential primaries. Of course, the election laws could not be amended to give them votes, and it is unthinkable that they could be allowed to send delegations to the conventions. (Imagine a delegate rising to declare, "The People's Republic of China casts its . . . votes for . . . .") But candidates' pronouncements in the early primary season are directed only partly to voters or potential delegates. Much of what they say and do is for the purpose of raising money. And it is not wholly unthinkable that, subject to stringent limitations, people not eligible to vote in American elections might be allowed to make campaign contributions. While the notion may at first seem shockingly "un-American," four points argue that it is not. First, it would not be a large departure from tradition or custom. No law has ever prevented resident aliens from making campaign contributions. Given the size of the coun¬ try's immigrant population before the restrictive legislation of the 1920s, many past presidential candidates must have received money from foreign nationals. Since statistical data and historical studies show that most immigrants intended to return to their homelands and that many did so, one can surmise that candidates probably received substantial sums from people with primary loyalties to other governments.^* As a matter of fact, the current law that forbids cam¬ paign contributions by foreigners other than resident aliens dates only from the early 1970s, and it was passed with little debate and, so far as one can tell, with little analysis. Reacting to revelations that the United States had given clandestine aid to opponents of Chile's president, Salvador Allende, Representative Elizabeth Holtzman intro¬ duced a bill to make it a crime for Americans to contribute money to foreign campaigns. Before it went to the floor, other members of the House Judiciary Committee added a provision making it reciprocally a crime for foreigners to contribute money to American campaigns. Changing International Stakes 51 Until that time, a candidate could have taken money from a for¬ eigner with no penalty except the risk of unfavorable publicity. The previous observation on publicity incorporates the second point, for campaign fund-raising among foreigners would surely be severely self-regulating. Candidates and their managers would be fearful of finding themselves accounting for funds from Communist sources or from Libya, the plo, or an Arab sheikh, or for laundered Mafia dollars. If Congress were to amend the existing law, it might permit only contributions by named individuals, not by pacs, and with a thousand dollar total limit on any individual foreigner's dona¬ tions,- but this probably would not be necessary. The only politically safe money for candidates to receive from foreign sources would consist of comparatively small contributions from ordinary citizens in democratic countries. Third, permitting foreign contributions to presidential campaigns would not be different in principle from permitting out-of-state con¬ tributions in senatorial or gubernatorial campaigns or out-of-district contributions in congressional campaigns. Many Americans feel themselves affected by elections in which they cannot participate legally as voters. They register concern by writing checks. So long as laws and regulations minimize the corrupting potentialities in con¬ tributions, why should foreigners be denied a similar privilege? After all, many of them feel that their lives are at stake. The fourth and last point is that a change in the law would broaden by a tiny bit the pool in which candidates for nomination could fish for funds. At present, because of existing legislation and provisions concerning federal matching funds, that pool is quite small. Any legitimate increase in its size or diversification of its sources would probably be to the good. Especially because it might contribute to raising the level of language about issues, it is hard to see why candi¬ dates and their surrogates, in addition to seeking money from partic¬ ular ethnic or religious groups, gun control advocates or foes, right-to- lifers or pro-choicers, gays and lesbians or anti-gays and lesbians, and the like, should not also be able to hold fund-raisers in towns and villages elsewhere in the world. I suspect that the suggestion of repealing the ban on campaign contributions by foreigners is not realistic. While the logical argu¬ ments may be strong, visceral misgivings are likely to prevail. In any case, it is hard to imagine any representative or senator thinking it 52 Presidential Selection in World Context worthwhile to pursue the objective. If there are realistic possibilities for marginally enhancing foreigners' roles and confidence in our presi¬ dential selection process, they probably lie in early, fully videotaped, systematic candidate briefings and more publicity in the United States for foreign commentary about the primaries. These are modest suggestions. None is offered in expectation of its having much effect. What is likely to have more effect is simply for Americans to be more conscious that, when they choose presidents, they serve not only themselves; in some sense, they act as trustees for humankind. And it is neither in their interest nor that of human¬ kind for the presidential selection process to be seen abroad as for¬ mer German chancellor Helmut Schmidt is alleged to have charac¬ terized it in 1980—as one to determine which "provincial buffoon" will next be responsible for the world's well-being. 4 Learning to Govern or Learning to Campaign? RICHARD ROSE Democratic leaders need to combine two skills: responsiveness to the electorate and effectiveness in government. Responsiveness to the electorate is necessary because governors hold office by the con¬ sent of the governed. Effectiveness in office is desirable too; leaders who cannot achieve at least some of what they propose disappoint themselves as well as those who vote for them. The road to the White House puts a premium upon a politician learning to respond to popular sentiment on the campaign trail. By contrast, equally democratic parliamentary systems in Europe give priority to learn¬ ing to govern. The constitutional requirements for election to the presidency are formal; they say nothing about a president's qualifications for doing the job effectively. There is an enormous gulf between becoming president, a task that takes years of campaigning, and being presi¬ dent, a job that allows an incumbent only a short learning period before being assessed a success or failure in the instant judgment world of Washington politics. No one will be elected president who has not learned how to campaign for office; the arduousness of the nomination and election process sees to that. The forms of the contemporary nominating process, which were occasioned by internal party pressures, such as the Democratic party convention battle of 1968, and by external pressures, such as the publicity national television now gives to 54 Presidential Selection in World Context early state primaries, has made campaigning far more important in the 1980s than it was a generation or more ago. No sooner was President Ronald Reagan inaugurated for a second term than his would-be successors started campaigning to succeed to his job in 1989. In 1985 an ambitious Congressman Jack Kemp touched base in twenty-four states, and Congressman Richard Gephardt in thirty.^ Campaigning is very different from governing. The effect of forcing ambitious politicians to concentrate upon incessant campaigning is to distract attention from learning what it takes to govern. Only after the winning candidate reaches the White House does he have time to think about the problems of governing. Success in an election is a necessary condition for sitting in the Oval Office, but it does not guarantee success in that office. The job looks more difficult from inside the White House than it does from the vantage point of the Iowa caucus. In default of being able to come to grips with govern¬ ment, a president may retreat into campaigning, as Jimmy Carter did during his midterm slump in 1978. But a Rose Garden strategy that emphasizes looking presidential is no substitute for being presidential. By contrast with a U.S. president, a European prime minister usu¬ ally is not installed in office after months or years of campaigning in the electorate. Instead, a prime minister takes office by gaining the confidence of the dominant party or coalition of parties in parlia¬ ment. If an American president must communicate well with the people through the pseudo-intimate medium of television, a prime minister, by contrast, must communicate effectively only in the actual intimacy of parliament. The American primary system requires a presidential candidate to build a personal campaign organization to campaign as a lone wolf; a prime minister must win the confidence of party leaders. Once elected, a president is tempted to use televi¬ sion to appeal over the heads of Congress; a prime minister is directly accountable to the majority in parliament. A prime minister heads a cabinet team; a president surrounds himself with advisers and help¬ ers who depend upon him personally yet cannot do the president's unique job. Comparing the selection of the president with the route by which politicians become leaders in Britain, France and Germany provides an empirical basis for evaluating the American presidential selection process against the standard of experience elsewhere. The custom¬ ary way to evaluate the president's capacity to govern is by comparing Learning to Govern or Learning to Campaign? 55 the performances of different incumbents in office. The trouble with this approach is that exceptional circumstances affect many presi¬ dents, as in the departures of John F. Kennedy and Richard Nixon from office. Moreover, three of the eight postwar presidents—Harry Truman, Lyndon B. Johnson, and Gerald Ford—did not enter the White House by campaigning, but by moving up from the unimpor¬ tant office of vice president. The characteristic method of evaluating performance on television—dissecting the personality of the presi¬ dent—is inadequate to explain performance in office. With all its faults, the personality of the president is relatively constant, whereas the popularity and effectiveness of the president fluctuate greatly. Although comparison with other countries avoids the assumption that whatever is American must be best, it need not imply that European practices should or could offer a quick fix for Washington's problems. European leaders have their difficulties, and no political institution can readily or surely be transferred from one national environment to another. At a minimum, comparison can add to our understanding of the strengths and weaknesses of the route to the White House. Tasks of Leadership The tasks that a president or prime minister must undertake are relatively few, but large in their implications.^ For ease of exposition, they can be listed separately, but it is the nature of the job that, as a White House staffer once put it, "Everything happens at once—and before 9 a.m." Executive leadership tasks are interdependent. Suc¬ cess or failure in one field, such as maintaining popularity in opin¬ ion polls, will affect performance in another field, such as mobiliz¬ ing legislative support.'^ At a sufficiently high level of generalization, the tasks of a president and a prime minister have a great deal in common: both are concerned with the mood of the electorate and the majority party and both bear responsibility for how their coun¬ tries are governed. But, institutionally, the positions are different. Two tasks of presidents and prime ministers—sustaining popular support and party management—are directly related to success in campaigning for office. Three—leading the nation's legislature, pre¬ serving national security, and managing the economy—affect how the nation's chief politician succeeds on the job. 56 Presidential Selection in World Context Sustaining Popular Support Winning a series of primary ballots and a national election provides prima facie evidence that a president is good at garnering votes. Once in office, a president must seek popular support in very different circumstances from those of the campaign trail; he not only has the aura of office but also the responsibility for the shortcomings of government. To deal with these problems an incoming president usually recruits the White House staff from the campaign staff, because a major presidential priority is to campaign incessantly for popular support, both as preparation for a reelection campaign, and, incidentally, to boost his standing with Congress. By comparison, a prime minister is more immediately beholden to party opinion, especially in parliament. Winning elections is desir¬ able, but not necessary. In the coalition systems that are widespread in Europe, the choice of a prime minister is determined by interparty bargaining, not by popular vote.'^ In every parliamentary system it is possible to change prime ministers during the life of a parliament without a general election. Only in France does the president depend upon popular votes for office. However, a seven-year term provides substantial relief from immediate anxieties about reelection. In Brit¬ ain the autonomy of the prime minister from the public opinion polls is shown by the fact that the party in office has normally run behind the opposition on the monthly Gallup poll, without reducing the effectiveness of party government.^ Managing the Party To paraphrase Ring Lardner, the president would grab the reins of party leadership, only “he ain't got no party." Although a president runs on a party ticket, he does not see himself as dependent upon the party for election. In this respect, a president differs fundamentally from a prime minister, who becomes party leader by the vote of a party caucus, not a popular primary. To win election, a presidential candidate must secure support from a significant proportion of inde¬ pendents, and even some who identify with the opposing party.^ Democrats consistently lead Republicans in party identification, but Republicans have won six of the nine presidential contests since 1952. Contemporary presidential candidates no longer rely upon the party to organize electoral support; they rely instead upon a Learning to Govern or Learning to Campaign? 57 personal following sustained by a national network of personally loyal staff. Managing the Legislature Both president and prime minister must deal with elected legisla¬ tors, but they do so from fundamentally different positions. A prime minister is a member of parliament before becoming prime minister, and normally continues to be one during the term of office. Atten¬ dance at meetings of parliament keeps a prime minister in touch with sentiment in the party, and among opponents as well. In seek¬ ing support for government measures, the endorsement of party lead¬ ers in the cabinet virtually guarantees success in parliament. The president wants what Congress has: authority to enact laws and to appropriate money. Because of the integration that is achieved by party government, a prime minister may take parliament's sup¬ port as assured; no president can do this. From breakfast meetings to late night telephone calls, a president must always work at con¬ gressional relations. The arts of dealing with Congress are not difficult to master: thousands of congressional staffers have acquired them. But they do demand knowledge of the institution, knowledge that is gained most readily by previous experience in Congress. Yet the selection process does not require such experience of a president. In policy terms a president is continuously concerned with ques¬ tions of national security and problems of the economy. Peace and prosperity are likely to be major themes in campaigning, but the way issues are treated in an election tends to have very little substantive content. National Security Upon entering office a newly elected president inherits a formidable staff system to brief him about global problems, providing updates on an almost hourly basis. There is no assurance in the electoral process that the newly elected president will have a frame of refer¬ ence into which he can fit all the information that is required to be an expert on Europe, the Middle East, Asia, Latin America, and Africa, as well as on the complexities of arms systems. The most and the least that the campaign can do is test a candidate for obvious ignorance. 58 Presidential Selection in World Context In smaller European democracies prime ministers do not need much specialized knowledge of national security issues, for these issues are decided at summit meetings that do not involve heads of small national governments. In Britain, France, and Germany, heads of government are involved in frequent meetings in the European Community, in world summits, and in a flow of international discus¬ sion. Because the issues that are of immediate concern to European governments usually are less than global in import, they are more likely to be amenable to influence by national leaders, usually finance ministers and foreign secretaries.^ To the extent that experience as foreign secretary or finance minister is a stepping stone to the prime ministership, a national head of government may have dealt pre¬ viously with foreign affairs for years. Economic Policy The institutions of American government do not make it possible to manage the economy as many economic theories propose. There is no central decisionmaker in Washington; Congress and the Federal Reserve Board each plan an independent role in decisions. State and local governments independently determine much public expendi¬ ture. The fragmentation of institutions that are nominally under the president's authority is symbolized by the existence of the Troika (the Treasury Department, the Council of Economic Advisers, and the Office of Management and Budget) and the Quadriad (the Troika plus the Federal Reserve Board). Institutional hobbling of the presi¬ dency is reinforced by the rhetoric of private enterprise. Given free enterprise norms, presidential candidates are discouraged from devel¬ oping plans to manage the economy, or from thinking in terms of a positive government strategy for the economy.® By contrast, every European prime minister is expected to see that the government provides positive direction to the economy. Social¬ ists are committed to planning, and most non-socialists accept a dirigiste role for government. Even the would-be free enterprise Thatcher government in Britain is conscious that it needs an explicit and coherent strategy to influence the economy. A prime minister will have far more resources to influence the economy than are avail¬ able to a president and often some experience serving in the treasury as well. Cabinet membership of any kind gives a potential prime Learning to Govern or Learning to Campaign? 59 minister an opportunity to listen to economic issues being discussed in government. The Previous Experience of Presidents and Prime Ministers Comparing the prior experience of American, British, German, and French leaders will identify the extent to which the above require¬ ments for directing government are actually met. Prior experience in elective public office is prima facie evidence of skill in mobilizing public opinion. Prior experience in the national legislature will develop skill in negotiating intra- and interparty support. Substantive knowledge of national security policy and of economic policy can best be obtained by holding a post in a government department that is responsible for these problems. United States The common attribute of the fourteen Americans who have been nominated for president by the Democratic or Republican parties since 1945 is that nearly every one has had prior experience in run¬ ning for major office, either at the congressional or gubernatorial level (table 4.1). Dwight D. Eisenhower, a career military official, was the sole exception. Campaigning for office gives politicians a sense of how to sustain popular support. The majority of presidential candidates had prior experience in Washington, usually in Congress, before running for the top job. Nine candidates had served in Congress, averaging nine years there. This is ample time to learn how to handle congressional relations from the inside, and also to develop a legislator's view of the federal bureaucracy. Two other candidates had worked in the executive branch, thus learning how the federal government looks from the departments rather than from the White House. Familiarity with Washington is the rule among presidential candidates. Two exceptions — Reagan and Carter—each held his first Washington job as presi¬ dent, and Thomas E. Dewey ran for the White House with experi¬ ence only in New York state politics. Six candidates and five presidents have had a unique view of the presidency by serving as vice president. In two cases, those of Harry S. Truman and Gerald R. Ford, the experience was too brief 60 Presidential Selection in World Context Table 4.1 The Political Experience of U.S. Presidential Candidates since 1945 - Program Office National Economy Other State and security (years) Congress federal local Harry Truman* 0 0 10 I VP 12 local Thomas Dewey 0 0 0 0 2 governor; 7 legal Dwight Eisenhower* 35 Army, NATO 0 0 0 0 Adlai Stevenson 6 Navy, State 0 0 I agri¬ culture 4 governor Richard Nixon* 0 0 6 8 VP 0 John Kennedy* 0 0 13 0 0 Barry Goldwater 0 0 12 0 4 city council Lyndon Johnson* 0 0 25 3 VP 0 Hubert Humphrey 0 0 16 4 VP 4 mayor, 2 official George McGovern 2 Food for Peace 0 14 0 0 Gerald Ford* 0 0 2.5 I VP 0 Jimmy Carter* 7 career Navy 0 0 0 4 governor, 4 state senate Ronald Reagan* 0 0 0 0 8 governor Walter Mondale 0 0 12 4 VP 4 state attorney- general Median 0 0 11 0.5 4 (Average) (4) (0) (9) (2) (3) 'President. to be significant, and for Lyndon B. Johnson, Hubert H. Humphrey and Walter Mondale, the vice presidency was much less formative than congressional experience. Only Richard Nixon could regard being vice president as his principal formative political experience prior to the presidency. The ambiguous position of the vice presi¬ dent, who is so closely identified with the president that it is difficult for him to act as an independent presidential personality, is hardly a satisfactory preparation for the presidency. Nor have presidents found their time as vice president to be of major benefit in handling the job at the top. Learning to Govern or Learning to Campaign? B1 In terms of familiarity with Washington, then, eleven of the four¬ teen presidential candidates could claim to know the city and its ways well, although for most this meant the view from the Hill. Only Eisenhower, who as a ranking general dealt with elected politi¬ cal leaders at the highest level, and Adlai Stevenson, a lawyer in the departments of Agriculture, Navy, and State, could claim great famil¬ iarity with the executive branch. Prior experience in local govern¬ ment or at a state house cannot be reckoned to prepare one for the White House, for a mayor or governor is not responsible for the national economy or national security. In economic affairs, state and local officials react to national trends. In national security, a mayor or governor gains no experience, The shortcoming in most presidential candidates' experience con¬ cerns the major substantive issues of government. No president in the postwar era has had any direct involvement with economic policymaking and, unlike secretaries of the Treasury, presidents also have lacked private sector economic experience. A president's experi¬ ence with the Treasury, the Federal Reserve Board, and the Council of Economic Advisers begins after reaching the White House. Con¬ gressional experience looking at particular appropriation lines in the budget without considering macroeconomic issues is arguably coun¬ terproductive for economic policymaking. The Joint Economic Com¬ mittee of Congress now offers a chance for a representative or sena¬ tor to learn about economic affairs, but no legislator has yet used it as a springboard to the White House. National security issues are also usually new to presidential can¬ didates. Only three candidates could claim significant prior knowl¬ edge before running for the White House. Ironically, Eisenhower had more experience—in the Army, in the politics of the Allied invasion of Europe, and subsequently at nato — than any elected official. Ste¬ venson was in the Navy Department and the State Department dur¬ ing World War II. Exceptionally, Nixon was able to use his time as vice president to learn how the national security apparatus works and to represent America abroad. But for the great majority of presi¬ dential candidates, prior service in the armed forces, with its worm's eye view of the military, was the main experience of national secu¬ rity. The exigencies of building a career in Congress or a state capital and keeping in touch with the electorate at home inhibit work abroad or extensive foreign travel — except as a carefully calculated part of campaigning for a presidential nomination. 62 Presidential Selection in World Context Britain The British system contrasts markedly with America in the experi¬ ence of its national leaders. Membership in the House of Commons is a sine qua non for entry to the prime ministership; on average, a prime minister has been a member of Parliament for twenty-five years before being made a party leader (table 4.2). Anyone who becomes prime minister will have had decades of experience in party management within Parliament, and will have won the confidence of colleagues there. Election to the party leadership is exclusively in the hands of members of Parliament in the Conservative party, and has been dominated by m.p.s in the Labour party. Management of the party inside and outside the legislature is second nature to a British prime minister. The British system is an apprenticeship system; a potential prime minister will have substantial experience in the executive branch of government.^ After years as an ordinary m.p., a politician com¬ mences a career in government by receiving a junior ministerial post and gradually works up the ladder to a senior post in a minor depart¬ ment, then a senior post in a major department as the final stage before being elected party leader. The making of a prime minister is a matter of decades, not months. Before being named party leader, an average m.p. has spent twelve years as a minister. In addition, four party leaders—Hugh Gaitskell, Harold Wilson, Edward Heath, and James Callaghan—had been civil servants before running for elective office, which further broadened their knowledge of the work¬ ings of the executive branch of British government. British prime ministers have a great advantage over incoming Amer¬ ican presidents in their knowledge of substantive issues. Seven of the eleven postwar party leaders have served in defense or diplomatic ministries and, in four cases, in both. Those who were experienced in foreign affairs spent an average of eight years as a responsible minister; five—Sir Winston Churchill, Sir Anthony Eden, Harold Macmillan, Sir Alec Douglas-Home, and Callaghan—had been for¬ eign secretary or defence secretary or both. A prospective prime minister is also likely to have had experience in economic affairs. Seven of the eleven party leaders had been eco¬ nomic ministers, including four—Churchill, Macmillan, Gaitskell, and Callaghan—who had been chancellor of the Exchequer. The average time in office in an economic ministry for those who served Learning to Govern or Learning to Campaign? 63 Table 4.2 The Political Experience of Major Party Leaders in Britain since 1945 - Total as National minister^ Other security Economy (years) Parliament Central Local Clement Attlee* Winston 2 0 8 23 0 8 Churchill'” 15 5 22 39 0 0 Anthony Eden* 21 0 21 32 0 0 Harold Macmillan* 4 4 II 31 0 0 Hugh Gaitskell 0 6 6 10 5 0 Harold Wilson* Sir Alec Douglas- 0 4 6 18 5 0 Home* 9 0 16 32^ 0 0 Edward Heath* 3 2 13 15 I 0 James Callaghan* 3 3 12 31 11 0 Margaret Thatcher* 0 0 7 15 0 0 Michael Foot 0 2 5 30 0 0 Median 3 2 11 30 0 0 (Average) (5) (2) (12) (25) (2) (i) ^ All ministerial posts, whether in cabinet or not. ^ Experience as of first becoming prime minister in 1940. Includes service in House of Lords. 'Prime Minister. there was four years (five if the relevant wartime experience of Wil¬ son and Gaitskell is also included). The contrast between the experience of British and American lead¬ ers is extreme. Whatever changes occur in American presidential politics, they are unlikely to produce presidents with the substantive knowledge of policy that British prime ministers have. British lead¬ ers differ from each other only in the degree of their expertise. At the top are three individuals—Churchill, Macmillan, and Callaghan —who held both the chancellorship of the Exchequer and major national security posts before becoming party leader. Margaret Thatcher was less experienced dealing with economic and national security issues before becoming prime minister, but her inexperi¬ ence was relative, not absolute. Prior to being elected party leader in 1975, she already had served fifteen years in Parliament, and seven years as a minister. She was familiar with Whitehall's ways before getting the top job there. The leader of the Labour party who was elected after its 1983 election debacle, Neil Kinnock, was chosen 64 Presidential Selection in World Context Table 4.3 The Political Experience of Major Party Leaders in Germany since 1949. National Total security Economy Ministry Konrad Adenauer (i internee) 0 0 Kurt Schumacher (ii internee) 0 0 Erich Ollenauer (13 exile) 0 0 Willy Brandt (12 exile) 0 0 Ludwig Erhard 0 14 14 Kurt George Kiesinger 0 0 0 Rainer Barzel I 0 I Franz losef Strauss 10 3 13 Helmut Schmidt 3 2 6 Hans-fochen Vogel 0 0 9 Helmut Kohl 0 0 0 Median‘s 0 0 6 (Average) (2) (3) ( 6 ) Numbers in parentheses indicate experience previous to 1945. ® Of tvhich nine years as leader of the cdu parliamentar>' party. ^ Of which two years as leader of the sdp parliamentary party. because he had no experience in government, although he had been in Parliament for thirteen years. His lack of experience has been a handicap in parliamentary confrontations with Thatcher. Signifi¬ cantly, the leader of the Social Democratic party, David Owen, has been more effective than Kinnock in Parliament and in opinion polls, drawing upon the skills and knowledge he acquired during eight years as a minister, including two as foreign secretary. The Federal Republic of Germany Although the basis for generalization about the political careers of German leaders is weaker than for Britain and France because of the interruption by the Third Reich, the overall pattern is sufficiently clear to provide an instructive comparison with leadership in the American system. The modal career pattern of a would-be German chancellor includes substantial experience at both the federal level in Bonn and at the Land (state) or local [stadt] level (table 4.3). Of the seven leaders who have come forward since Ludwig Erhard, six have had a substantial career in Bonn. The median leader has spent fourteen years in the Bundestag, the elected lower house of the federal Parliament. In five Learning to Govern or Learning to Campaign? 65 Parliament Bundestag Bundesrat Executive Land Parliament Local government (i) — 0 (14) (28) (3) — 0 (7) 0 4 0 0 0 0 8 4 4 II 0 14 0 0 0 0 9 8 8 6 0 15^ 0 0 0 0 31 0 0 0 0 18*’ 0 4 4 0 9 I 0 2 12 0 13 13 17 0 14 0 0 2 0 (14) (3) (4) (4) (2) Excluding Adenauer, Schumacher, Ollenauer, and Brandt, whose careers substantially pre¬ ceded the foundation of the Bundesrepublik. cases politicians have held a significant office, either as a minister in a major department or as the leader of their parliamentary party, a position that puts an individual very close to the chancellor. German politicians have used the structure of the federal system to expand their experience both in government at the ground level and in federal politics in Bonn. Leaders of the laender are ex officio members of the Bundesrat, the nonelected upper chamber of the federal Parliament. The two chancellors who lacked any ministe¬ rial experience in Bonn—K. G. Kiesinger and Helmut Kohl—each were familiar with power in Bonn by virtue of sitting in the Bundesrat as representatives of the Laender of which they were Ministerpraesi- dent. Willy Brandt built his postwar political career on the founda¬ tions of his activity as mayor of Berlin, H. J. Vogel achieved recognition as mayor of Munich, and Franz Josef Strauss was party leader of the csu in Bavaria. Konrad Adenauer's first political experience was in the city government of Cologne in the Kaiser's pre-1914 Reich. The German system stands midway between the American and British in the experience that party leaders gain in dealing with major substantive issues. The first chancellors of the federal republic each had a very intense socialization into national security affairs, being raised under a succession of regimes, and interned or exiled. Of 66 Presidential Selection in World Context the seven most recent party leaders, three have held portfolios con¬ cerned with defense or East Germany and three with finance, includ¬ ing one (Strauss) who held both. This shows a higher level of firsthand exposure to substantive problems than in the United States, particu¬ larly when one considers that five of seven party leaders have been members of national cabinets in which security and economic issues often dominate the agenda. German politicians devote less time to becoming experts in national affairs than do their British counter¬ parts, investing more effort instead in the complex network of inter¬ governmental relations through which public policies are delivered. France The Fifth Republic illustrates another way that an individual can get to the top, by demonstrating technocratic brilliance as a civil servant and then as a minister dealing with economic or foreign affairs. From 1958 to 1981 the French presidency was always occupied by a person who was well versed in either national security policy or economic affairs (table 4.4). Since the establishment of the Fifth Republic in 1958, twelve men have been president or prime minister. Of these only three—Jacques Chaban-Delmas, Francois Mitterrand, and Pierre Mauroy—could be said to have followed conventional political car¬ eers as that term would be used in Washington today. President Mitterrand is atypical in having been excluded from office for more than two decades until his victory at the 1981 election. But he was elected to the Assembly of the Fourth Republic in 1946 and held a series of ministerial portfolios until the creation of the Fifth Repub¬ lic by General Charles de Gaulle in 1958. The characteristic political leader of the Fifth Republic is a technocrat, initially recruited into the civil service through highly competitive examinations and training at Ecole Nationale d’Admin- istration (ena).** Like British civil servants, these enarques are able to gain political experience at a young age. But unlike Britons, they are then able to accept ministerial appointments from the party in power. Such moves are facilitated by the fact that membership in the Assembly is not required for a ministerial appointment; indeed, an Assembly member must resign upon taking a ministerial job. Chirac, Barre, Giscard d'Estaing, and Fabius rose from the civil service into ministerial appointments in economic affairs. Messmer in foreign affairs, and Couve de Murville was experienced in both. In addition. Learning to Govern or Learning to Campaign? 67 Table 4.4 Political Experience of Presidents and Prime Ministers in the French Fifth Republic. Ministries National Total Civil Leader security Economy Minister servant Assembly Local^ Charles de Gaulle President 1958-69 35 0 5 30 0 0 Michel Debre PM 1959-62 0 0 I 9 10 0 Georges Pompidou PM 1962-68 0 0 0 0 0 0 President 1968-74 (6 years as Prime Minister) Couve de Murville min: 10 10 28 0 0 PM 1968-69 cs: 8 cs: 10 Jacques Chaban- Delmas min: i 0 I 2 23 22 PM 1969-72 Pierre Messmer min: ii 0 13 15 0 PM 1972-74 cs: 15 Jacques Chirac 0 min: 4 7 8 7 4 PM 1974-76; 1986 cs: 5 Valery Giscard d'Estaing 0 min: 12 14 4 2 0 President 1974-81 cs: 2 Raymond Barre min: 5 min: i 6 11 0 0 PM 1976-81 cs: II Franqois Mitterrand President 1981- min: 7 0 7 2 35 0 Pierre Mauroy PM 1981-84 4 0 0 0 8 14 Laurent Fabius min: 3 PM 1984-86 0 cs: 4 3 7 3 0 Median 5 0 4 7 5 0 (Average) 8 4 4 10 9 4 Omitting symbolic posts in small communes in a constituency, mm = minister; cs = civil servant. 68 Presidential Selection in World Context Michel Debre, de Gaulle's first prime minister, had been a civil ser¬ vant prior to his appointment, and Georges Pompidou was excep¬ tionally well qualified in economic policy because of experience in banking. De Gaulle began his career as a technocrat, toO; he was trained as a regular army officer and, like Eisenhower, gained politi¬ cal recognition in World War II. Notwithstanding many differences, the French system of recruit¬ ing political leaders bears similarities to the American system. Just as Washington abounds with young men and women who are special assistants to senior officials in the executive branch, so Paris is full of ambitious young civil servants who have moved into a minister's cabinet, a post more nearly resembling the office of the secretary in Washington than anything found in Whitehall. The fierce competi¬ tion for ENA means that those who succeed in their training will enter the strategically most important ministries, including attach¬ ment to the prime minister or the president's office. Just as a Wash¬ ingtonian makes a breakthrough by securing a presidential appoint¬ ment, so a French civil servant arrives when asked to go on leave from the civil service to take a ministerial post, a procedure fully consistent with French law and the law of many continental Euro¬ pean countries. A French leader differs from an American president in not having devoted years to campaigning. Instead he can devote those years to governing. It is possible for someone to become prime minister of France without ever having run for elective office, relying instead on the patronage of the president. A French president or prime minister is more likely to have been involved with economic or foreign policy as a civil servant than to have been an elected member of the National Assembly. An ambitious young politician in France makes straight for Paris and an appointive post in the bureaucracy. Summary Of the skills that a president or prime minister would find useful to give direction to government, an American president is likely to enter office with only one: the ability to mobilize popular support. The American system makes campaign skills not only the be-all of the presidency, but also threatens to make it the end-all. A president takes campaign staff into the White Fiouse with him, and at the first Learning to Govern or Learning to Campaign? 69 sign of opposition from Congress may prefer to appeal to the people through the media rather than face up to the facts of government. Even a president who has formerly served in Congress will have problems managing a legislature that has not elected him. By contrast, prime ministers normally enter office with a demon¬ strated capacity to deal with substantive economic problems, inter¬ national issues, or both. Even a political leader who has not been a foreign secretary or treasury minister will have had ample opportu¬ nity to observe the interplay of domestic and foreign policy by sitting in cabinet. Leaders are doubly experienced in national government, having served as ministers and as members of the national Parlia¬ ment, or as civil servants in the case of the French. Prime ministers will have excellent credentials as leaders of both parliamentary and extraparliamentary parties. Noteworthy differences exist between British prime ministers, Ger¬ man Bundeskanzlers, and French leaders, but the similarities are more striking. A parliamentary system is much more likely than the American system to produce a leader experienced in dealing with the substantive problems of government. Implications for Change By comparison with leaders of major European nations, an American president normally has had far more experience campaigning for office, and far less experience governing. The European system of strong parties and recruitment from parliament emphasizes an apprenticeship in office; in contrast, the American system is a contest in which the competition is for votes, not for success in government. The winner in the campaign for the White House is pitchforked into the presidency—ready or not. At the time of taking office, European leaders are at an advantage, for they usually have had far more experience in foreign policy, economic policy, and the points of intersection between the two. This does not guarantee that their policies will be successful, but it does mean that their countries are led by politicians who are experienced in dealing with issues of the highest national priority. In the United States the president's lack of experience in economic policy could be considered an advantage by proponents of laisscz- 70 Presidential Selection in World Context faire economy. In the words of two experienced academics and Wash¬ ington officials, George Shultz and Kenneth Dam: "Leadership is often equated with doing something and patience equated with inde¬ cision. Indeed, one of the most difficult problems for economic pol¬ icy is finding ways to do nothing."^'^ But noninterventionism was more feasible in the days of Calvin Coolidge than today, when the federal government's taxing, spending, and borrowing policies all have a significant influence on the American—and the world—economy. Moreover, a president concerned about his long-term popularity with the electorate will want to make the economy successful, given the electoral effects of economic conditions. The case for a laissez-faire presidency does not apply at all to foreign affairs. The president speaks for the country as a whole in dealing with foreign nations, and also is commander-in-chief of the armed forces. The breadth and depth of America's global commit¬ ments make it impossible for a president not to be actively involved in foreign policy. For that reason, foreign policy is usually prominent in campaigning. However, a president who travels abroad simply in hope of gaining votes from ethnic groups will get an unrealistic pic¬ ture of the world. Promises made to one's own electorate are difficult to deliver when they require cooperation from the governments of other countries. While cross-country campaigning is a good test of a president's relative popularity, it is not a good introduction to being president. Admittedly, campaigning—and even more, victory—strengthens the president's hand with his party and Congress. But incessant cam¬ paigning tends to distract attention from the substantive problems of governing. The question that must be faced is: What changes, if any, in the selection process would better prepare an incoming president for the problems of government. By comparison with the selection of a prime minister, the dis¬ tinctive feature of the American process is that a would-be presi¬ dential candidate is self-employed. Instead of being the product of a winnowing process within a party, in which professional politicians assess a variety of candidates over the years, in Parliament and out, a presidential hopeful is an independent entrepreneur. A candidate must build a personal campaign organization, raise money, and pro¬ ject a positive image to the electorate. In parliament an ambitious politician is tested by leading one party against another, but to Learning to Govern or Learning to Campaign? 71 secure nomination in the presidential race a candidate first must run against fellow partisans. The length of the campaign trail to the White House is virtually unknown in Europe, and it imposes a high cost in turning a potential president's attention away from questions of effective government. An alternative to the choice of presidential candidates by primary ballot or legislative caucus is a third possibility: selection by party convention. Party conventions can pick leaders in parliamentary systems as well as presidential systems. The pool of potential leaders is not confined to the national capital. In Germany the Christian Democratic Union (cdu) has twice gone to the land level for chan¬ cellors. In Canada the Liberals picked Pierre Trudeau as party leader and prime minister in 1968, only three years after he entered Parliament. The convention choice of a candidate can balance considerations of intraparty ideological preferences, electoral appeal, and effective¬ ness in office. If the party leans too far in one direction, then defeat will follow, as in the cdu setback in Germany in 1980 under Strauss, or the British Labour debacle in 1983 under Michael Foot. However a party convention is constituted, the important point is that its mem¬ bers are likely to be better informed and better able to judge the campaigning and governing qualities of candidates than is the aver¬ age voter in an American primary. Ironically, the convention system for nominating leaders was once the American custom, and it has been downgraded only in recent decades. The interesting question is whether there are ways in which its importance could be increased. A minimal way to reduce the burden of campaigning would be to shorten the primary season. This could be done by introducing a national primary, or a series of regional primaries, held within a four to eight week period in the spring of the presidential year. A national primary has considerable justification in theory, for it would not overweigh the judgment of a handful of voters in Iowa and New Hampshire. It also would give each person with a vote for the presi¬ dency a chance to vote for a party's choice of candidate. If a primary did no more than shorten the time in which members of one party fight each other and lengthen the period in which one party standard-bearer fights the other, it would serve a positive pur¬ pose. It also would concentrate more attention on how the country should be governed, a different question from bow tbe party should 72 Presidential Selection in World Context be led. Finally, it would reduce the costly effects—both political and economic—of lengthy primary campaigns. A more interesting feature of a national primary is that it could become a means of reinstituting the convention choice of the presi¬ dential candidate. If convention delegates were elected in every state on the same date and state delegates were awarded approximately in proportion to each candidate's share of the vote, then a national primary would determine the party nominee only under certain lim¬ iting conditions. If no serious challenger to an incumbent president was on the ballot, the primary would ratify what was taken for granted. In contested races it would give a majority of convention votes only to a candidate who dominated the field. In practice, presidential primary contests usually involve a field of three or more candidates, none of whom is likely to win more than half the vote. A national primary would not reduce the representativeness of the party's candidate. If more than half the primary voters favored one candidate, that candidate would be the nominee. It would protect the representative process when voters were divided three or more ways, with no one person preferred by a majority. It would enable delegates representing a majority of the party's voters to determine the party's nominee—and to do it through the normal process of representation. The old convention system could be subject to two very different types of criticism. The first is that it was unrepresentative of the party's voters, since it was composed of delegates chosen by party caucuses. The second criticism is that the convention involved bar¬ gaining between delegates. The latter criticism could be applied to most American institutions, most notably Congress, where bargain¬ ing is the only way politicians can reach a stable majority decision. But the criticism of unrepresentativeness could not be applied to a convention whose delegates were directly elected in a national 1 K primary. A popularly elected convention is likely to be criticized because it is representative. A three- or five-way division of national opinion appears, superficially, less clear-cut than the emergence of a candi¬ date whose majority is "manufactured" by snowballing a few pri¬ mary victories. In a nation with an electorate as diverse as the United States, and with two parties competing for heterogeneous coalitions of supporters, it would be surprising not to find a number of serious Learning to Govern or Learning to Campaign? 73 candidates for the presidency within each party. If Democratic or Republican voters divided three or more ways in their support for prospective presidential candidates, then the convention would be divided into three or more blocs, with none likely to have the major¬ ity needed for nomination. A convention whose delegates divided their support among several candidates would not be incoherent; it would be an assembly under pressure to aggregate preferences, a classic problem of representative democracy. In doing so, delegates could judge the relative impor¬ tance of each candidate's stands on issues, popular appeal to the national electorate, and likelihood of being an effective president. Straightforward rules could be adopted to eliminate the candidate with the least votes on each ballot, and to permit withdrawals, in order to ensure that the convention could nominate a candidate without undue delay. There is no reason for a party convention to choose a personable incompetent or an unelectable academic. In a country of 225 million people, it should be possible to find two candidates who each com¬ bine the ability to campaign successfully with the ability to be effec¬ tive in office. The most a change of rules can do is alter the bias of the system in favor of one or another attribute. If European systems may sometimes be criticized for giving too much weight to the party caucus and too little to popular preferences, there is no doubt about the bias in the American system today; it gives too much weight to learning to campaign, and too little to learning to govern. PART II Voters and Candidates 5 The Linkage of Policy to Participation GARY R. ORREN Elections are the great public ceremonies of American life. We elect beauty queens and all-star teams, presidents and coroners. Popular demands for a greater voice in political affairs emerged earlier and have been met more fully in this nation than in any other. Because of the steady extension of the franchise, increases in the number of public officials who are elected, and expanding citizen involvement in the selection of party nominees, the United States is the most democratic country in the world. But if the health of a democracy can be measured by the level of popular participation in its electoral system, ours is ailing. Compared to other democracies, voter turnout in the United States has been low for a long time, and has been getting lower. In 1980 and 1984, almost two eligible citizens stayed home for every one who voted for Ronald Reagan. The Problem Should we lament the low and declining voting rate in America? Many observers believe that it is nothing to worry about. Those complacent about low turnouts can be divided into two main schools: one applauds the decline and the other simply shrugs. The first claims that nonvoting is a sign, perhaps a requirement, of a healthy democracy. The second maintains that turnout makes little differ¬ ence in electoral outcomes. 76 Voters and Candidates Adherents of the first school offer several reasons for welcoming low political participation. First, they claim that since nonvoters generally hold democratic values less dear than voters do, their absten¬ tion prevents the dilution of democracy. Low participation, it is argued, usually bodes well for democracy, since it indicates general satisfaction with the political system. Extremely high participation —especially a sudden upsurge—often reflects social conflict and discontent, which, in turn, can threaten democratic institutions.^ The second school holds that low political participation is neither curse nor blessing.^ Nonvoting does not diminish the representative¬ ness of our political system because nonvoters' preferences for candi¬ dates and policies mirror those of voters. Indeed, the evidence sug¬ gests that the final outcomes of most presidential elections probably would not have changed if nonvoters had gone to the polls."^ Nor should low turnouts cause concern for our civic health since nonvot¬ ers are just as likely as voters to feel both the obligation to vote and a sense of political efficacy. Finally, the proponents of this perspective contend that nonvoting does no more violence to democratic princi¬ ples than it does to political practice. The right to abstain is as essential to democracy as the franchise itself. There is a more extreme variant of this second view that nonvot¬ ing makes little difference. That is the view that voting itself makes little difference. For some advocates of participatory democracy, non¬ voting is far less troubling than the ehallenge of getting citizens deeply engaged in self-government. Benjamin Barber has argued that although balloting has the aura of democracy—indeed, Americans think that democracy means voting—it is a minimalist or "thin" expression of citizenship. In fact, choosing representatives in elec¬ tions, according to Barber, encourages privatism and passivity, which are incompatible with a true democratic ideal. Only when citizens seek a higher ideal—deliberating, sharing, and engaging with each other in such forums as neighborhood assemblies, town meetings, national service programs, and citizens' courts—do they really par¬ ticipate. Against this vision of "strong democracy," declining turn¬ out at the polls seems largely irrelevant."^ The premise guiding this chapter rejects both these schools of thought, arguing instead that low levels of political participation are neither beneficial nor benign, and certainly not irrelevant. The details of the argument emerge throughout the chapter. But anticipating Linkage of Policy to Participation 77 some of those details now, the core of the thesis turns on the func¬ tions that are served by voting in a democracy. Elections satisfy several purposes, but three stand out as particu¬ larly important. The first is to create a government with enough legitimacy and authority to govern. In the United States the author¬ ity to enact or alter laws resides with the people, who delegate this authority to officials through elections. The government's legitimacy derives not from divine right or the power of the sword, but specifically and exclusively from the fact of election. Thus a crite¬ rion for judging a democratic system is how many people vote; democ¬ racy is diluted if only a small fraction of the citizenry participates. Graham Allison put the central question succinctly at a conference on voter participation; "When half of the people drop out, what does this imply about the legitimacy of a democratic government that —according to its own Declaration of Independence—'derives its just powers from the consent of the governed'?"^ Those who mini¬ mize the importance of low turnout generally either are silent on the legitimacy issue or argue that those who refrain from voting are satisfied with the functioning of government and are happy to leave well enough alone. George Will has suggested, for example, that nonvoting is a "form of passive consent."^ But as Seymour Martin Lipset pointed out many years ago, such an explanation is not altogether plausible, and recent evidence, as we shall see, confirms his conclusion.^ A second function of democratic elections is to ensure that the government responds to the people and fairly represents their inter¬ ests. The desire to be elected and reelected directs representatives' attention to the needs and hopes of the electorate. While the legiti¬ macy issue is decided by the magnitude of the vote, questions about government responsiveness turn on the composition of the elector¬ ate. The criterion here is who votes, that is, how representative the electorate is of the public as a whole. If particular groups tend not to vote, their needs are apt to be ignored, for voting is the primary mechanism for assuring that government attends to the views and values of the governed. Further, as the number of participating citi¬ zens shrinks, the views of political activists are enhanced. Thus in the absence of a highly mobilized electorate, we would expect spe¬ cial interest groups to exercise greater influence over public policy. The evidence demonstrates that the active electorate is not a repre- 78 Voters and Candidates sentative sample of the entire voting age population. The disparity between the voting rates of upper and lower status groups is large and increasing. Whether voters and nonvoters also differ in their political attitudes and preferences is much less clear, since the data are mea¬ ger and inconclusive.*^ Of course, the question is not only whether voters and nonvoters hold different opinions, but also how likely it is that their respective concerns will appear on the public agenda. Policy agendas are usu¬ ally set not by the public directly, but rather by political leaders in anticipation of voter response. If leaders know that a particular group does not turn out at the polls, they often assume that the group and its needs can be safely ignored. The differential treatment of South¬ ern blacks before and after they began to vote in large numbers is a case in point. Public officials are more responsive to citizens who are politically active.^ This second function of democratic elections, to serve as barome¬ ters of popular sentiment so that government can properly respond to public needs, is crucial. But it is not their sole purpose. If it were, we could replace elections with public opinion surveys. Large ran¬ dom samples would more conveniently and more accurately reveal public preferences. Yet no matter how representative such surveys might be, they would do little to advance the first function of elec¬ tions, fostering legitimacy, and even less to advance the third. In addition to conferring legitimacy and assuring that the govern¬ ment is responsive to public needs, democratic elections serve a more elusive, but no less important, third function. Elections are a primary mechanism for civic education and allegiance, for improv¬ ing the democratic character of citizens, and for making citizens feel they belong to a political community. The question here is not how many or who votes but the quality of the electorate. This ancient Greek notion, which reverses the causal arrows of social science that typically point from subjective feelings of efficacy to political action, is that political participation can encourage citizens to feel more empowered, to become better informed, and to acquire a sense of membership. These feelings, in turn, foster higher levels of participa¬ tion. Unfortunately, the last two decades have witnessed a steady erosion in the civic attitudes of Americans; feelings of civic duty, political efficacy, political trust, and attachment to the political sys¬ tem have waned. Linkage of Policy to Participation 79 The American electoral system falls short of the democratic ideal in all three criteria; how many vote, who votes, and the quality of the voters. Voter turnout in the United States is the lowest of any advanced industrial democracy, and continues to decline. The electorate is unrepresentative because voters come disproportionately from the more advantaged groups in the country. And in recent years Ameri¬ can citizens have increasingly lost the civic attitudes that are the hallmarks of a thriving democracy. Voter Turnout The history of the franchise in America is a history of its expansion. But the franchise only grants the right to vote; not all choose to exercise that right. Figure 5.1 traces the turnout rate in presidential elections from 1824 to 1984.^* It is helpful to divide this history into four distinct periods: an era of high turnout from 1840 to 1896, a steep drop in voter turnout beginning in 1900, a modest resurgence from 1928 to i960, and our current era of declining turnout. The high-water mark of the post-World War I era was i960, when turnout reached 64 percent. The voting rate fell almost ten percent¬ age points between i960 and 1980, marking the longest period of steadily declining turnout in American history. As Figure 5. i shows, this decline has been gradual for the most part. The main exception is the three point drop between 1968 and 1972, which was largely caused by the poor showing among newly enfranchised citizens aged eighteen to twenty. The 1980 turnout rate of 54.3 percent, while less than one percent lower than the 1976 level, represented the lowest turnout since 1948. Four years later, despite an unprecedented invest¬ ment of money, time, and people to register voters and mobilize them on election day, despite the strikingly clear ideological differ¬ ences between the two major presidential candidates, and despite the maturing of the baby boom generation, voter turnout increased by less than one percentage point. The 1980 and 1984 elections were two of the four elections since 1828 that registered the lowest voter turnout outside the South.*'* Turnout falls because fewer of those who are eligible register, or because fewer of those who are registered vote, or both. Low registra¬ tion tends to reflect long-term factors like low levels of education or an ingrained lack of interest in politics. Low turnout among the 80 Voters and Candidates Figure 5.1 Turnout in Presidential Elections by Percentage of Eligible Vot¬ ers 1824-1984. Source: The figures for 1824-1968 are taken from U.S. Bureau of Census, Historical Statistics of the United States, Colonial Times to rpjo, Bicentennial edition, pt. 2, Washington, D.C., 1975, pp. 1071-72 (from unpublished data supplied by Walter Dean Burnham). Figures for 1972-1984 are from private correspondence with Professor Burnham. registered usually reflects short-term factors like unhappiness with the choices offered in a particular election. Figure 5.2 shows, for the period since i960, the percentage of those eligible who registered and the percentage of those registered who voted. The numbers are telling. From i960 to 1968 registration held fairly steady, with about three-fourths of the population registered to vote, while turnout among the registered fell. During the next eight years registration dropped nearly five percentage points. The sharp drop-off in turnout between 1968 and 1972 suggests that a number of short-term factors coalesced in 1972, most obviously dissatisfaction with the government's Vietnam policy and a general lack of enthusi¬ asm for either presidential candidate. This was, moreover, the period Linkage of Policy to Participation 81 when eighteen to twenty year olds were added to the voting rolls. The steep drop in turnout from i960 to 1972 and the even more extended decline in registration from 1964 to 1980 raise the question of whether the short-term withdrawal from politics that developed in the late 1960s was deepening into a long-term disaffection for the democratic process. The events of 1984 temporarily clouded the pic¬ ture. Massive partisan and nonpartisan registration efforts added some 12 million names to the voter rolls, and the portion of adults regis¬ tered to vote climbed more than three percentage points, the first such increase since 1964. At the same time, however, the turnout rate among registered voters fell nearly three points in 1984. Whatever its ultimate cause, the result of the quarter-century decline in turnout and registration is a shrunken electorate. More than 75 million eligible voters—the largest number in any presiden¬ tial election—declined to cast ballots in 1984. Voting rates in many of the largest states, including New York, California, and Texas, fell below the national average. In every presidential election since 1920 the nonvoters have outnumbered those who voted for the winner. A number of commentators have tried to soften these statistics by noting that although turnout in American general elections is com- Figure 5.2 Registration and Turnout: Presidential Elections, 1960-1984. Source: Committee for the Study of the American Electorate, “Non-Voter Study, '84-'8 s ,'' Washington, D.C., January, 1985. Voting-age population esti¬ mates are from the Census Bureau; official vote counts and actual registra¬ tion figures arc from the secretaries of state and registrars of the fifty states and the District of Columbia. If registration figures were not available for a state, the national average was used to estimate state registration. 82 Voters and Candidates paratively low, America runs far ahead of every other democracy in the number of its citizens who participate in selecting the major party nominees by voting in presidential primaries. Undoubtedly, primary voting does represent an important additional mode of par¬ ticipation that needs to be added to any final balance sheet: in 1984, for example, 24.5 million people voted in the Democratic and Repub¬ lican primaries, 26 percent of the number who eventually cast bal¬ lots in November. Just how substantial is primary turnout? And has it increased or decreased in recent years? To answer such questions is fraught with complications. The raw number of primary voters has increased substantially—from 11.2 million in i960 to 24.5 million in 1984 —largely because the number of primaries has skyrocketed from sixteen to thirty in the same period. As a percentage of the voting age population, the turnout in presidential primaries is considerably lower than in general elections, even lower than in off-year congres¬ sional elections. In 1976, in states that held presidential primaries, only 28 percent of the voting age population turned out to vote. In 1980 the participation rate was 25 percent. When assessing turnout in primaries, however, many scholars have argued that the full voting age population is an inaccurate base, since many states restrict their primaries to registered party members. When the number of eligible registered voters is used as the base, turnout does increase, but is still quite low: 43 percent in 1976, 37 percent in 1980. Finally, these national averages conceal enormous variations from state to state, and between the two parties, depending on the institutional and political context. In 1984, for example, 18 million voters cast bal¬ lots in the close, hard-fought Democratic primaries, compared to only 6.5 million in the Republican contests, in which Reagan ran unopposed. The post-1960 boycott of the polls is all the more striking when one considers the factors that might have been expected to increase turnout. Politics has become more intense and, arguably, more inter¬ esting since the Eisenhower years. The public is, on average, better off materially and better educated; and higher-status, educated citi¬ zens are more likely to vote. Finally, many barriers between the citi¬ zen and the polls—literacy tests, extended residency requirements, and the polls tax—have been eliminated. In short, the expansion of the franchise and the dismantling of barriers against its exercise Linkage of Policy to Participation 83 have broadened the opportunity to vote, yet only a bare majority now take advantage of that opportunity. Who Votes? Certain types of citizens are more likely than others to vote. Thus the electorate is not only small in relation to the citizenry it also is unrepresentative of it. Traditionally the groups considered to be socially and economically disadvantaged display the lowest voting rates. Women vote less than men; poor people vote less than rich people; minorities vote less than whites; the poorly educated vote less than the better educated. Some of this is changing, some not. Race Reforms in the past two decades have done much to reverse the nineteenth-century disenfranchisement of Southern blacks. Barriers to voting have been lowered and campaigns have been launched to register black voters. As a result, there has been a sharp rise in black registration in the South. But blacks still vote less than whites, although racial differences have shrunk considerably (see figure 5.3).^^ Nationally, the gap between whites and blacks has hovered around twelve percentage points since 1964. It narrowed to ten points in 1980, and to less than six points in 1984.^^ From 1964 to 1980 there were two distinct voting patterns, a Southern and a Northern pattern (figure 5.4). During those years, black turnout fell sharply in the North but rose in the South. However, in 1984 black voting increased substantially in both regions. The continuing black-white gap is largely explained by the fact that, race aside, blacks belong disproportionately to other groups that display low turnout: they are less educated on average and are more apt to have low-status jobs. Indeed, when the influence of such social and economic considerations is taken into account, blacks are at least as politically active as whites, and perhaps more so.‘^ It is noteworthy, moreover, that the crucial hurdle appears to be registra¬ tion; once registered, blacks are about as likely to vote as whites. In both the 1980 and 1984 presidential elections, turnout among regis¬ tered blacks was 84 percent, compared with 88 percent among regis¬ tered whites. 84 Voters and Candidates Figure 5.3 Voter Turnout in Presidential Elections by Race, 1964-1984. ^ Hispanic figures not available for 1964 and 1968. Data for other minority groups are harder to come by and necessar¬ ily less complete. Certainly turnout among Hispanic Americans is low and has been declining. The Hispanic turnout rate is about half the average for other whites.^® The explanation here, as for blacks, turns in part on low social and economic status. But in this case one also must consider language barriers, as well as the fact that many Hispanics have only recently become citizens. Newly enfranchised voters only gradually master the mechanics of registration and acquire the habit of going to the polls on election day. Again, as with blacks, registration is the hurdle. Among registered Hispanics, turnout is 82 percent, not much different from other groups. Region In contrast with the national pattern of declining voter participation, turnout rates in the South have risen over the last two decades. Percent Linkage of Policy to Participation 85 Southern turnout increased by ten percentage points from i960 to 1984 while Northern turnout dropped sixteen points, shrinking what had been a thirty-point difference to a gap of only four points between the two regions (see figure 5.5).^^ It is worth noting that, while much of the Southern increase is due to a sharp rise in black partici¬ pation following the Voting Rights Act and other civil rights reforms, white turnout also rose. Indeed, in absolute terms whites outnum¬ bered blacks by a 7 to 2 margin among newly registered Southern Figure 5.4 Voter Turnout in Presidential Elections by Region and Race, 1964-1984. Sources: U.S. Bureau of the Census, Voter Participation in the National Election of November 1964, series P-20, no. 143; Voting and Regis¬ tration in the Election of November r968, series P-20, no. 192; Voting and Registration in the Election of 1972, series P-20, no. 250; Voting and Regis¬ tration in the Election of r9j6, series P-20, no. 322; Voting and Registration in the Election of 2980, series P-20, no. 370; Voting and Registration in the Election of 1984, series P-20, no. 397. 86 Voters and Candidates Figure 5.5 Voter Turnout in Presidential Elections by Region, 1960-1980. ^ South includes Alabama, Arkansas, Florida, Georgia, Louisiana, Missis¬ sippi, North Carolina, South Carolina, Tennessee, and Virginia. Sources: Based on actual vote returns and voting age population statistics compiled by the Elections Research Center, Washington, D.C., in America Votes and the U.S. Bureau of the Census. The data for i960 to 1980 are reported by Harold W Stanley, “The Political Impact of Electoral Mobilization: The South and Universal Suffrage, 1952-1980" (paper delivered at the annual meeting of the American Political Science Association, New York, 1981), p. 2. The data for 1984 are taken from the U.S. Bureau of the Census, Statistical Abstract of the United States: 1986, io6th ed. (Washington, D.C., 1985). voters between i960 and 1976.^° This countertrend in the South qualifies—and, by providing contrast, emphasizes—the pattern of decline throughout the rest of the country. Gender Women have dramatically improved their showing at the polls. The turnout rate for women was around 40 percent in the 1920S; by 1964 it had reached 67 percent, only five percentage points lower than the Linkage of Policy to Participation 87 rate for men (see figure 5.6). Moreover, while turnout rates for both men and women have fallen since 1964, the decline for women has been less, and women are now more likely to vote than are men.^^ The slight increase in turnout from 1980 to 1984 was caused entirely by more voting by women. Age The relationship between age and turnout helps explain why voting rates have been declining. The probability of voting is generally assumed to rise from a low level in early adult life, reach a plateau in middle age, and decline again as maturity gives way to old age. Figure 5.7 generally supports this view. Turnout for the youngest category of voters is consistently lower than for other age groups, falling as low as 40 percent in 1980 and 1984. Indeed, according to the data reported in figure 5.7, the decline from 1976 to 1984 was entirely the result of the fall-off among the youngest voters. The ratification of the Twenty- sixth Amendment in 1971, and the coming of age of the postwar Figure 5.6 Voter Turnout in Presidential Elections by Sex, 1964-1984. Sources: Same as for figure 5.4. 88 Voters and Candidates baby boom generation, have sharply raised the proportion of the electorate that belongs to this low-turnout age group. At the same time, the proportion of citizens over sixty-five years old—another low-turnout category—also has been growing. Overall, the changing age composition of the electorate probably accounts for at least 25 percent of the post-1960 fall in turnout. This same set of relationships, however, also offers some encourag¬ ing signs for future turnout rates. First, the baby boom generation is growing older and, since voting increases with age, turnout likely will rise. Second, older Americans are voting more than historical trends would predict. Figure 5.7 shows that turnout for voters over sixty-five fell only slightly prior to 1976, and increased by three percentage points in 1980 and nearly three more in 1984. Indeed, the turnout rate for the elderly has been higher than the rate for citizens between the ages of twenty-five and forty-four in the last four presi¬ dential elections. We can expect the elderly's turnout to continue rising, moreover, as the generation of politically inactive women that now dominates the senior population passes from the scene, and as the educational attainments of this group continue to increase. Socioeconomic Status The major changes in voting laws since the Civil War have involved the extension of the franchise to three groups: blacks, women, and youth. We have seen that the differences in voting rates among racial, gender, and age groups have been narrowing. But when comparing groups on the basis of education—the socioeconomic characteristic that has the greatest effect on turnout rates—we see that differences are, instead, actually widening (figure 5.8). Turnout at all educa¬ tional levels has declined since 1964. The decline has been greatest, however, among those who have not finished high school, and small¬ est among college graduates. Thus the turnout gap between these two groups has increased from twenty-six to thirty-six percentage points. Much, if not most, of the differences in turnout that remain between racial, gender, and age groups is a function of educational differences. Taken together, the figures show that the electorate is becoming more representative of the population at large in some respects, and less representative in others. The voting gap between men and women has disappeared. The gap between blacks and whites persists, but Percent Linkage of Policy to Participation 89 Figure 5.7 Voter Turnout in Presidential Elections by Age, r964-r984. ^ Includes only ages 2r-24. has narrowed considerably, as has the larger gap between Hispanics and other citizens. The age gap remains, but its significance is shrink¬ ing. But the differences in voting rates between the educated and the less educated, between those with high-status and low-status jobs, and between the rich and the poor remain, and indeed even have widened. A Cross-National Perspective One set of benchmarks for evaluating voter participation in the United States is the performance of other democracies. Table 5.1 compares the average turnout in post-World War 11 elections in nineteen dem¬ ocratic nations. The United States ranks last, with an average turnout rate, 58.5 percent, that is well below the average for the other nations. The second column of table 5.1 displays trends in turnout rates during this period. There is no consistent pattern here; turnout in 90 Voters and Candidates Figure 5.8 Voter Turnout in Presidential Elections by Educational Level, 1964-1984. Sources: Same as for figure 5.4. some countries has declined as much as or more than in the United States, tvhile turnout rates in other countries have increased. One note of caution is in order; turnout for the United States is measured as a percentage of eligible adults (age eighteen and over); turnout for the other nations is based on registered adults. The dis¬ tinction is less crucial than it may first appear, since registration is close to universal in many European countries. To illustrate, one study recalculated voter turnout for recent elections in other democ¬ racies by using the voting age population as the base rather than the traditional measure of the registered population. The average decline for the nations listed in table 5.1 was only 3.6 percentage points, and only Australia (-11.4) and New Zealand (-10.5) registered drops greater than ten points. More important, even after this recalcula¬ tion, the United States continued to rank very low, surpassing only Switzerland.^ Others, however, have argued that much of the discrepancy between the United States and other democratic nations is an arithmetic Linkage of Policy to Participation 91 Table 5.1 Postwar Voter Turnout in Nineteen Democracies Average turnout since 1945^ Country (percent) Postwar trend*’ Australia Netherlands’’ 95-4 -0.125 1948-1967 94-7 -1-0.183 1971-1981 84.4 -1-2.850 Austria 94.2 -0.413 Italy 92.6 —0.214 Belgium 92.5 -F0.057 New Zealand 90.4 — 1.114 West Germany 86.9 “1" 0.468 Denmark 85.8 + 0-375 Sweden 84.9 -1-1.798 Israel 81.4 -1-0.114 Norway 80.8 -(- 0.486 France 79-3 -f 0.512 Finland 79-0 -0.013 United Kingdom 76.9 -0.980 Canada 76.5 -0.030 Ireland 74-7 + 0.337 Japan 73-1 -0.162 Switzerland 64.5 -3.205 United States’* 58.5 - 1-475 Overall Average 81.0 -0.253 ^ Except for the United States, turnout is defined as votes cast as a percentage of registered voters. The figure for the United States is a percentage of the voting age population. Figures are based on national elections held between 1945 and 1981. The postwar trend was determined by calculating the slope of the line that best "fits" the turnout data over time. The slope is a measure of the change in turnout per election. For example, Australia has experienced a .125 percentage point decline in turnout per election during the postwar era. Because of unusually low turnout in many nations immediately after World War II, the first election held in each nation after the war was not included in the trend calculation. The Netherlands eliminated compulsory voting after the 1967 election. Figures are for presidential elections. The data for all other nations are based on elections for the lower house of the national legislature. Sources: The first column (average turnout) is from Ivor Crewe, "Electoral Participa¬ tion," in David Butler, Austin Ranney and Howard Penniman, eds.. Democracy at the Polls (Washington, D.C.: American Enterprise Institute, 1981), pp. 234-57. The sec¬ ond column (post-war trend) is calculated from turnout figures reported in Thomas Mackie and Richard Rose, The International Almanac of Electoral History (New York: Facts on File, 1982) and the European lournal of Political Research. 92 Voters and Candidates artifact. When the European denominator—the registered popula¬ tion—is used to calculate turnout in the United States, it ranks in the middle of the twenty-four nations. Some cite this as proof that our turnout problem is grossly overstated. However, this argument misses the point. Dividing by the number of registered citizens mathematically eliminates the major component of the turnout problem in the United States, the 30 percent of the population that is unregistered. What explains the cross-national pattern? There are several fac¬ tors, including variations in the nature of political parties and the intensity of group conflict, to be taken up later in this chapter. But two more prosaic legal differences need to be mentioned here to allow an informed appreciation of table 5.1. First, most Western Euro¬ pean nations compile voting lists through an administrative census, which makes registration virtually automatic. Those that boast turn¬ out rates consistently above 90 percent have compulsory voting rules. Second, the United States is the only Western democracy that places the entire burden of registration on the individual. One final comparative point should be made. We have seen how, in the United States, voting rates are related to social status: the better educated, more affluent, and more prestigiously employed are more likely to vote than those on the lower rungs of the socioeconomic ladder. The data suggest that this tendency is unique to the United States; studies of several other countries show no such link between status and voting rates.Figure 5.9 displays the participation rates for four occupational levels in Sweden and the United States. In the United States the gap between voting rates for professionals and man¬ agers and for unskilled workers is considerable,- in Sweden the gap is almost nonexistent. These data give at least some reason to suspect that the American electoral system may perform less well than others by two of the criteria cited above—conferring democratic legitimacy and ensuring the effective representation of all citizens' needs and preferences. Fewer citizens take part in American elections than elsewhere and, to that extent, the democratic process receives less support. Those citizens who do vote are less representative of the population as a whole than is the case elsewhere. Of course, any evaluation of the American electoral system must take into account the third crite¬ rion, the quality of the electorate. Since the level and depth of citi¬ zens' political information typically increase with education, any Linkage of Policy to Participation 93 Figure 5.9 Voter Turnout in National Elections in Two Countries by Occu¬ pation. Source: Samuel P. Huntington and Joan M. Nelson, No Easy Choice (Cambridge, Mass.; Harvard University Press, 1976), p. 88. substantial gain in the representativeness of the electorate probably will dilute the average degree of political knowledge in the voting population. To increase representativeness could pose the dilemma of balancing the "quantity" of political participation against the "quality." Other Modes of Participation In their seminal study of political participation, Sidney Verba and Norman Nie divided Americans into six categories according to their political activity. They found that more than a fifth of the adult population does not participate at all, and about the same number limit political activity almost exclusively to voting. Another fifth is active in groups and organizations, while 15 percent are active in campaigns but not in other political efforts. About 4 percent confine their political activity to personally contacting public officials. Finally, slightly more than 10 percent of the population engage in all the various modes of political participation.^^ There is considerable overlap between some of these categories. 94 Voters and Candidates For example, 90 percent of those who are active both in communal groups and in campaigns vote regularly. More important, perhaps, nonvoters seldom engage in other forms of political activity. It is true that "for most Americans voting is the sole act of participation in politics." As we turn our sights from voting to other modes of politi¬ cal participation, we encounter something of a puzzle. Relatively few Americans participate in politics in ways other than voting — campaigning, communal activity, or individual contacting. Never¬ theless, although the United States has the lowest level of voting among Western democracies, it compares favorably with other coun¬ tries in nonelectoral kinds of political activity. Americans, in fact, have higher participation rates than the citizens of most European nations in political activities other than voting.^^ And, as we shall see, during recent years when U.S. voter turnout was declining, other types of political participation, such as interest group activity and individual contacting, were on the rise. The participation problem in the United States appears to have a distinctly electoral cast to it.^® Campaign Activity The percentage of Americans who participate in political campaigns is low but constant. Figure 5.10 traces the level of citizen involve¬ ment in four different campaign activities (contributing money to a campaign, attending a political meeting, wearing a campaign button or displaying a bumper sticker, and working in a campaign) from 1952 to 1984. None of the campaign activities involves a sizable portion of the public. Only button wearing and the displaying of bumper stickers have declined markedly, which is not surprising since campaigns shifted resources during this period to other means of political advertising, such as television. With legislation providing tax incentives for financial contributions to campaigns, the percent¬ age of the public that gives money to candidates appears to have grown slightly. Nevertheless, fewer than one in seven Americans contribute to campaigns. The number of taxpayers earmarking a dollar of their tax liability to the Presidential Campaign Fund was 28 percent in 1980 and 24 percent in 1984.^^ All in all, the number of people engaged in campaigns has remained fairly steady and low. Linkage of Policy to Participation 95 Figure 5.10 Participation of Adults in Campaign Activity, 1952-1984. Sources: Warren Miller, Arthur Miller, and Edward Schneider, American National Election Studies Data Sourcebook, 19^2-78 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1980), pp. 304-305; National Election Study Codebook, 1980; American National Election Study 1984: Continuous Mon¬ itoring Survey File (First icpsr Edition, 1985), pp. 434-37. Individual Contacting In contrast with the steady state of campaigning participation and the decline in voter turnout, fragmentary evidence on individual contacting points toward increasing activism. Letter writing to pub¬ lic officials has been on the rise.'^° Since i960 the mail flow to Con¬ gress has doubled, and letters to the White House have quadrupled.-^' Communal or Interest Group Activity "In no country in the world," Alexis de Tocqueville observed, "has the principle of association been more successfully used or applied to a greater multitude of objects than in America."'^^ Joining groups is an American impulse that stretches hack to the earliest days of the republic. Those who closely monitor interest groups, however, have detected a swelling of this kind of activity in recent years. One study characterized this change as a "political revolution" in which "large numbers of citizens are becoming active in an ever-increasing num- 9G Voters and Candidates ber of protest groups, citizens' organizations, and special interest groups."The growth in the sheer number of groups is only part of the story. The same years have witnessed an increasing centraliza¬ tion of interest group activity in Washington, as well as an expansion in the number of activities in which interest groups engage. The contrast between voting and interest activity is striking. In one important respect, however, the two domains are alike. Both voting and interest group activity are strongly associated with social status. People of higher status are much more likely to vote or cam¬ paign in elections and to be involved in communal or interest group activities as well. As with voting, the tendency for higher-status citizens to participate more m interest groups is even stronger here than in other democratic countries.'^^ Finally, not only are individu¬ als with more schooling or higher income more likely to join interest groups m the United States, but the concerns and agendas of national interest groups disproportionately represent business and upper- middle-class interests.'^^ What forces underlie this increase in interest group activity? Inter¬ est group formation tends to occur in waves that coincide with peri¬ ods of increased governmental activism and technological break¬ throughs in communication.'^^ Accordingly, the growth of government probably has been the most important stimulus to interest group formation since i960, encouraging the beneficiaries and opponents of new government programs to organize. Groups representing the interests of women, the elderly, consumers, environmentalists, anti¬ abortionists, and religious conservatives spring immediately to mind. Congressional reforms since 1974, especially the proliferation of sub¬ committees, which has multiplied the number of decision points in the legislative process, also have heightened interest group activity. The decline of political parties has enhanced the role of interest groups as agents of political intermediation between the public and its elected representatives. Finally, the increasing availability of funds from outside sources, especially private foundations, has helped to foster and sustain interest groups.'^*^ A partial answer to the "puzzle of participation"—declining voter turnout accompanied by increases in nonelectoral modes of participation—lies in these governmental and institutional changes. They have encouraged interest group activity while undermining voter turnout. Another clue to the puzzle is the link between voting Linkage of Policy to Participation 97 and other modes of participation. Later we will trace part of the post-1960 decline in voter turnout to a diminished sense of political efficacy in the population. The public's felt need to communicate with and influence its elected representatives, however, has not dimin¬ ished. If anything, it has soared. Mounds of survey data attest to the recent discontent of the American public. If citizens are no longer expressing their preferences and demands in the ballot box, they are using other forms of political communication to voice their con¬ cerns. The skyrocketing of interest group activity and letter writing belies the claim that nonvoting signals "passive consent" in the public. Voting and interest group activity also share in common a connec¬ tion to weakened partisan identification and party structures. The decline of party hastens the decline of turnout; interest groups, in turn, have rushed in to fill the void left by diminished parties. Thus, although many who choose not to vote drop out of the system altogether, many others have sought alternative forms of participation. This chapter began by asking whether declining voter turnout is a serious problem or not. A parallel question could be raised about interest groups: does the apparent growth of group activity bode well or ill for the political system? This question already occupies a central place in current political discourse. American society, according to many observers, is rapidly being balkanized into a col¬ lection of narrow, special interests that lack any sense of a larger, common good. There is less reason to be pessimistic about this development than about turnout decline, however. Ironically, the relative absence of interest group ferment in the 1950s caused social scientists to worry that an unorganized, atomized public was vulnerable to demagogic appeals from the right, and led them to urge more group activity as an antidote. Much of today's lamentation comes from ideologues of the left and right, whose real complaint seems to be not the volume of group activity, but its content. Liberals deplore the work of anti- abortionists, religious groups, and corporate lobbyists, and then, in the next breath, applaud the growing militancy of labor, blacks, and women's groups. Conservatives make the same sort of charges, only with a reverse cast of heroes and villains. Still, such criticisms ought not be dismissed too lightly. The key problem is not that there are too many claimants on government, but 98 Voters and Candidates that interest group activity is unlikely to represent the full range and proportion of public concerns. As James Q. Wilson and others have shown, groups are most easily organized if they bear concentrated costs or receive concentrated benefits. Groups such as consumers and taxpayers who bear more diffuse costs are much less likely to make their voices heard. Most scholars also have recognized, as noted earlier, that there is a strong class bias to group activity, and that the poor and disadvantaged are much more difficult to organize than wealthy and corporate interests. To put the issue another way, the problem of interest group activity is not that there are too many interest groups, but that elected officials sometimes lack the resources to resist their demands. The critics rarely provide specific and effective suggestions about how to restrain all this group activity. The two solutions most often discussed are to create a stronger role for political parties and to impose stricter limitations on political action committees (pacs). The latter is an especially complicated and troubling issue. Undue special interest influence needs to be restrained, but this concern must be weighed against an equally important value: the necessity, in a democracy, to allow aggrieved citizens and interests the means and resources to "petition in redress of grievances." In any event, both of these solutions—strengthening parties and curtailing pacs —redirect our attention to the need for representa¬ tive and legitimate elections, and thus the problem of declining voter turnout. From Causes to Policy Reforms The participation problem in the United States is not an excess of communal or group activity, but insufficient voting. What, if any¬ thing, can be done about this? The data on voter turnout that was presented earlier give cause for both optimism and pessimism. The most encouraging trends are the elimination of the traditional turnout gap between men and women and the anticipated higher voting rates for the youngest and oldest voters. On the other side of the ledger are the widening chasm in participation between high status and low status citizens, and the possibility that a pattern of short-term decisions not to vote in par¬ ticular elections may be settling into a widespread abdication from politics in general. Linkage of Policy to Participation 99 Before we can hope to attack the problem we must understand its causes. There is a bulging literature on this subject, but no explana¬ tion commands consensus. We shall not rehearse the findings of that research here. Changing demographic characteristics, deteriorating civic attitudes, shifting features of the political environment, and cumbersome legal rules have all been identified as partial causes of declining turnout, although the relative importance of each remains a source of controversy.^^ Dividing the record of U.S. voter turnout into two time periods may advance the attempt to sort all this out. Figure 5.r suggests two separate episodes of falling turnout: a twenty percentage point drop between 1896 and 1936,"^° and a ten-point drop between i960 and 1980. Although many causes account for the downturn in each period, a few can be singled out. The main causes of turnout decline in the earlier period, 1896 to 1936, were changes in the party system and changes in election rules.These factors, however, cannot explain the decline since i960. Election laws have been liberalized during this period. The major causes of the post-19 60 decline have been the changing age composi¬ tion of the electorate, an erosion in civic attitudes conducive to voting, and the fading of citizen attachment to political parties."*^ Failure to draw the distinction between the two periods of decline can be misleading. For example, the question is frequently asked whether deteriorating civic attitudes can be a major cause of declin¬ ing turnout in the United States when Americans exhibit more sup¬ port for their political system than Europeans do for theirs and Euro¬ pean turnout has not declined.This question confuses the historically low level of turnout in the United States—the result of the drop from 1896 to 1936—with the declining trend since i960. Political attitudes are not a major cause of the low level of American turnout. Most of the gap between the United States and other demo¬ cratic nations is attributable to differences in registration procedures and levels of partisanship.'^'* Ffowever, political attitudes—feelings of alienation, distrust of government, and low political efficacy—have contributed substantially to the decline in voting since i960. Can we suggest from this any directions for future policy? Some things can be manipulated more easily than others: I. To alter the age structure of the population exceeds—at least in a democracy—the authority of policymakers. But that problem 100 Voters and Candidates may be solving itself anyway, as the baby-boom children gradu¬ ally grow older. 2. To restore citizens' faith in their government is not easy, and cannot be accomplished by pious wishes or legislative fiat.'^^ But identifying the problem is the first step toward a solution. It may be a platitude to say that citizens will vote if they believe that the government can be trusted to respond to their needs and preferences, and that they will vote if given an attractive choice of candidates. Yet it is a platitude that American leaders would do well to remember. 3. To shore up party identification also is difficult, but perhaps it is more amenable to direct intervention. There are numer¬ ous ways to expand the roles that parties play in elections and in governance.**^ Strong parties will mean more voters, both because strong party identifiers are more likely to vote, and because party organizations can help turn out their supporters. Frankly, then, our capacity to manipulate the main sources of the post-1960 downturn in participation—causes that are rooted in social characteristics, basic attitudes, or fundamental features of the con¬ temporary political environment—is relatively limited. The pros¬ pects may be more promising for changing a separate set of factors, those that are part of the legal system. Some commentators argue that since legal rules are demonstrably not responsible for the post-1960 decline in turnout, reforming the rules will not reverse that decline. But this view may follow a sound premise with an unwarranted conclusion: specific rules have not caused turnout to decline recently, but the legal system has been partly responsible for the low level of political participation in the United States. The ten-point drop in turnout rates since i960 would have been even worse without the liberalization of voting laws that occurred during that period. Further reforms (especially major adjustments) could offset some of the effects cited above and serve to increase political participation. The debate over structural reforms to increase voter turnout gener¬ ally covers three main topics: the laws that control the administra¬ tion of voting on election day, the regulations and procedures that guide media coverage of elections, and the rules that govern the registration of voters. We shall examine each of these in turn. Linkage of Policy to Participation 101 Making It Easier to Vote Several reforms to make voting easier have been proposed. Measures to make the dates and hours of elections more convenient include liberalized absentee voting procedures, twenty-four hour voting, and Sunday or holiday voting. The liberalizing of absentee ballot procedures may be the most promising measure. Americans are exceptionally mobile geographi¬ cally, and a surprisingly large proportion of people are away from their homes on election day. The 1982 victory of Republican guber¬ natorial candidate George Deukmejian in California suggests the potential for liberalized absentee voting procedures to boost turnout. Taking advantage of California's liberal absentee voting rules, the Deukmejian campaign sent out almost one million absentee ballot applications to Republicans who usually do not vote; 400,000 were returned. In addition to giving Deukmejian a 113,000 vote victory over his Democratic opponent, the effort increased the number of absentee ballots to 6.5 percent of the total number of votes cast in California—more than twice the rate in 1978. Proposals for twenty-four hour voting require that all polls nation¬ wide remain open during the same twenty-four hour period. For example, one plan provides for all polling places to open at 3:00 p.m. (est) on a Sunday and close twenty-four hours later on Monday. The proposal is based on the reasonable assumption that more hours for voting will mean more voters, since any person wanting to vote could find a convenient time. In truth, busy people are more likely to vote, not less, which casts some doubt on the convenience argu¬ ment.Furthermore, the administrative costs of twenty-four hour voting would be high. One study found that with twenty-four hour voting, election costs for Los Angeles County would rise by as much as 80 percent, with most of the increase going to additional poll workers and tighter ballot security.The question, then, is whether a turnout increase of unpredictable size would be worth the very predictable higher costs. Forecasting the effects of Sunday voting on turnout is a bit like "stargazing without the benefit of the astronomer's telescope."‘*‘^ The only Sunday elections ever held in the United States were munic¬ ipal elections in Milwaukee and Cleveland. Turnout was below nor¬ mal in both. In addition, Sunday voting not only would raise reli¬ gious objections but also would increase costs substantially because 102 Voters and Candidates of public employee overtime pay and the higher weekend rates asso¬ ciated with transportation and cartage charges. And turnout in coun¬ tries that hold elections on "days of rest" is comparable to that in countries holding them on workdays. Designating the accustomed Tuesday election day a national holiday according to one estimate, would cost employers about $7.5 billion.On balance, the case for Sunday or holiday voting is not particularly compelling. All in all, reforms to make voting easier could increase turnout somewhat, but there is little evidence to suggest that the gains would be more than marginal, especially when measured against the costs, both financial and political, of adoption and implementation. The Media Some observers contend that the most important reforms to increase the voting rate need to be made not in the way elections are con¬ ducted, but in the way television conducts itself when covering them. According to recent studies, television conveys, more than most media, a negative or even contemptuous attitude toward candidates that may contribute to the public's increasingly low regard for politi¬ cians and elections.One media analyst argues that the recent decline in voter turnout can be partially attributed to television's cynical portrayal of candidates. Reforms to reduce this effect include rotating the reporters who are assigned to candidates, curtailing the practice of giving better coverage to challengers than to frontrunners, and striking a better balance between covering candidate motives and candidate behavior.Of course, we would have to rely on the good intentions of the media to adopt and enforce such reforms. The quantity of campaign coverage, as well as its quality, is widely believed to influence voter turnout. In the opinion of some, more coverage means more votes by better-informed voters. The Federal Communications Commission, in an effort to promote more tele¬ vised candidate debates, ruled in 1984 that radio and television sta¬ tions could sponsor presidential debates without observing the "equal-time rule" of the Federal Communications Act as long as the broadcasters did not favor specific candidates. Whether more debates encourage increased voter turnout, however, is not clear. What is clear is that policymakers can do little to affect either the quality or the quantity of the media's campaign coverage. Linkage of Policy to Participation 103 Despite their lack of leverage, policymakers have tried for many years to curb the networks' controversial practice of projecting out¬ comes before the polls close on election night.Election coverage in 1980 rekindled the controversy over early projections, nbc began its evening news broadcast at 7:00 p.m. (est) by announcing that "Ron¬ ald Reagan appears to be headed for a substantial victory," and at 8:15 P.M. it officially called him the winner, three hours before the polls closed in California. Soon other networks' policy of withhold¬ ing their projected results in a specific state until the polls close in that state fell by the wayside. During the New Jersey gubernatorial race in 1981, abc attempted to call an election—incorrectly it turned out—two hours before the polls closed. And a League of Women Voters' study found that, in 1982, newscasts projected results in seven states before their polls closed.Throughout the 1984 primary sea¬ son, in state after state, the networks identified winning candidates with "characterizations" (stopping just short of formal declarations) while the polls were still open.^^ They actually projected the results of the pivotal Iowa caucuses fifteen minutes before the balloting started (by interviewing participants as they entered polling loca¬ tions). On election night in November the three major networks declared Reagan the winner while voters were still casting ballots in nearly half the states. The effects of network projections on voting are the subject of sharp debate. Some people claim that projections actually alter the choices of voters. The strong showing of third-party presidential can¬ didates in Alaska and Hawaii in 1980, for example, has been inter¬ preted as the result of impulsive voter reactions to early projections. In truth, there is little evidence that early projections create either underdog or bandwagon effects for candidates. Most observers agree, however, that projections can diminish voter turnout. Anecdotal evi¬ dence confirms that early televised announcements have dissuaded potential voters from casting ballots, but this effect is hard to dem¬ onstrate statistically and its precise magnitude is disputed. According to one study, many potential voters who learned of net¬ work projections before the polls closed in 1980 decided that voting would be a waste of time. People who heard about Reagan's victory before 6;oo p.m. (est) were less likely to vote by 6 percent if they lived in the East, by 9 percent if they lived in the South, and by 12 percent if they lived in the Midwest and West.'’^ The networks, however, 104 Voters and Candidates counter that “7 of the 10 states with the highest turnout [in 1980] closed their polls after the nbc projection and that turnout increased in 9 of 13 states in the Pacific and Mountain time zones."'’® What is more certain is that the effect of projections on turnout depends on the public's initial expectations before an election. If a race is expected to be close but the projections indicate a lopsided victory, as in 1980, then turnout may be depressed. If the public anticipates a landslide and projections suggest a close race, turnout could be stimulated. The future consequences of projections on the electorate may be much larger than their effect on turnout in any particular election. Early projections may, over time, teach voters that their individual votes do not really count. If voters are conditioned by television to view voting primarily as participation in a horse race (a view rein¬ forced by early projections) and not as a way to express preferences on issues or fulfill civic duties, then they will come to devalue the ballot. The public may even come to realize, with enough reminders from the networks, that as a method for determining who wins or loses, the act of voting is, strictly speaking, irrational for a single individual.®^ If so, the vitality of our democratic system will suffer. Reforms to remedy the problems caused by early projections must contend with two rather daunting constraints. It would be difficult, if not impossible, for government to compel the networks to hold off their projections without violating their First Amendment rights. Moreover, the pressures of commercial television cause the networks to recoil at the idea of voluntarily withholding their projection of a presidential winner. Network executives seek high ratings, which bring higher advertising rates, and they perceive a direct link between the speed of their projections and their share of the viewing audi¬ ence. Immediately after the Carter-Reagan contest, nbc took out full-page newspaper ads boasting that it had called the election at 5:15 Pacific time. Stated one network executive, "We really believe that the network that projects earliest and most accurately will have a larger share of the news audience for the next year."®° In addition to the battle for larger audiences, professional pride undoubtedly has much to do with the competition to be the "firstest with the mostest." Of the many suggested remedies to the early projection problem, three have received most attention. The first is to make exit polls virtually impossible to conduct. The state of Washington enacted legislation in 1983 to prohibit exit polling within three hundred feet Linkage of Policy to Participation 105 of the polls. Similar laws have been passed in more than thirty states. But such laws are difficult to implement—only a handful have been enforced so far—and probably are unconstitutional.'’^ A second plan would have Congress establish simultaneous poll closings nationwide. Because there would be inequities if every state simply closed its polls at the same moment (8:oo p.m. est is 5:00 p.M. pst), such proposals sometimes also mandate twenty-four hour voting so that each state would have the same number of evening and daylight hours for voting. Not only is such a plan expensive, it would not solve the problem, since the networks still would be able to make early projections based on exit polling. The third proposal calls for the networks to refrain voluntarily from projecting results before the polls close. For several years the networks have announced—and often honored—a policy of not reporting a state's election results before its polls close. However, this commitment does not prevent early projections in presidential contests that involve fifty states. Because it is possible to garner enough electoral college votes to win from the Eastern states alone—as the 1972, 1980, and 1984 presidential elections illustrate — all three networks declared victors with the polls still open in nearly half the states. Recently, the proposed solution with the most political momen¬ tum behind it combines the second and third plans. On January 17, 1985, the three major broadcasting networks pledged in writing to refrain from predicting election results in any state until its polls had closed. With that pledge in mind, the House of Representatives approved legislation on January 29, 1986, that would establish uni¬ form poll closings nationwide. According to this bill, the polls would close at 9:00 P.M. in the East, 8:00 p.m. in the Midwest, and 7:00 p.m. in the Rocky Mountain time zone. On the West Coast, the polls would close at 7:00 p.m with the end of daylight saving time delayed for two weeks. (Alaska and Hawaii are exempted from the bill.) What action the Senate will take on this bill remains, as of this writing, unclear. The combination of voluntary network restraint and uni¬ form poll closings would eliminate early projections in presidential elections. However, the plan may not increase voter turnout. By not mandating an equal number of evening and daylight hours for voting in each state (as with a twenty-four hour voting provision), the plan actually may reduce the number of voters who show up at the polls. 106 Voters and Candidates Many citizens now vote in the last hour of balloting, but the House bill would advance the poll-closing times in eight Western states. Proposals for voluntary restraint by the media reflect the need to balance two fundamental objectives of a democracy—a free, uncen¬ sored press and free, untainted elections. On the one hand, with¬ holding news may undermine the journalistic ethic of providing complete information to the public as soon as it is available. On the other hand, projections may constitute an intrusion into the demo¬ cratic process than can decrease participation and affect electoral outcomes. If the networks' past conduct is any indication, the conflict between these two objectives may prove to be irreconcilable. So far they have insisted with utmost piety that the journalistic ethic of not with¬ holding news is inviolate. In fact, experience shows that the impera¬ tive to report the news as soon as possible is not an absolute princi¬ ple. Journalists often intentionally withhold information they think is irrelevant or contrary to the public interest, such as stories about the personal peccadilloes of public officials or news that would harm national security. Driven by obvious competitive pressures and not First Amendment principles, the networks delay the transmission of news to the West for three hours each evening in order to maximize their audience and advertising revenues. In short, reforming the way the media cover elections is hampered by two barriers. First, the magnitude of the media's effects on turn¬ out remains uncertain. Some suggested remedies, such as those that violate First Amendment rights, are worse than the disease, while others would be difficult to implement for political and administra¬ tive reasons. In any case, most of the cures are uncertain antidotes, and the most palatable approach (voluntary restraint) is beyond the reach of elected officials. As in many spheres of public policy, it may be that only a catastrophe—perhaps an early projection that clearly alters the result of a national election—will precipitate enough pub¬ lic outrage to convince the networks to change their behavior. Registration Reform The United States, although the most democratic of countries in terms of citizens' rights to political participation, is the democracy that throws up the most imposing obstacles to the exercise of those Linkage of Policy to Participation 107 rights.In recent decades, steps have been taken to ease the burden of registration, including reforms to help blacks in the South, to eliminate excessive residency requirements, to expand the use of deputy registrars, to extend registration hours, and to introduce, in some states, registration by mail and election day registration. None¬ theless, the voter registration rate in the United States declined from 1964 to 1980. In 1984, 27 percent of the electorate, or about 46 million potential voters, was noi registered to vote. Although registration rules have been loosening throughout the country, states still differ substantially in how easy they make it for people to vote. Only four states allow election day registration, and thirty close registration twenty-four days or more before election day. Fewer than half the states permit all voters to use absentee registra¬ tion forms. Fewer than half offer evening and weekend hours for registration.^"^ As noted earlier, American registration procedures dif¬ fer markedly from those in most democracies, where registration is either compulsory, automatic, or based on an official canvass. The effort to increase voter registration attracted much attention and consumed much energy in 1984. An extraordinary number of groups, agencies, and ad hoc coalitions organized major voter regis¬ tration campaigns. The most publicized of these campaigns were those conducted by liberal organizations and targeted at Democratic- leaning constituencies: the Women's Vote Project, Operation Big Vote, and FFuman serve, along with the personal exhortations of the Rev. Jesse Jackson. Less appreciated is that Republican and conservative groups were equally active in the registration business. During the primary elec¬ tions, while the Democratic candidates were busy attacking one another, the Reagan campaign took advantage of $10.5 million in public matching funds to fine-tune the Republican national organi¬ zation. One important element in this effort was a large voter regis¬ tration drive that used sophisticated marketing technology and computer-generated mailing lists to target its message to areas likely to be responsive to a Republican appeal. The Republicans were assisted in this effort by groups like the American Coalition for Traditional Values, an alliance of conservative religious organizations that claimed to have registered 3.5 million new voters. When the dust finally settled in November, all this commotion and shouting produced a good deal less change than many had hoped. 108 Voters and Candidates As was shown earlier, voter turnout did not decline in 1984 (an important achievement when one remembers that it had fallen in each of the preceding five elections), but the increase was very slight; from 54.3 percent in 1980 to 55.2 percent in 1984. Regrettably, this result has led some commentators to dismiss reg¬ istration reform cavalierly.The 1984 election was widely seen as a foregone conclusion; one can only speculate how much turnout would have declined in the absence of such efforts. Indeed, the registration campaigns of 1984 posed a no-win situation for advocates of registra¬ tion reform. If turnout had gone up substantially, reform opponents undoubtedly would have cited this as evidence that new legislation was unnecessary. When turnout did not increase, they claimed it as proof that little could be done to overcome deep-seated voter apathy. Many liberals were equally disappointed at the apparent failure of registration campaigns to help Democratic candidates. In part, this was because they ignored the huge registration efforts of Repub¬ lican and conservative groups. In a more basic sense, however, such Democratic hopes probably were misplaced from the very begin¬ ning. As several academic studies have shown, when compared to voters, nonvoters are distinctive because of their greater political independence.*^^ They fit solidly into neither political party, but instead go along with the prevailing tides. In 1984 those tides favored Reagan. The Effects of Registration Laws To isolate the precise effect of registration rules from the myriad of other factors that influence voter turnout is a challenge. There is little doubt that convenient rules encourage voting and burdensome ones discourage it; the problem is to assess the size of the effect. Just as registration rules differ significantly from state to state, so does voter turnout, which in 1984 varied from 69 percent in Minne¬ sota to 41 percent in South Carolina. The states with the most convenient registration systems averaged around 66 percent turnout; those with early closings, limited or no absentee registration, and inconvenient hours had turnout rates averaging about fifteen points lower. To be sure, other factors are at play here that confound any explanation that turns solely on registration rules. For example, there is a regional pattern to registration rules; states in the upper Mid¬ west and the West tend to have convenient registration systems. Linkage of Policy to Participation 109 while all but two Southern states are in the least-convenient cate¬ gory. But this pattern is not unbroken, and departures from the regional tendency, like the six-to-ten percentage point disparity in turnout rates between Idaho and Utah (where registration is convenient) and their next-door neighbors Wyoming and Colorado (where it is incon¬ venient), suggest that the effect of registration rules is substantial. A sound analysis requires not only a comparison of registration rules and turnout rates, but also a systematic appraisal of how social, attitudinal, and political factors that affect voting rates vary across states. Several studies have tried to do precisely this. One found that more than 70 percent of the variation in turnout across 104 American cities could be explained by variations in the percentage of the population that was registered. A second study concluded that, even after accounting for political and demographic factors, “states which have registration rules which are generally supposed to facili¬ tate turnout do, in fact, tend to have higher rates of voter participation than those which do not." A third found that restrictive registration laws, particularly early closing dates and limited hours for registering, reduce turnout by about 9 percent in the population at large, and by a larger amount among less-educated citizens. Still another study suggested that convenient registration systems could increase turn¬ out by 4 to 7 percent. Finally, a study of twenty democracies that incorporated attitudinal, demographic, and institutional character¬ istics into its analysis concluded that automatic registration could increase turnout in the United States by as much as 16 percent.^® Virtually all the analysts, although concurring that social, atti¬ tudinal, and political factors are the most potent determinants of voter turnout, argue that altering registration rules and administra¬ tive practices can significantly boost participation. Reform Proposals A wide range of registration reforms—some purely hypothetical, others already in place in some states or countries—have been pro¬ posed at one time or another. The options for reform can be arrayed according to their degree of departure from present practice. -Least change-Most change- Piecemeal Mail Election day Universal voter reforms registration registration enrollment 110 Voters and Candidates Piecemeal Reforms Most proposals for ad hoc, incremental change involve some sort of federal financial incentive to induce the states to adopt specific regis¬ tration practices. One plan calls for the federal government to pay for more deputy registrars and longer operating hours at the registration offices. Another proposes to pay bonuses to states that register a prescribed percentage—say, 8o percent—of the voting age popula¬ tion. Still another urges block grants to let the states improve their registration systems in any way they see fit. These reforms maintain the tradition of state control over elections; even if federal induce¬ ments were fully effective, they would not radically challenge exist¬ ing practices. But neither, by the same token, can they be expected to sharply increase voter turnout. Mail Registration Voters in twenty states and the District of Columbia can register by mail as a supplementary method to traditional in-person registra¬ tion. These practices, although differing somewhat in particulars, share certain basic advantages. First, they lower the personal cost of registering; the voter is spared not only the need to show up at the registrar's office during specified hours, but also the need to deal with as many rules and deadlines. Second, they lower the costs of administering the registration process, no small consideration in states where the registration costs per person are higher than average. One major problem with mail registration is that it makes vote fraud easier. One student of these systems has argued that the com¬ bination of mail registration and absentee voting complicates radi¬ cally the detection of fraud.Some states allow organizations, including political parties, to convey the postcard registration forms between officials and voters, which obviously expands the potential for large-scale fraud. It is precisely this sort of organized fraud, of course, and not the odd instance of individual dishonesty, that prompts urgent concern. It also is true that most existing mail regis¬ tration systems have too short a history to reassure us fully. Still, there is so far no evidence of serious or widespread fraud in the states that allow mail registration. Moreover, in weighing the risk of fraud, it is well to keep in mind that run-of-the-mill, traditional registra- Linkage of Policy to Participation 111 tion systems from time to time have unwittingly accommodated spectacularly fraudulent schemes. If the case against mail registration is weaker than it first appears, the case for it is not particularly dramatic: the evidence available to date indicates that it has had only modest effect on turnout rates. Election Day Registration Four states—Maine, Minnesota, Oregon, and Wisconsin—let voters register on election day. The Carter administration sponsored a bill to mandate election day registration in 1977. The bill reached the House floor but was withdrawn without a vote when it became apparent that Republicans and conservative Democrats would not support it, claiming that it would result in greater vote fraud. Election day registration, like mail registration, lowers the per¬ sonal costs of voting. The tasks of voting and registration essentially merge, and voters need not worry about separate sets of deadlines and procedures. Election day registration could go far toward reenfranchising the rising number of Americans who travel regularly and move often. Moreover, most citizens are much more interested in politics toward the end of an election campaign than at the begin¬ ning, and many do not decide to register until the closing days of the contest—too late, under the rules now in force in most states. Election day registration has drawbacks as well. The number and intensity of election day administrative chores increase, although officials should learn to accommodate the greater burden as they become accustomed to the system. A more serious problem may be fraud. The use of false identification could easily go undetected. But again, the potential for fraud exceeds the evidence that serious —especially organized—fraud has actually occurred. At the same time it is worth noting that the four states that currently have elec¬ tion day enrollment are exemplars of "clean" politics. Election day registration seems to increase turnout somewhat, although the evidence is still scanty. The system was first in place for a presidential election in 1976. In the nation as a whole, turnout fell 1.2 percentage points that year, but in three of the four election day registration states (Maine, Minnesota, and Wisconsin) turnout rose by three to four points. (Oregon's turnout also increased, but by only 0.6 points.) In 1980, when national rates declined again, Maine 112 Voters and Candidates and Wisconsin continued to show slight gains, although Minnesota's turnout dropped nearly three points. In 1984 the turnout rate climbed in two of the states but fell in the other two. Turnout in midterm elections may be a better measure of the effects of reforms, since midterm contests are typically less strongly determined by short¬ term or election-specific factors. The four states with election day registration have exceeded the national turnout average in midterm elections since 1962, but their edge over other states generally has increased since each adopted election day registration. Of course we cannot attribute all — or, perhaps, any — of this increase to election day registration.^^ Other factors were at play at the same time. This illustrates a more general analytic problem: simple "before" and "after" comparisons often do not reveal very much about the specific effects of a reform. For example, is the gubernatorial or Senate race in a state uncertain and exciting one year and lopsided and boring in the next election? If so, this will cloud, and perhaps obscure completely, the results of any reform introduced between the two elections. Other methodological problems prevent confident appraisals of election day registration rules. Since the four states at issue histori¬ cally have had high turnout rates, further gains were bound to come harder than in low-turnout states. Similarly, easier registration rules may make a big difference only within a fairly narrow range, say between 50 and 60 percent turnout. Thus we cannot assume that Minnesota's experience is a good predictor of what would happen if South Carolina introduced election day registration. Until a more subtle analysis of the effect of this reform is conducted, the jury must remain out on the precise size of the effect. Universal Voter Enrollment The most far-reaching and ambitious reform—short of compulsory voting—would be universal enrollment, in which the government Itself would compile the list of eligible voters prior to each election. Canada uses such a system, and offers a particularly relevant model since it shares with the United States the electoral problems of fed¬ eral systems that are composed of heterogeneous and geographically dispersed citizens. Idaho's registration system is analogous to Cana¬ da's; county clerks must appoint registrars in every precinct to con¬ duct door-to-door canvasses. Linkage of Policy to Participation 113 Many proposals for universal enrollment have been made. While differing on some points—when and for how long voters should be enrolled, which level of government should run the system, and who should pay for it—most call for dividing the United States into dis¬ tricts and sending officials door to door to register all citizens who are eligible and willing to vote. To register by mail or on election day would lower the personal burden of registration, but automatic enroll¬ ment essentially would eliminate it. Were universal enrollment to be adopted, fewer citizens would forfeit their vote because of a recent change in residence. More centralized administration could curb prob¬ lems that are caused by the latitude local registration officials cur¬ rently enjoy. Such a plan would offer less potential for fraud than would mail or election day registration. Finally, the very process of canvassing would direct citizens' attention to the upcoming election. There are three main arguments against universal voter enroll¬ ment. First, it collides with two potent American political values —individualism and localism. Although enrollment would not be compulsory, it would lose its basis in individual initiative and moti¬ vation. Administered canvasses also would centralize a government activity that historically has been under local control. Second, uni¬ versal enrollment would be expensive, perhaps unjustifiably so; the most often cited cost estimates—which may be wide of the mark either way—range between $50 and $100 million.Third, critics fear that such a system would be an invasion of privacy. We can only speculate about how much universal enrollment would affect voter turnout, but some hints are offered by the experience of the four states that allow election day registration, of North Dakota (where voters need not register), and of Idaho (where deputy regis¬ trars canvass most precincts). Wherever door-to-door canvasses are standard practice, political participation is high. Idaho's turnout rates, for example, have ranged from seven to fifteen percentage points above the national average since i960. What Is to Be Done? Debates over what to do about voter turnout inevitably founder on the challenge of changing public attitudes. Fundamentally, the large- scale abdication of Americans from the polls is an attitudinal prob¬ lem. Yet, although we can conceive of efforts to combat this—for example, educational and media programs that exhort Americans to 114 Voters and Candidates accept their civic responsibilities—there is little that policymakers can do in the short-run to resuscitate norms of citizenship. The story, then, is familiar to public officials. The main causes of the problem are difficult to influence through public policy, while the policy tools at hand are only indirectly and imperfectly effective, and promise, at best, unsatisfyingly partial solutions. The registration reforms discussed above are certainly both unsat¬ isfying and partial. None of the proposals is ideal; each has its own limitations. Piecemeal reforms must be adopted by fifty separate state legislatures and probably would produce negligible increases in turnout. Mail registration raises the specter of vote fraud yet may yield only a modest gain in voting. Election day registration, for all its virtues, invites even more opportunities for fraud, could result in administrative bottlenecks, and, most important, would have a hard time getting through Congress because of sharp partisan opposition. Of all the proposals, universal enrollment is probably the least sub¬ ject to fraud, but it squarely conflicts with traditional American values and would be the most expensive and difficult to administer. Hybrid Plan A preferred scheme might be called a "hybrid" plan. Under this plan. Congress would mandate the liberalization of four registration pro¬ visions for all federal elections; closing dates, office hours, absentee rules, and the transfer of certification for movers. The argument goes like this: Universal enrollment would produce the largest increase in turnout but such a plan will not be adopted in the foreseeable future. It also will be difficult to pass an election day plan, and besides, such a plan has some serious problems. Fortu¬ nately, we can derive most of the benefits of an election day plan simply by moving the registration deadline closer to election day (say, one week prior), while avoiding most of its problems by not permitting enrollment on election day itself. By far, the single legal provision with the greatest influence on turnout is the registration closing date. If all the states had closed registration one week before the 1972 election, it is estimated that the national turnout would have been higher by nearly six million voters.More than three- fifths of the states now close registration more than three weeks before election day. Local election officials have resisted moving reg- Linkage of Policy to Participation 115 istration deadlines closer to election day on the grounds that they need more time to compile voting lists and distribute them to the precincts. The advent of computerized registration systems has weak¬ ened this long-standing claim and, as one study concluded, most states could operate with a closing date of one or two weeks before the election "without any apparent sacrifice of convenience or pro¬ cedural safeguards."^^ The hybrid plan includes three additional provisions. Congress would mandate that registration offices remain open during regular business hours and provide evening and weekend opportunities to register as well. More than 6o percent of the states currently do not provide convenient hours for registration. States also would be required to offer absentee registration to all citizens of voting age. At present, six states do not permit absentee registration in any form and another twenty states limit it to certain groups, such as the military or students. Together these two changes should increase turnout an additional four percentage points. The final piece of the hybrid plan addresses a growing impediment to voting: geographic mobility. The need of those who are settling in a new home to reestablish voting eligibility deters political partici¬ pation. A large number of Americans is affected: in 1981, 17 percent of voting age citizens (27 million people) had moved within the previous year and 47 percent within the previous five years. Congress would authorize the Postal Service to send change-of-address forms (routinely submitted by most movers) to each state's chief election official, who would shift the registrations from the old to the new addresses, then cancel the old address registrations. This switching would be done only for intrastate movers (83 percent of movers), who were already registered and thus had demonstrated their qualifications to vote in that state. The hybrid plan would not require local officials to depart radi¬ cally from their standard operating procedures, which would mini¬ mize bureaucratic resistance to reform. Administrative control of elections would remain in the hands of states and localities, weaken¬ ing the charge that federally initiated registration reform is a viola¬ tion of states' rights. This plan also would reduce (although not eliminate) the partisan objections that inevitably surface during pol¬ icy debates on registration reform. The magnitude of the expected increase in turnout would be less than under a universal or election 116 Voters and Candidates day plan, but it should be on the order of a gain of ten to fifteen percentage points. Compulsory Voting Let us contemplate the possibility of moving one step beyond the hybrid plan. Why not institute compulsory registration? The idea of compulsory voting is of course antithetical to the American creed. To most people the franchise is a right or a privilege, not a legal duty. Citizens cherish the freedom not to vote. But why should registra¬ tion not be required? Why should it not be a citizen's responsibility to be on the rolls of potential, eligible voters? The original purpose, if not the only purpose, of requiring that voters register at all is to prevent vote fraud—that is, to eliminate multiple voting, and to insure that only residents of the geographic area who are entitled to vote in a particular election are allowed to vote in that election. Compulsory registration may be an even more efficient protection against vote fraud than the current voluntary system. It is instructive to compare American attitudes toward voting with attitudes toward other public endeavors. Many of the functions of a modern democracy—such as raising armies for the common defense, or money for the common welfare—are subject to what economists call the "free rider" problem. Every member shares in the benefit, whether contributing to its achievement or not. They know, more¬ over, that m any major endeavor their individual contributions are unlikely to make the difference between success and failure. Each citizen's best option, then, is to decline to contribute. But as large numbers of citizens make these same calculations, voluntarism breaks down and public tasks remain undone. To overcome this free¬ rider problem we introduce an element of compulsion into taxation and military service. Young men are required to register for the mili¬ tary, although they may volunteer to serve or not (except in times of national emergency, when service is compulsory). Americans are required to register with the government and receive a social security number. The payment of taxes is not left to voluntarism but is com¬ pulsory at all times. Our voting system, however, still rests on an ethic of voluntarism. Linkage of Policy to Participation 117 Conclusion The nature of particular candidates, campaign issues, and political events—factors largely beyond legal control—will either aggravate or ameliorate the short-term problem of participation in particular elections. We must look to structural reforms, particularly the regis¬ tration process, to attack the long-term problem, which is the near complete abstention from political life of a large fraction of our citizenry. Not all registration reforms will pay off. Incremental reforms can have only a limited effect on turnout because they are unlikely to reach the roughly 6o million Americans who are engaged in a long¬ standing boycott of the polls. Such reforms are unlikely to confront the long-run problem for two reasons. First, they are subject to the "Catch-22"-like dilemma that plagues many attempts to change political attitudes and behavior; those people who are attentive to the reforms already are committed participants, while the nonpartic¬ ipants who are the targets of the reforms are not listening or watch¬ ing. Also, incremental reforms do not address the status problem, namely that nonparticipants are predominantly lower status. There is little room left to boost middle class participation—84 percent of college-educated Americans are registered to vote. However, only 54 percent of those who have not graduated from high school are on the rolls. Thus the challenge is not to raise turnout across the board, but to increase it among lower-status citizens, a far more difficult task. The evidence suggests that ambitious reforms, like universal enroll¬ ment, the hybrid plan, or compulsory registration, may significantly increase turnout. But although suggestive, the evidence is still too thin to let us confidently adopt or decline such basic reforms on the basis of the evidence. Even with better data, the decision ultimately depends more on values than on evidence. Those who would encour¬ age greater participation through registration reform must come to terms with distinctively American political values—liberty, antago¬ nism toward government, and individualism. Democracy is a radical idea that political leaders and thinkers have never fully embraced. At best, support for democracy in the United States has been ambivalent. America is a liberal democracy but, historically, the emphasis was first placed on "liberal." The Constitution framers stressed the principles of individual liberty and 118 Voters and Candidates limited government rather than universal suffrage. Only during the Jacksonian era did the “democratic'' urge begin to grow. Reserva¬ tions about widespread political participation, however, continued to linger. Some elements within the Progressive movement sought to expand democracy through such devices as primaries and referenda, but other Progressives embraced values of rationality, efficiency, and scientific management that often were at odds with democratic values. Between the two world wars, political thinkers of the stature of Walter Lippmann expressed grave misgivings about democracy. And as we have already seen, a number of contemporary American political scientists view mass democracy with considerable distrust. Would-be reformers face another obstacle. Government and poli¬ tics have never occupied a central place in the popular American mind. Not only was the American republic born in a climate of hostility toward established authority, opposition to strong govern¬ ment has been a reverberating theme throughout our history. Nor has politics commanded much public acclaim. In many respects, Americans have always treated politics as sport; it is no accident that we use athletic metaphors to describe political contests today. In the nineteenth century, political campaigns, with their brass bands and torchlight parades, served as public entertainment. But cultural inno¬ vations in this century, including the rise of professional sports, cre¬ ated alternative social diversions. Radio and television have been especially instrumental in steering the public away from community- oriented social activities, including politics, and to activities that do not require people to leave the comfort of their homes. Any proposal to make registration more automatic also must con¬ front the strong individualist ethic in America. Appeals to register and to vote emphasize collective public virtues such as community, civic duty, and public trust. However, many Americans still regard voting as a private right that they alone can decide whether or not to exercise. Finally, the franchise never has been seen by Americans as a sim¬ ple, automatic right of citizenship, but rather as a privilege that individual citizens must earn by passing tests of worthiness. Current registration requirements are fairly effective “filters"; they screen citizens on the basis of motivation. People who register usually take the next step and vote. If we ease registration rules, we presumably will be adding less intrinsically motivated citizens to the rolls. In Linkage of Policy to Participation 119 the economists' language, the marginal return from registration will decline. At some point the cost of increasing political participation will exceed the benefit of the next citizen's vote. Defining that point depends on the values we attach to the gains and losses involved. The debate over registration reform will be couched—as it always has been—in terms of the potential for fraud, the defense of privacy rights, and the level of public costs. These are surely legitimate concerns. But resolution of the debate ultimately will hinge on more fundamental issues of political values. Is it time to make the vote an unqualified right of citizenship, one so valuable that the government should ease and encourage its use? To do so will require some depar¬ ture from traditional American ideals. But perhaps it is time to reas¬ sess some of those ideals. 6 Who Vies for President? MICHAEL NELSON In his 1888 work, The American Commonwealth, James Bryce observed; Europeans often ask, and Americans do not always explain, how it happens that this great office, the greatest in the world, unless we except the papacy, to which any man can rise by his own merits, is not more frequently filled by great and striking men? In America, which is beyond all other countries the country of a "career open to talents," a country, moreover, in which political life is unusually keen and political ambition widely diffused, it might be expected that the highest place would always be won by a man of brilliant gifts. But since the heroes of the Revolution died out with Jefferson and Adams and Madison some sixty years ago, no person except General Grant has reached the chair whose name would have been remembered had he not been president, and no president except Abraham Lincoln has dis¬ played rare or striking qualities in the chair. ^ Bryce was not the first person to wonder "Why Great Men Are Not Chosen President." Alexis de Tocqueville puzzled in Democracy in America, which was published in 1835, that although the Federal¬ ist party had "reckoned on their side almost all the great men whom the war of independence has produced," it soon had become extinct.^ Nor was Bryce the last. The title of a 1967 article by Steven V Rob¬ erts asks: "Is It Too Late for a Man of Honesty, High Purpose, and who Vies for President? 121 Intelligence to Be Elected President of the United States?" Bemoan¬ ing that "at a time when events seem to demand a different alterna¬ tive," the public was being forced to choose from a "group of politi¬ cians," Roberts compiled a preferred list of university, corporation, and foundation presidents, cabinet secretaries, and a Supreme Court justice.^ Steady declines in voter turnout in almost every presiden¬ tial election since Roberts's article appeared would suggest that Americans still are dissatisfied with the choices that are offered to them. As expressions of despair, questions like those posed by Bryce and Roberts may or may not be warranted. They can be addressed in a useful way, however, only if they are phrased analytically and answered empirically. Thus, instead of wondering where are the great presidents of yesteryear, we more usefully might ask: What sorts of people comprise the pool of presidential "eligibles" from which we actually draw our chief executives? Specifically, 1. Who—realistically—can vie for president? The American politi¬ cal system imposes constitutional standards that help to define the pool. It also imposes informal standards of both social and career background that define it even more powerfully. What are these stan¬ dards? What is their basis? How mutable are they? 2. Who chooses to compete for the presidency? Among those who are regarded as qualified, what prompts some to run and some not? Who Can Compete? Constitutional Requirements In the constitutional theories that prevailed during the late eigh¬ teenth century, merely to stipulate that public offices would be filled for fixed terms by vote of a plurality of qualified electors or of state legislators was not considered sufficient to assure the republican character of elections. Constitutional specifications of eligibility also were regarded as necessary to prevent certain types of people even from coming before the voters. Several state constitutions required that the governor meet a minimum property-owning—often land¬ owning—standard, the idea being that voters should be restricted to choosing among candidates with a substantial economic stake in the community. Some states specified that a profession of Christianity, or even Protestantism, was a minimum legal requirement for elec- 122 Voters and Candidates tion, perhaps in accordance with the common law rule that only Christians could be counted on to swear or affirm a valid oath of office. Age and residency requirements for would-be governors were less common than these others."* The plan of government that the framers wrote at the Federal Convention of 1787 included certain standards of eligibility for the presidency. But it is hard to account for them in terms of any stated constitutional theory. The common state standards were explicitly rejected. James Madison records that when Charles Pinckney of South Carolina moved, after much discussion, that "the President of the US the Judges, and members of the Legislature should be required to swear that they were respectively possessed of a cleared unencum¬ bered Estate to the amount of_in the case of the President &tc &c," his motion "was rejected by so general a no, that the States were not called."^ As for a religious test, not only was one not proposed, but the delegates promptly agreed "nemxon:" to Pinckney's motion that "no religious test shall ever be required as a qualification to any office or public trust under the authority of the U. States."^ Indeed, it was not until September 7, ten days before the convention adjourned, that the delegates voted to adopt any eligibility standards for the presidency at all. Without discussion, they approved the September 4 recommendation of the Committee on Postponed Matters that now constitutes paragraph 5 of Article II, Section i: "No Person except a natural bom Citizen, or a Citizen of the United States, at the time of the adoption of this Constitution shall be eligible to that Office who shall not have attained to the Age of thirty five Years, and been fourteen Years a resident within the United States."^ Because no debate accompanied the delegates' decision, any expla¬ nation of why they chose these citizenship, age, and residency stan¬ dards as the minimum qualifications for the presidency must be somewhat speculative. But what evidence there is points to short¬ term political considerations as at least the partial wellspring of each provision. In all cases, qualifications were inserted mainly to solve problems that had developed out of the constitution-writing process itself. Citizenship. The meaning of "natural born Citizen" is not entirely clear; the term never was used commonly, and since 1795 hs exis¬ tence in American law has been confined to the presidential eligibil¬ ity clause of the Constitution. But historians agree that its appear- Who Vies for President? 123 ance in Article II can be traced to a July 25, 1787, letter that John Jay wrote to George Washington, who was president of the Convention: "Permit me to hint whether it would not be wise and seasonable to provide a strong check to the admission of Foreigners into the admin¬ istration of our national Government, and to declare expressly that the Command in chief of the American army shall not be given to, nor devolve on, any but a natural born citizen."® Historians also agree that fear that a foreign ruler might someday be imported to reign over the United States prompted Jay's letter, although the precise nature of that sentiment is unclear. The con¬ vention debates reveal considerable concern among the delegates about the national loyalties and attachments of legislators, but these were manifested in requirements for length of citizenship, not its origin: seven years a citizen for representatives, nine years for sena¬ tors. Charles Thach has "little doubt" that Jay personally feared Baron von Steuben, a popular Prussian general who had aided the American cause during the Revolution and who—more to the point —had sympathized with Shays's Rebellion.^ Cyril Means speculates that Jay instead was responding to a popular rumor that "the Federal Convention (which was sitting behind closed doors) was concocting a monarchical form of government and planning to invite Prince Fred¬ erick Augustus, the second son of George III, to accept an American crown."^° In any event, Washington wrote to Jay on September 2 to thank him for the "hints contained in your letter," and two days later the Committee on Postponed Matters included Jay's suggestion in its recommendation to the delegates. The committee also specified that anyone who was "a Citizen of the United States at the time of the Adoption of this Constitution" would be eligible to the presidency. This seems to have been done in consideration of certain prominent American leaders, including James Wilson, Alexander Hamilton, and Robert Morris, who had been born abroad. It may have been feared that they would not be regarded as "natural born Citizens," even though they, having been bom as Brit¬ ish subjects, would seem to have been in the same confusing legal category as most other Americans. (The Constitution did not define citizenship.) Still, according to Edward Corwin, "Wilson, a member of the Committee of Detail, seems to have felt the need of such a clause in his own behalf especially keenly," and it was inserted.*' Age. As with the other constitutional qualifications for the presi- 124 Voters and Candidates dency, the minimum age requirement of thirty-five years was not presented to the Convention or approved by it until far along in its proceedings. The reason seems to be that as late as August, delegates remained committed to their May decision to accept Madison's pro¬ posal for legislative selection of the executive for a single term. Because legislators had been assigned age requirements (twenty-five for members of the House, as voted on June 22; thirty for senators, voted on June 12), there may have seemed no need to stipulate one for the executive they would be choosing. In late August, however, the Convention abandoned legislative selection in favor of presidential eligibility for reelection. In the delegates' minds, the Constitution could include one provision or the other, but not both. As Max Farrand summarizes their under¬ standing of the issue; "If the executive were to be chosen by the legislature, he must not be eligible for reelection, lest he should court the favor of the legislature in order to secure for himself another term. Accordingly the single term of office should be long. But the possibility of reelection was regarded as the best incentive to faithful performance of duty, and if a short term and reeligibility were accepted, then choice by the legislature was inadvisable."^^ Hasten¬ ing the Convention's change in policy was its August 24 decision to define legislative selection to mean the House and Senate would choose the president jointly, each member having one vote. This convinced small-state delegates that their interests would be ignored and their people effectively disfranchised. The task then became to develop a nonlegislative method of presi¬ dential selection that would neither invite corruption nor alienate any part of the country. The people, the states, and, among diehards, the legislature all had their champions, but the decision of the Con¬ vention to refer the whole issue to the Committee on Postponed Matters is evidence enough that most delegates were looking for some new and creative proposal. The electoral college, in which presidents were to be selected by electors from each state, was the committee's "jerry-rigged" compro¬ mise solution. Curiously the proposal bespoke great suspicion of the "college's" electors. Each was charged to vote for two candidates for president from two different states, lest they vote only for local favorites. To ensure that they would cast both votes seriously, the vice presidency was created as an office for the presidential runner- Who Vies for President? 125 Suspicion also was directed at the voters, whom delegates pre¬ sumed would be empowered by the states to choose the electors. That this suspicion underlay the Committee's invention of the presi¬ dential age requirement on September 4 is evidenced by Jay's defense of it in Federalist, no. 64: "By excluding men under thirty five from the [presidency. . .], it confines the electors to men of whom the people have had time to form a judgment, and with respect to whom they will not be liable to be deceived by those brilliant appearances of genius and patriotism which, like meteors, sometimes mislead as well as dazzle."^^ Residency. The requirement for a period of residency in the United States seems to have been designed to prevent the importation of a foreign king. From a technical standpoint, the provision is constitu¬ tional overkill—did not the "natural born Citizen" requirement take care of that possibility?—but it served two political purposes that were important to the delegates. First, it underscored to the citizenry that soon would be deciding whether to ratify the proposed constitu¬ tion that the framers took popular fears of foreign rulership seriously. Those fears may have been great, if a "leaked" story to the August 22 Pennsylvania Gazette is any indication; We are informed that many letters have been written to the members of the Federal Convention from different quarters, respecting the reports idly circulating that it is intended to estab¬ lish a monarchical government, and to send for [Prince Frederick Augustus! &.C &c—to which it has been uniformly answered, "though we cannot, affirmatively, tell you what we are doing, we can, negatively, tell you what we are not doing—we never once thought of a king."*^ Second, the residency requirement—if taken to mean consecutive years of residency—effectively excluded Tory sympathizers who had fled to England during the Revolution. The designation of fourteen years as the required length of resi¬ dency fulfilled both these purposes. That the Convention turned down an alternative proposal of twenty-one years can be explained by a single fact; the fourteen-year requirement excluded none of the delegates, a twenty-one-year requirement would have eliminated three. Political Origins of Paragraph y. In all cases, then, short-term polit¬ ical considerations influenced the content—even the existence—of 126 Voters and Candidates paragraph 5 of Article II, Section i. The various citizenship and residency requirements were written to assure an anxious public that no foreign king or Tory expatriate would rule them. The age requirement helped smooth the passage of the electoral college pro¬ posal among delegates who knew they did not want legislative selec¬ tion but did not know what they wanted instead. At this late stage of the Convention, the delegates' main purpose was to ease the task of agreeing on a constitution and selling it to a citizenry that they presumed would be somewhat skeptical. The framers did, of course, give serious attention to the deeper issue of choosing suitable presidents. But they saw that purpose being served by other parts of the Constitution. Presidential selec¬ tion, whether by legislators or electors (or both in the event of elec¬ toral college deadlock) was designed to be selection by peers — personal acquaintances of the candidates who could choose intelligently among them. And even if someone of low character slipped through the net and became president, the possibility of reelection would be a powerful incentive to excellence. Whether motivated by "avarice," "ambition," or "the love of fame," argues Hamilton in Federalist, no. 72, a president will behave well in order to secure reelection to the office that allows him to pursue his selfish desire. Finally, Jay points out in Federalist, no. 64, "So far as the fear of punishment and disgrace can operate, that motive to good behav¬ ior is amply afforded by the article on the subject of impeachments."^^ Legal Issues. Regardless of their origins or their unimportance to the framers, the citizenship, age, and residency requirements for presidential eligibility remain unaltered in the Constitution; indeed, the Twelfth Amendment, which became part of the Constitution in 1804, pointedly applies them to the vice presidency as well.^° The requirements also continue to pose thorny and unresolved legal issues. Specifically, 1. Do the age and residency provisions apply to the time of elec¬ tion or inauguration? This depends on whether one takes "eligible" to mean "choosable" or "qualified." The former, which is the logical etymological choice, points to the date of election; the latter, which some state courts have used to interpret their own constitutions, would indicate the inauguration day.^^ 2. Does the residency requirement entail fourteen consecutive years of residency prior to the election or inauguration? Some chal- Who Vies for President? 127 lenged Herbert Hoover's eligibility to assume office in 1929 on the grounds that much of his time during the preceding fourteen years had been spent living abroad. Hoover's defenders prevailed, but they argued narrowly that he had been a resident throughout this period because he had maintained a legal domicile in the United States. 3. Does the "natural bom Citizen" requirement disqualify those who are bom of American parents on foreign soil? At various times this has been a live issue: the ranks of such people have included Franklin D. Roosevelt, Jr., Secretary of State Christian Herter, Gover¬ nor George Romney, and Senator Lowell Weicker, among others. The category of natural-born citizenship is an archaic one. In the most revealing study of its constitutional meaning to date, Charles Gordon argues that the principle of jus sanguinis, "under which nationality could be transmitted by descent at the moment of birth," was more a part of the common law of 1787 than the old doctrine jus soli, which determined a person's nationality according to his place of birth. Gordon also cites the Naturalization Act of 1790, which was passed by a Congress that included twenty delegates to the Fed¬ eral Convention, among them eight of the eleven members of the committee that authored the presidential eligibility clause. The act includes this provision: "And the children of citizens of the United States that may be born beyond the sea, or out of the limits of the United States, shall be considered as natural-born citizens." Gordon concedes, however, that "the evidence of [constitutional] intent is slender" and that "the picture is clouded by elements of doubt." The 1790 Act was repealed in 1795, although apparently not because of the jus sanguinis clause. The Fourteenth Amendment, which became part of the Constitution in 1868, refers to citizens as "all persons born or naturalized within the United States" (emphasis added). This means, according to controversial dicta by Justice Hor¬ ace Gray in the 1898 case of United States v. Kim Ark, that natural- born citizenship is confined to those born "within the United States and subject to its jurisdiction."^ 4. Could Congress add to the eligibility requirement by simple legislation? Corwin argues, although not at any length, that it already has done so: "A number of sections of the national Criminal Code contain the provision that anyone convicted under them shall, in addition to other penalties, 'be incapable of holding office under the United States.'... It can hardly be questioned that such provis- 128 Voters and Candidates ions are capable of excluding an otherwise qualified person from the presidency.''^'^ Enduring Effects. Because these are all constitutional gray areas, it seems unlikely that the courts ever would try to thwart the will of the people by ruling as ineligible someone who was horn abroad of American parents, thirty-five on inauguration day but not election day, or a resident for less than fourteen consecutive years. Still, as Means points out, messy legal challenges could be filed against such a person at almost any time—before the nominating convention, to prevent his name from appearing on a presidential primary ballot; after election day, to enjoin electors from voting for him; or during the term of office, to nullify his actions as president. The prohibition on eligibility in the original Constitution that has had the greatest effect is the one that excludes naturalized citizens from the presidency. (The age requirement, although it disqualifies more adults than any other, never has been a source of real frustra¬ tion, perhaps because it bars no one from the presidency for very long.) The citizenship requirement prevented the Liberal Republi¬ cans from nominating the German-horn Senator Carl Schurz to oppose U. S. Grant's reelection in 1872, and presently bars from consideration Secretary of State Henry Kissinger, National Security Adviser Zbigniew Brzezinski, Ambassador John Kenneth Galbraith, Secretary of the Treasury W Michael Blumenthal, and Senator Rudy Boschwitz, among others. The other politically meaningful constitutional disqualifier is the Twenty-second Amendment, which excludes from election to the presidency anyone who already has been elected twice to the office or who has acted as president for more than one and one-half terms. Short-term political considerations had much to do with the amend¬ ment's passage through the Eightieth Congress in 1947. Republicans, who voted unanimously for the two-term limit, seemed determined to prevent another Franklin Roosevelt. Ironically, the first president to whom the new limit applied was Dwight Eisenhower, who under¬ standably described it on several occasions as "not wholly wise."^^ Short-term politics also seems likely to prompt further change in the Constitution's eligibility provisions, if ever such changes are to occur. In March 1983, for example. Senator Thomas Eagleton intro¬ duced a constitutional amendment to replace the natural-born citi¬ zenship provision with a requirement for eleven years of citizenship. Who Vies for President? 129 His motive was frustration over the ineligibility of investment banker Felix Rohatyn — indeed, his staff referred to the proposal as the "Rohatyn resolution." Not surprisingly, the last spate of such propos¬ als occurred in the early 1970s, when Kissinger's exclusion from consideration frustrated some.^^ Social Background Criteria The Constitution's specified qualifications for the presidency, how¬ ever arbitrary and outdated they may be, are broad. They are so broad, in fact, that by estimate from the 1980 census, approximately 87 million Americans are constitutionally eligible. (More than 5 mil¬ lion adults over thirty-five are ineligible because they are naturalized rather than natural-born. And, of course, two Americans, Richard Nixon and Ronald Reagan, are ineligible under the Twenty-second Amendment.No one, of course, would pretend that 87 million is a realistic estimate of the pool of plausible candidates for the presidency. As William Keech and Donald Matthews observe, "Ironi¬ cally, democratic elections are impossible in large polities without eliminating almost everybody before the people decide."^‘'^ The United States, which technically draws its presidents from an unusu¬ ally large pool, realistically draws it from a very small one. How many are in this pool? Thomas Cronin estimates offhandedly that "there is an 'on-deck circle' of about fifty individuals in any given presidential year."'^° If the index for inclusion is one-time sup¬ port from even i percent of an individual's fellow partisans in Gallup polls on presidential nomination preference, then the number of plausible candidates has ranged from nine in 1936 to forty-five in 1976, with an average of 22.6 per election for the period 19^6-84.^' (A different index—mention of someone's name as a presidential prospect on a network evening news program—produces a similar figure: an average 27.7 per election from 1968 to 1980.1’^ If one raises the standard for inclusion to 5 percent support in a Gallup poll — still low, considering that the lowest preconvention poll showing for a major party nominee was 12 percent, for Adlai Stevenson in 1952—the size of the pool shrinks by almost half, to 12.5 per elec¬ tion (see table 6.1). To state that the ranks of possible presidents in a given election arc- numbered in the low dozens is not very helpful, of course, unless we 130 Voters and Candidates Table 6.i Size of the Pool of Candidates for President, 1936-84. Gallup ^ percent support or more i percent support or more Year Democrats Republicans Total Democrats Republicans Total 1936 I 7 8 I 8 9 1940 2 7 9 7 14 21 1944 4 6 10 9 9 18 1948 6 8 14 16 12 28 1952 14 7 21 20 12 32 1956 5 I 6 13 6 19 i960 9 5 14 12 11 23 1964 2 8 10 7 II 18 1968 5 11 16 5 13 18 1972 9 3 12 17 3 20 1976 11 8 19 31 14 45 1980 6 5 11 9 17 26 1984 7 I 8 16 I 17 Total Average per 81 77 158 163 131 294 election 6.2 5-9 12.2 12.7 10.1 22.6 also know what kinds of people are in those ranks. One way of deducing who plausibly can become president is to look first at those who actually have been president. Table 6.2 lists the social background characteristics of all twentieth-century presidents. (The comparable table for defeated major party candidates—table 6.3—is very similar, as would be a table of nineteenth-century presidents. By their evidence, it seems that we can tentatively eliminate the following kinds of people from the pool of 87 million: women, blacks and other racial minorities, non-Christians, and the never-married. To be sure, this list understates the exclusivity of the pool of plausi¬ ble presidential candidates. There are other biases at play that, although less absolute, nonetheless have been confining. As Benja¬ min Page and Mark Petracca observe, presidents "usually have been white, well-to-do, Protestant males, of indistinct (or Anglo-Saxon) ethnic background; married, with a family; and in their middle fifties or older." Richard Watson and Norman Thomas add that presiden¬ tial Protestantism has been "generally from a high-status denomina¬ tion" and that presidents, "including those from modest back¬ grounds, have generally been well-educated at prestigious private institutions and have tended to practice law prior to their entry into public life."'^'* who Vies for President? 131 The roster of plausible candidates in recent elections has con¬ formed to this racial, sexual, marital, and religious profile. This can be seen in table 6.4, which groups together presidential possibilities who met one or another standard of "seriousness" in the 1972, 1976, 1980, or 1984 elections. Of the candidacies that attracted at least 5 percent support in even one Gallup poll in the four years preceding each election, one belonged to a black woman (Representative Shir¬ ley Chisholm), three to a bachelor (Governor Jerry Brown), one to a black man (Jesse Jackson), and forty-five (90.0 percent) to white, male, married Christians. There is even less variety among those who crossed only the i percent barrier: fifty-five of sixty (91.7 per¬ cent) in this category filled the standard prescription entirely. The lowest threshold—mere mention on a television network's evening news program—is biased in favor of frivolous candidates who met the easy ballot requirements for the New Hampshire primary, such as comedian Pat Paulsen, community organizer Ed Coll (only thirty- two years old), and Harold Stassen. Even so, the overwhelming major¬ ity fit the mold. Still, changes in the list of social background criteria may occur. New standards may arise. Not every president has had a college degree, but every one since 1933 has and the nation's ever-growing credentialist mores make it more likely that future presidency-seekers will have to as well. (All seventeen of the 1984 plausibles were at least college educated.) Divorced or widowed single candidates may find it easier to be taken seriously (Reagan broke the remarriage barrier in 1980 with scarcely a mention), but aspirants who never have been married may find it harder. America's distaste for homo¬ sexuality and suspicion of bachelors seems to have caused one unmar¬ ried candidate to publicize his friendship with a female celebrity just to prove his sexual bona fides.^^ It also is possible that some existing social criteria will disappear from the list, as others have in recent years. In i960, Clinton Rossiter published a catalog of "oughts" and "almost certainly musts" for would-be presidents that included the following: "northerner or west¬ erner" (southerners Lyndon Johnson and Jimmy Carter were elected in 1964 and 1976, respectively); "less than sixty-five years old" (Reagan turned sixty-nine in 1980); "more than forty-five years old," "Protestant," "a small town boy," and "a self-made man" (forty-three year-old John Kennedy, a rich urban Catholic, was elected in the year Rossiter wrote); "a lawyer" (four of the five last elected presidents 132 Voters and Candidates Table 6.2 Social Background Characteristics of Twentieth-Century Presidents. Term Father's occupation and social class^ Age^ William McKinley 1897-1901 Ironmonger (middle) 54 Theodore Roosevelt 1901-1909 Businessman (upper) 42 William H. Taft 1909-1913 Lawyer (upper) 51 Woodrow Wilson 1913-1921 Minister (upper) 56 Warren Harding 1921-1923 Doctor (upper) 55 Calvin Coolidge 1923-1929 Storekeeper (middle) 51 Herbert Hoover 1929-1933 Blacksmith (working) 54 Franklin Roosevelt 1933-1945 Businessman (upper) 50 Harry Truman 1945-1953 Small landowner (middle) 6r Dwight Eisenhower 1953-1961 Mechanic (working) 62 John Kennedy 1961-1963 Businessman (upper) 43 Lyndon Johnson 1963-1969 Small landowner (middle) 55 Richard Nixon 1969-1974 Streetcar conductor, grocer (working) 55 Gerald Ford 1974-1977 Paint and lumber business (middle) 61 Jimmy Carter 1977-1981 Small landowner (middle) 52. Ronald Reagan 1981- Shoe salesman (working) 69 ‘Classification drawn from Richard Watson and Norman Thomas, The Politics of the Presidency {New York: John Wiley, 1983), p. 110. have not been); and so on.^^ The class origins of presidents also have broadened. Twentieth-century presidents from William McKinley to Franklin Roosevelt were, like their nineteenth-century counterparts, predominantly upper class in social background (see table 6.5). Yet of the eight presidents since 1945, only one (Kennedy) was born into an upper-class family; four have come from middle-class homes (Harry Truman, Johnson, Carter, Gerald Ford), and three from the working class (Eisenhower, Nixon, Reagan).'^^ Career Background Criteria Although each of the social background criteria realistically elimi¬ nates tens of millions of people from consideration for the presi¬ dency, an additional informal requirement—recent, prominent, gov¬ ernmental experience—defines the pool of presidential possibilities most narrowly of all. A survey of the career backgrounds of all who Vies for President? 133 Marital status Education Religion Home state^ Married Law school Methodist Qhio Married College Dutch Reformed New York Married Law school Unitarian Qhio Married Ph.D. Presbyterian New Jersey Married Some college Baptist Qhio Married College Congregational Massachusetts Married College Quaker California Married Law school Episcopal New York Married Some law school Baptist Missouri Married College Presbyterian Kansas Married College Catholic Massachusetts Married College Disciples Texas Married Law school Quaker California Married Law school Episcopal Michigan Married College Baptist Georgia Remarried (Divorced) College Disciples California ^At time of selection. ^During most important adult years. twentieth-century presidents (table 6.6) and defeated major party nominees (table 6.7) would seem to exclude all but present or recent vice presidents, governors, senators, representatives, cabinet secre¬ taries, generals, judges, and the like from the list. (Business execu¬ tive Wendell Willkie, the Republican nominee in 1940, is the sole exception.) Ninety-eight percent of the people who drew 5 percent in the Gallup polls for 1972-84 met the career standard, as did 98.3 percent of those who drew i percent. Recent practice has given an increasingly narrow definition to suit¬ able governmental experience. From 1892 to 1916, Robert Peabody and colleagues report, only 45.0 percent of the contenders for major party presidential nominations were senators, governors, or vice pres¬ idents. That share grew steadily, to 60.9 percent (1920-44) and 88.0 percent in the post-World War II period.'^” All but two of the fifteen people who have been elected president in this century last served m one of these three offices before being nominated, and all but one of 134 Voters and Candidates Table 6.3 Social Background Characteristics of Twentieth-Century Defeated Major Party Nominees. Year of candidacy Age‘ Marital status William J. Bryan 1900,1908 40, 48 Married Alton Parker 1904 52 Married Charles E. Hughes 1916 54 Married James Cox 1920 SO Remarried (divorced) John Davis 1924 51 Married Alfred Smith 1928 55 Married Alfred Landon 1936 49 Married Wendell Willkie 1940 48 Married Thomas Dewey 1944, 1948 42, 46 Married Adlai Stevenson 1952,1956 52 , 56 Divorced Richard Nixon i960 47 Married Barry Goldwater 1964 55 Married Hubert Humphrey 1968 53 Married George McGovern 1972 50 Married Walter Mondale 1984 56 Married ‘At time of election. the five vice presidents who succeeded to the office after a presiden¬ tial death or resignation were former governors or senators. (The three exceptions—Secretary of Commerce Herbert Hoover, General Eisenhower, and House Minority Leader Ford—were all leaders in the prominent governmental institutions in which they served.) Of the seventeen plausibles for 1984, all except Jackson were present or former governors, senators, or vice presidents. Success in the private sector has been less characteristic of Ameri¬ can presidents. Carter, who built a prosperous business; Woodrow Wilson, the president of Princeton University,- and Reagan, a suc¬ cessful movie actor, are among the few exceptions. It probably is not so much that the others could not have risen high in public life, but rather that they chose public careers instead. Had they devoted their thirties and forties to business or the professions, they might have found themselves in the position of many who have done exactly that: established in private life, inexperienced in elective politics, and unwilling, perhaps unable, to make the transition. The explanation for the recent narrowing of the prominent govern¬ mental experience criteria to senator, governor, or vice president (the who Vies for President? 135 Home Education Religion state^ Law school Presbyterian Nebraska Law school Protestant New York Law school Baptist New York Grade school Episcopal Ohio Law school Presbyterian West Virginia Grade school Catholic New York Law school Methodist Kansas Law school Episcopal New York Law school Episcopal New York Law school Presbyterian Illinois Law school Quaker California Some college Episcopal Arizona M.A. Congregational Minnesota Ph.D. Methodist South Dakota Law school Presbyterian Minnesota ^During most important adult years. latter usually attained after service as a senator or governor) seems to lie partly in the democratization of the nominating system. When party leaders dominated the process, they were able to range some¬ what widely in their choice of nominees. The rise of primaries and open caucuses placed cabinet members, representatives, and other potential candidates at a disadvantage. Unlike senators, governors, and vice presidents, they do not represent large electoral constituen¬ cies. Thus, they lack both the electoral base and, more important, the experience at campaigning on a grand scale that modern nomi¬ nating politics rewards. Senators and governors. Interesting changes have occurred in this century within the narrow subgroup of senators and governors. The changes have come in two shifts. From 1900 to 1944, five of the eight men who were elected president and five of the nine who were nomi¬ nated but not elected were chosen by their parties from positions in state government, usually as governor. This was not only a twentieth- century pattern, but one that included the entire post-Civil War era. The 1948 election marked an abrupt shift, however. From then until 1972, all five elected presidents and four of the six defeated major 136 Voters and Candidates Table 6.4 Social Background Characteristics of “Plausible" Candidates for President: 1972-84. Social background Candidates who Gallup Poll Racial minorities Women Non- Christians Never married met all social criteria (percent) 5 percent Shirley Shirley Jerry 90.0 support or more Chisholm (1972) lesse Jackson (1984) Chisholm (1972) Brown (1976, 1980 1984) 1-4 Julian Ella Milton Ralph 91.7 percent Bond Grasso Shapp Nader support (1976) Edward (1976) (1976) (1976) Brooke (1976) party nominees were drawn from the federal government. Indeed, every nominee in the final four elections of this period—Kennedy, Nixon, Johnson, Barry Goldwater, Hubert Humphrey, and George McGovern—was either a senator or a vice president who had served most recently in the Senate (see table 6.8). But no sooner had this pattern, its “consistency unmatched at any time in the history of the republic," taken root than a second shift appeared that seemingly undid it.‘^° In 1976 and 1980, Carter and Reagan, two ex-governors, were nominated and elected president. The direction, as well as the abruptness, of the first shift (from state to national) can be accounted for easily. It reflected the seismic changes in American politics generated by the national welfare state that grew out of the depression and the "garrison state" of the post-World War II period. As Peabody and Eve Lubalin described it at the time: Governors now appear to be isolated from national policymaking, and their immersion in parochial state concerns is considered more of a liability than an asset. Moreover, the purely adminis¬ trative aspects of the president's job have contracted in compari¬ son to presidential responsibility for formulating complex national economic and social policies, conducting American who Vies for President? 137 Table 6.5 Social Class Backgrounds of Presidents. Pre-Twentieth Century Twentieth Century Twentieth Century „ . , (1900-45) (1945-81) Class No. percent No. percent No. percent Upper 13 56.5 5 62.5 I 12.5 Middle 3 13.0 2 25.0 4 50.0 Lower 7 30-4 I 12.5 3 37-5 Source: Richard Watson and Norman Thomas, The Politics of the Presidency (New York: fohn Wiley, 1983), p. no. foreign affairs, and leading national public opinion .... Increas¬ ingly, because of the nationalization of American politics and disproportionate media coverage of the president and members of Congress, the latter political officials have become most famil¬ iar to the public and provide much of what national and partisan leadership of public opinion now exists.'*^ No such change prefaced the post-1972 events. The experiences of 1976 and 1980, when men of state politics were elected president, instead must be explained largely in terms of the anti-Washington mood that existed among voters in the wake of Vietnam and Watergate. That Carter and Reagan were former governors and "unem¬ ployed" during the time they were campaigning, however, may indi¬ cate something of more lasting significance. As the campaign for the nomination has lengthened, freedom from the responsibilities of office has come to be an advantage to the would-be campaigner. "Those of us who are already in .government and public life don't have the time and the resources to run soon enough and early enough to succeed," complained Senate Minority Leader Howard Baker when he abandoned his own campaign for the 1980 Republican nomina¬ tion."^^ Baker even retired from the Senate in 1984 so that he would be free to campaign for the 1988 nomination if he chose to seek it. Similarly, Walter Mondale foreswore a Senate campaign in 1982 in order to campaign freely for the presidency in 1984, and Senator Gary Hart chose not to run for reelection in 1986 in preparation for a 1988 presidential candidacy. In truth, underemployment seems to serve a candidate as well as unemployment. All that is needed is time to campaign frequently during the preelection years and steadily during the primaries and caucuses. Former governors have that time; incumbent ones usually 138 Voters and Candidates Table 6.6 Career Background Characteristics of Twentieth-Century Presidents. Federal Other Vice high Term president Cabinet executive Senate House William McKinley 1897-1901 X Theodore Roosevelt 1901-1909 X William H. Taft 1909-1913 X^ X Woodrow Wilson 1913-1921 Warren Harding 1921-1923 X^ Calvin Coolidge 1923-1929 Herbert Hoover 1929-1933 X^ X* Franklin Roosevelt 1933-1945 X Harry Truman 1945-1953 X^ X^ Dwight Eisenhower 1953-1961 John Kennedy 1961-1963 x^ X‘ Lyndon Johnson 1963-1969 x-^ x^ X Richard Nixon 1969-1974 X^ X x‘ Gerald Ford 1974-1977 X^ X''2 Jimmy Carter 1977-1981 Ronald Reagan 1981- 'First government position. ^Last government position before election as president or vice president. do not. Neither do senators who are intent on the business of the Senate, although Senator Alan Cranston managed to function both as Senate Democratic Whip and one of the most active campaigners for his party's 1984 nomination. Vice Presidents. The vice presidency is an anomalous office in many ways, including its status as a stepping-stone to the presidency. Of the five twentieth-century vice presidents who succeeded to the presidency (Theodore Roosevelt, Calvin Coolidge, Truman, Johnson, and Ford), all subsequently received their party's presidential nomi¬ nation and all but Ford were elected. (This is in contrast to the nineteenth century, when none of the four vice presidents who became president after a presidential death even were nominated by their parties.) In addition, recent vice presidents have been regarded who Vies for President? 139 State Career Lieutenant Local fudge military Governor governor Legislator Judge office Private X x^ X Xl,2 X" x^ X X x^ Xl,2 x' x* X x' X' Latvyer X Lawyer, rancher X X’ Lawyer Scholar Newspaper journalist X X' Lawyer Engineer Lawyer X^ Small businessman X X‘ Teacher Lawyer Lawyer X* Farmer, small businessman Actor ■^Succeeded to the presidency on death or resignation of incumbent. as leading contenders, sometimes heirs apparent, for their party's nomination: Nixon in i960, Humphrey in 1968, Mondale in 1984, Bush in 1988, even Agnew, for a time, in 1976. Yet it is also true that no incumbent vice president has been elected president since Martin Van Buren in 1836. The positive aspects of this political portrait of the vice presidency can be accounted for by the greater emphasis recent candidates have placed, in the selection of vice presidential nominees, on experience, ability, and philosophical harmony with the presidential candidate. Winning votes for the presidential candidate is the goal, as it always has been, but voters in the postwar age, aware of how suddenly a vice president may become president and assume the responsibilities of leading a nuclear superpower, care more about a vice presidential 140 Voters and Candidates Table 6.7 Career Background Characteristics of Twentieth-Century Defeated Major Party Nominees.^ Federal Other Year of Vice high candidacy president Cabinet executive Senate House William J. Bryan 1900, 1908 X^ Alton Parker 1904 Charles E. Hughes 1916 X James Cox 1920 X John Davis 1924 X Alfred Smith 1928 Alfred Landon 1936 Wendell Willkie 1940 Thomas Dewey 1944, 1948 X Adlai Stevenson 1952, 1956 X Richard Nixon i960 x^ X X Barry Goldwater 1964 X" Hubert Humphrey 1968 x^ X George McGovern 1972 X X^ X 'Defeated incumbent presidents not included; Taft, 1912; Hoover, 1932; Ford, 1976, Carter, 1980. candidate's ability to succeed a president ably and faithfully than they care about having all regions of the country or factions of the party represented in the White House. Having picked their running mates on the basis of ability and loyalty modern presidents are more likely to put them to good use in the administration. Talented to begin with, vice presidents thus gain stature in office: a suitable basis for then claiming their party's presidential nomination. The vice president turned presidential nominee, however, is in a difficult political situation. Like all contenders for the presidency, the vice president must defend against attacks on his own alleged shortcomings. Yet, unlike the challenger of the other party, the vice president also must defend against all the outgoing president's short¬ comings without the compensating advantage of being able to claim credit for the administration's successes. who Vies for President? 141 State Career Lieutenant Local Judge military Governor governor Legislator Judge office Private X X^ X^ x^ x^ X" X X x^ Lecturer, journalist X Lawyer Lawyer Publisher Lawyer X Businessman Businessman X Lawyer Lawyer Lawyer X Businessman X Businessman Scholar ^Last government position before nomination. Mutability of Social and Career Background Criteria Social Background. Are public attitudes that presently seem to exclude some people from the presidency for reasons of race, reli¬ gion, or other social background criteria likely to change in the near future? Public opinion surveys on voter prejudice seem encouraging, but perhaps less so than meets the eye. The Gallup poll reported in 1983 that other things being equal, 88 percent of the electorate would be willing to vote for a Jewish candidate for president, up from 82 percent in 1978 and 62 percent in 1958. Seventy-seven percent say they could support a black candidate, the same proportion that was reported in 1978, but double the 38 percent who said they could in 1958.In both cases the figure is substantially higher than the 68 percent who said they could vote for a Catholic in 1959, a year bchuc Kennedy's election. Kennedy's Catholicism, however, also won him many votes from among the quarter of the electorate who were Catholic—indeed, the net effect of religiously prejudiced voting in i960 may have been favorable to Kennedy. In contrast, a Jewish can- I I 142 Voters and Candidates Table 6.8 Major-Party Presidential Nominees, 1900-1972; Level of Government of Most Recent Office Losing major-party nominees Elected presidents (incumbent presidents excluded) State National State National Other 1900-1944 McKinley T. Roosevelt Wilson Coolidge E Roosevelt Harding Hoover Taft Parker Cox Smith Landon Dewey Bryan Hughes Davis Willkie 1948-1972 Truman Eisenhower Kennedy Johnson Nixon Dewey Stevenson Nixon Goldwater Humphrey McGovern didate would have fewer coreligionists and a black fewer racial com¬ patriots to draw upon for prejudiced support to outweigh the preju¬ diced opposition. Women are in a more enviable position in this regard—not only has the electorate's tolerance for a female president risen from 52 percent in 1958 to 73 percent in 1978 and 80 percent in 1983, but women make up a majority of the electorate. Curiously, atheists are well-positioned, too. To be sure, voters' expressed willingness to con¬ sider electing an atheist as president still is quite low; 42 percent in 1983, up from 40 percent in 1978 and 18 percent in 1958. But unlike women, blacks, and Jews, atheists can profess to be something differ¬ ent from what they are, as some who are in Congress, for example, apparently do."^^ It is, of course, one thing to observe that conditions are ripe for the breaking down of certain barriers of social background and some¬ thing else again to predict when that breaking down will occur. Recent history does suggest, however, that barriers to the presidency tend to fall in one of three ways: through facing the issue during a campaign; through the vice presidency; or as an aftermath to an already vanished prejudice. Facing the issue. No greater obstacle stood between John Kennedy and the presidency in i960 than relatively widespread public fear of a Roman Catholic president, usually on the grounds that such a Who Vies for President? 143 president would be beholden to the pope. To blunt the issue's effect, Kennedy faced it squarely. In the midst of a crucial primary cam¬ paign, he told a television audience of West Virginians, 95 percent of them Protestant, that; When any man stands on the steps of the Capitol and takes the oath of office of President, he is swearing to support the separa¬ tion of church and state; he puts one hand on the Bible and raises the other hand to God as he takes the oath. And if he breaks his oath, he is not only committing a crime against the Constitution, for which Congress can impeach him—and should impeach him—but he is committing a sin against God. A sin against God, for he has sworn on the Bible. In September, after winning the nomination, Kennedy appeared before the Greater Houston Ministerial Association and made an equally forthright statement. In early 1980, Ronald Reagan faced a somewhat different issue —his age. Other nations, including most of the world powers, either ignore advanced age or reward it when selecting their leaders. That this has not been the case in the United States is evidenced by the fact that Reagan, who turned sixty-nine in 1980, was bidding to become the oldest candidate ever to be elected president. Reagan faced the issue less directly than Kennedy, seeking to render it trivial. He did so generally by trying to convey an image of physical vigor, and in particular by organizing his campaign appearances on February 6 into a series of public birthday celebrations in several New Hamp¬ shire locations. Vice presidency. Historically, presidential candidates and their parties frequently have used the vice presidential nomination as a device to reach out to groups for which they have little appeal. This is a relatively safe strategy because hostile voter prejudices seem less likely to be activated by a vice presidential candidate than sym¬ pathetic prejudices. Kennedy chose Lyndon Johnson, a southerner, in i960 for this very reason, and did much better in the South than he otherwise might have. Once in office, a vice president's race, religion, sex, or—in |ohn- son's case—regional background is less likely to remain frightening to previously prejudiced voters because the individual's qualities will be more apparent. Familiarity seems to breed contentment in such 144 Voters and Candidates cases; the share of voters willing to vote for a Catholic jumped from 68 percent to 82 percent right after Kennedy's election, and has been rising steadily ever since. And however tragic the circumstances, should the vice president succeed to the presidency, as Johnson did after Kennedy's assassination in 1963, the waning of prejudice is likely to be quickened. However probable are the good effects on tolerance of a vice presi¬ dency, the opposite also is possible. For example, if a member of a previously excluded group became vice president and behaved in a way that seemed to confirm people's fears, the effect might be to revive and intensify prejudices. (It was Johnson's awareness of this that led him to work so hard to promote the cause of civil rights.) Prejudices also might be reinforced if defeat at the polls were blamed — correctly or incorrectly—on the voters' response to the presence of such a person on the ticket. Social tolerance. Like southernness and Catholicism, divorce was long considered a barrier to the presidency. Yet Reagan campaigned in 1976 and was elected in 1980 with scarcely a hint that his divorce should be held against him. The reason seems to be that society's tolerance for divorce had grown so great during the 1960s that it no longer was a barrier when candidate Reagan encountered it. Certainly the democratization of the nominating process will has¬ ten the removal of the religious, racial, and sexual barriers. In the past the caution of old-style party professionals made them slow to recog¬ nize changes in popular prejudices until long after they had occurred. "He had to prove to them that he could win," said Theodore Sorenson of Kennedy's campaign for his party's nomination. "And to prove that to them, he'd have to fight hard to make them give it to him, he couldn't negotiate it. ... So it evolved from the top down that you had to go into the primaries."'^^ By their nature, primaries, which are far more important and pervasive now than they were in i960, regis¬ ter changes in social tolerance almost directly.They also provide a forum in which prejudices can be addressed openly. What effect did the vice presidential nomination of Representative Geraldine Ferraro in 1984 have on the status of women in presiden¬ tial politics? The choice of a woman was received well; polls had indicated a growing willingness, even desire, among voters for a female vice president, and Ferraro's nomination gave the Democratic ticket its only surge in the polls in 1984. But Ferraro had serious individual who Vies for President? 145 weaknesses that may have hurt on election day; as only a three-term representative, she was underqualified according to modern career criteria, and her family finances became a subject of public contro¬ versy during the campaign. Ferraro's political weaknesses, however, were personal, not gender-related, as evidenced by the fact that the ranks of candidates mentioned as presidential or vice presidential possibilities for 1988 included Mayor Diane Feinstein of San Fran¬ cisco, transportation secretary Elizabeth Dole, former United Nations ambassador Jeane Kirkpatrick, Representative Pat Schroeder, and Supreme Court justice Sandra Day O'Connor. Career Background. As we saw earlier, recent history has indicated a distinct narrowing of the career criterion of recent prominent gov¬ ernmental experience to three main offices: senator, governor, and vice president. Indeed, it may be more accurate to reduce this list to two; of the ten most recent vice presidents, only Ford and Bush were not senators or governors at the time of their selection. This "rule of two" may distress those who would broaden the presidential talent pool to reincorporate cabinet secretaries, judges, and other political officeholders, as well as leaders from the private sector, but there is some evidence to suggest that it is not rigid. The early roster of candidates for 1988 included an unusual sprinkling of congressmen, such as Jack Kemp and Richard Gephardt, mayors (Feinstein, Tom Bradley), cabinet secretaries (James Baker, Alexander Haig), and pri¬ vate citizens (television evangelist Pat Robertson and Chrysler presi¬ dent Lee lacocca). This may be coincidence, or it may reflect the wider ranging eye of the television news camera: toward the House, which recently has allowed live and taped coverage of its sessions, and, in the Reagan era of political and governmental decentralization, toward local mayors and state governors, corporate executives, and evangelical preachers. Underlying the narrowing trend, moreover, is a broadening one that may turn out to be more significant. Firm though the high elective officeholding standard for the presidency may be, it bas become steadily easier in the last decade or so to attain such offices. Two closely related reasons account for this; the rapid loss of control by state party organizations of the candidate selection and postnom¬ ination processes, and the simultaneous rise in the importance of individual entrepreneurial campaigning through the media. Celeb¬ rity status automatically brings mass media exposure to a candidate. 146 Voters and Candidates which opens up the Senate and statehouse to famous astronauts (senators John Glenn and Harrison Schmitt), athletes (Senator Bill Bradley), actors and television journalists (Governor Ronald Reagan, Senator Jesse Helms, Representative Fred Grandy of “Loveboat" fame), and the like. Or money can buy such exposure in the form of paid advertising, a strategy that is especially suited to wealthy candidates because of the recent mix of campaign finance laws and court deci¬ sions that restricts the contributions one can receive from others but not those made to one's own campaign.'*^ Several multimillionaires have been able to win major party nominations for governor or sena¬ tor in recent elections by spending millions of dollars from their own fortunes. It already has been mentioned that few twentieth-century presi¬ dents have had noteworthy careers outside politics. As Watson and Thomas observe, "the career pattern of most American presidents has been to serve in elective public office from an early age until they are elected to the presidency."^° Close reexamination of data that Joseph Schlesinger compiled on 1,626 major party senatorial and gubernatorial nominees—that is, those who form the pool from which presidents are drawn—reveals that 37.6 percent of them first attained public office during their twenties, and 61.4 percent before they reached age thirty-five.^^ The vast majority of the under¬ thirty-five group—some 67.2 percent—were lawyers. (In contrast, only 32.2 percent of those who won their first office later in life were lawyers.) The career path to the top of the political ladder, then, traditionally has looked something like figure 6.1a. It probably is no coincidence, however, that among the few excep¬ tions to the lawyer-career politician rule are the two most recent presidents, farmer-businessman Carter and actor Reagan. Carter- and Reagan-style exceptions may well become as much the rule as the career politician pattern, if recent pools of contenders are any guide: Bradley, Glenn, Hart, Kennedy, Baker, Helms, Percy, Reagan, Brown, and Bumpers won their first political offices at the senatorial or gubernatorial level, and Kemp and Jackson hardly fit the careerist mode. The era of entrepreneurial media politics has so loosened the career background criteria that the life histories of an increasing number of future presidents are likely to include substantial time in the private sector (figure 6.1b). who Vies for President? 147 a. Traditional b. Modern Private Sector Public Sector Private Sector Public Sector President President t '\ Vice president Vice president ' Boyle further for providing comments on an earlier draft of this chapter; his insights about soft money have proven to be very helpful. Finally, I'd like to thank Kathy Botkin for typing the final version of the manuscript. The Three Campaigns 217 Although Nixon's 1972 reelection effort was candidate centered, important roles were played by persons with longstanding ties to the Republican party. In contrast, Carter's successful 1976 effort, partic¬ ularly in the primaries, was orchestrated by persons with weak or nonexistent ties to the national Democratic party. The campaign's Georgia insiders, headed by Jody Powell, Hamilton Jordan, and Peter Bourne, and aided by pollster Patrick Caddell and media specialist Gerald Rafshoon, designed and implemented a strategy in which the candidate ran explicitly as a Washington outsider during the primary season. Subsequently, Democratic party officials and the state party organizations were incorporated into Carter's general election cam¬ paign effort. Nevertheless, it was the Carter team within each state and the Carter national team, not the state party organizations and the Democratic National Committee, that ran the campaign. Despite some shaky, strained relationships among the components of the Carter election effort, the campaign was successful. Yet many observ¬ ers later wondered whether the outsider theme of the Carter cam¬ paign and its disdain for the traditional party apparatus presaged and contributed to the eventual difficulties Carter encountered in gov¬ erning, even with a Democratic majority in both the House and the Senate. Dominance of the presidential campaign by candidate loyalists rather than party loyalists is most pronounced during the nomina¬ tion season when several candidates are seeking their party's nomi¬ nation. This certainly was exemplified by the battle for the 1984 Democratic nomination in which an initial field of eight legitimate candidates was winnowed down to three after the "Super Tuesday" primaries on March 13—former vice president Walter Mondale, Sen¬ ator Gary Hart, and the Reverend Jesse Jackson. Although the Mondale campaign certainly enjoyed very close working relations with the Democratic party organization, officials and elected officeholders, it was still a campaign designed first and foremost to nominate Walter Mondale. The Hart and Jackson efforts might be viewed as insurgency, even antiparty campaigns. All three campaigns (but especially those of Mondale and Hart) had their hired guns, who were devoted to the promotion of their preferred nominee with little regard for the general election consequences of their actions. For example, Patrick Caddell was given much credit for getting Hart's campaign on track in early 1984.' Yet Caddell earlier had offered his 218 New Campaign Elites services to Senator John Glenn's campaign in late 1983 and before that had sounded out other potential candidates.^ According to Mar¬ tin Schram, antipathy toward Mondale by Caddell, arising from dif¬ ferences going back to the Carter administration, account in part for Caddell's presidential preferences.'^ These examples from the 1972, 1976, and 1984 elections suggest that the image of the presidential campaign as candidate-centered rather than party-centered has substantial validity, although recent developments may result in an enhanced role for the party, an argu¬ ment developed later. Hence, our first objective in this essay is to explain the decline of the party and use of the candidate-expert team in presidential politics. One part of this explanation has to do with campaign finance reforms that were adopted in 1974 and subsequently modified by Supreme Court rulings and legislative amendments. In particular, these reforms and a Supreme Court decision that permit¬ ted independent expenditures in the presidential campaign created a situation in which three possible campaigns could be conducted simultaneously for president—the candidate-dominated campaign, the party-directed effort, and a set of activities sponsored by con¬ cerned citizens and organizations independent of the candidate and the party. Thus, our second objective is to describe the three cam¬ paigns and to assess their significance for the political parties in presidential campaigns. In the conclusion, we will consider possible reforms in presidential campaigning, including their consequences, desirability, and likelihood of adoption. We also will address the effects of the three campaigns for president on the prospects for effective government in the United States and the role of the political party in governance. The Decline of the Party in Presidential Campaigns In considering why the role of the party in the presidential campaign has declined, one can identify two sets of causes—those that con¬ tributed to the decline of parties in general and those more specific to the presidential contest. By definition, anything that weakened the party in general contributed to its lesser significance in presiden¬ tial campaigns. Thus we will first review briefly some of these broader explanations and then analyze in greater detail those factors unique to the presidential contest. The Three Campaigns 219 General Causes of Political Party Decline Probably the simplest way to explain the decline of parties is to state that many of the functions traditionally performed by party organi¬ zations and officials have been taken over by other entities and mech¬ anisms. Many of the services, perquisites, and incentives that were basic resources for party influence no longer exist. Patronage oppor¬ tunities have been substantially reduced with the rise of civil ser¬ vice, merit systems, and court decisions that make it more difficult to remove public employees from office when changes in the parti¬ san control of government take place. Similarly, the social welfare function of the party in providing services to the needy has been replaced by governmental initiatives and programs. Finally, the abil¬ ity of the party to award contracts and projects to its supporters has been limited by increased requirements for competitive bidding and careful accounting and auditing procedures. The party also has been weakened in its candidate recruitment and election functions. Obviously the direct primary lessened the party's role in recruiting candidates and the rise of technological specialists in such areas as polling, media, and direct mail fund¬ raising has reduced its role in those candidates' election campaigns. Today the acquisition of resources and strategic and tactical deci¬ sions are largely the prerogative of the candidate and not the party, particularly in contests for more prestigious offices. Assuming the availability of money, the candidate can purchase campaign necessi¬ ties from private vendors rather than rely on the party (which in most cases probably could not provide these services anyway). A related phenomenon is the rise of the mass media, especially television, as the major source of campaign communication, partic¬ ularly for more important offices. The successful use of television requires marketing and production expertise that is more likely to be obtained in the private sector than from the political party. Moreover, the use of television encourages a concentration on the candidate rather than on the philosophy and ideology of the political party. For the candidate with ample financial resources, television permits direct appeals to the voter, regardless of the stance of the party organization. Finally, three developments in the electorate have contributed to a weakening of the parties. The first is the rise in the proportion of Americans who reject the Democratic and Republican party labels and call themselves independents. Although there is some evidence 220 New Campaign Elites that this upward trend has leveled off and perhaps even reversed, the proportion of independents is substantially higher today than twenty years ago. For example, a 1964 survey of Americans conducted by the Center for Political Studies classified 23 percent of the respondents as independents; a comparable survey in 1984 placed the proportion of independents at 34 percent. In 1952, 40 percent of the presidential vote was cast by strong party identifiers and only 23 percent by independents; in 1984, 35 percent was cast by strong partisans and 31 percent by independents, with the remaining 34 percent cast by weak party identifiers. Certainly the higher the proportion of the electorate that is composed of independents and weak party identifiers, the freer candidates will feel to circumvent the parties and to fashion appeals that minimize overt partisanship. To the extent that these appeals are candidate-centered, they reinforce the notion of a campaign team devoted to the election of the particular candi¬ date rather than the entire slate of party candidates. Another development in the electorate is the growing distrust of political institutions and authorities. Although there is evidence that this trend has receded a bit, substantially lower levels of confidence in government and institutions are prevalent today than in the not-too-distant past. One manifestation of this phenomenon is citizens' reactions to political parties and elections as institutions that promote governmental responsiveness. In 1964, 68 percent of Americans believed that elections helped a good deal in making government pay attention to the people, a share that dropped to 43 percent by 1984. In 1964, 44 percent of Americans felt that political parties were important in promoting governmental responsiveness. Only 18 percent held that opinion in 1980. Clearly, if only about one-fifth of Americans believe that parties are important in promot¬ ing governmental responsiveness, then candidates have less reason to stress party ties in their campaigns or as an instrument of gover¬ nance, thereby contributing further to the weakened position of the party. A final development in the electorate is the rise of single issue interest groups and the tremendous growth in political action com¬ mittees. According to the Federal Election Commission Record, the number of pacs grew from 608 at the beginning of 1975 to 4,009 by the end of 1984 with the greatest increase being in corporate and nonconnected pacs. (The number of labor pacs grew only slightly.)'^ The Three Campaigns 221 This is probably both a cause and a consequence of the decline in the political party. That is, political action committees may undermine political parties; however, the weakened condition of the parties themselves promotes the growth of political action committees that can offer candidates resources and services the parties are often inca¬ pable of providing. American parties have been viewed as umbrella¬ like, coalitional entities that include heterogeneous groups, some of which are at loggerheads on particular issues. This diversity has been a source of both strength and potential weakness in the Ameri¬ can party system. If the single issue groups continue to gain strength, then the party as a vehicle for contesting elections and promoting public policies will be undermined. In a related vein, the substantial growth in the number of political action committees and the increase in PAC money in politics can threaten the loyalty of candidates to their political party. It is clear that if pacs provide candidates with campaign finances and services independent of and even at cross purposes to the political party, then the party will be weakened fur¬ ther. This is not to argue that pacs automatically work against the well-being of the parties. In recent years the national parties have adapted to the pac presence in a variety of ways, one being to facili¬ tate the coordinated contributions of multiple pacs to their congres¬ sional candidates. The Decline of the Party in the Presidential Contest Delegate selection reforms. The presidential selection process has witnessed major reforms since 1970 in the two broad areas of dele¬ gate selection and campaign financing, reforms that have contrib¬ uted to the decline of parties. The delegate selection reforms were partially responsible for the tremendous proliferation of presidential primaries because numerous state Democratic parties believed that compliance with national party rules would be easier to accomplish with a primary system than a caucus-convention system. Primaries also flourished because their democratic and participatory virtues were stressed by political elites and the mass media and because it became clear that primary states were receiving much more coverage than caucus states from the news media. Nelson Polsby makes the interesting point that as the presidential delegate selection contest became the central concern within the states, some state parties 222 New Campaign Elites chose to separate their state and local nominations from the presi¬ dential race so that the latter would not intrude on the former.^ Once these state and local decisions were divorced from the presidential choice, it became even easier for the states to adopt presidential primaries, with their attendant prestige and media coverage. Although the proliferation of primaries was reversed in 1984, primaries are much more important today in terms of actual delegate seleetion than they were in the prereform era. And as the 1988 campaign approaches, there is much discussion about the number and timing of primaries, particularly since there will be a regional Southern primary early in the nomination season brought about by the deci¬ sions of individual southern states to move their primaries to a com¬ mon date. The reliance on primaries has a number of detrimental conse¬ quences for the political party. The sequential nature of the primary season, beginning with the New Hampshire contest (and the Iowa precinct caucuses), allows a relatively unknown candidate to emerge from the pack, a candidate who may have little support from party leaders and the party organization. Indeed, some aspirants choose to run as outsiders and even antiparty candidates; the declaration of one's independence from the party chieftains is presented as a major reason to vote for the outsider. The primaries, in conjunction with the public financing system adopted in 1974, encourage lesser-known candidates with weak ties to the party establishment to enter the fray supported by highly personal coalitions. Moreover, the partial public funding provided during the primary season encourages more candidates to declare their intentions early so that they may qualify for these monies. The abolition of the unit rule for convention delegations and the propor¬ tional allocation of delegates in the primaries further encourage can¬ didates to enter each state contest since they are likely to win some delegates even if they do not finish first. The primary process may favor those candidates who appeal to specific and intense constituencies, often located toward the very liberal or very conservative ends of the political spectrum. Candi¬ dates of the center may find it difficult to generate support during the primary season, yet the center may be where the bulk of the party is located and may be the best position to occupy for the general election. Certainly the primary electorate is demographi- The Three Campaigns 223 cally unrepresentative, being skewed toward higher status individu¬ als. (How Jesse Jackson's candidacy affected this pattern in 1984 is as yet unclear, although his presence in the contest obviously stimu¬ lated a much higher than normal black turnout.) Moreover, there is some evidence that these higher-status voters are more supportive of ideologically extreme candidates.*^ Although caucus participants also can be energized by a particular issue or a charismatic candidate, the typical caucus vote has more of an organizational basis to it, whether in the political party or in labor unions or various social groups. The delegate selection reforms adopted by the Democrats in 1972 reflected a negative view about the role of elected leaders and party officials. The power of the state parties to appoint delegates was limited; elected officials were forced either to contest for delegate slots or stay at home during the national party convention. State parties also were required to meet certain conditions designed to foster participation by rank and file Democrats and demographic "representativeness" in the delegations ultimately selected, even if that meant undermining the party elites. Since the early and mid-1970s, the Democrats have taken a number of steps in the other direction to insure the participation of party leaders at the nominat¬ ing conventions. For example, for their 1984 convention, the Demo¬ crats created the status of "super-delegate" for prominent party leaders. In 1986 the Democratic National Committee approved recom¬ mendations from the party's Fairness Commission (established to review the conduct of the 1984 campaign and to make recommen¬ dations for 1988) that would increase from 60 to 80 percent the proportion of Democratic House and Senate members who will automatically be named as unpledged delegates to the 1988 Demo¬ cratic convention. Also approved was a recommendation that all Democratic governors and all members of the Democratic National Committee be awarded seats as unpledged delegates to the conven¬ tion. Hence more than one-fourth of the delegate positions at the 1988 convention have been reserved for elected officials and party leaders. Additional party leaders and officials will attend the con¬ vention through their selection as delegates in the caucuses and primaries. Nevertheless, even with these pro-party changes, the del¬ egate selection system still emphasizes rank and file participation. Under this system it is the mass media rather than the political 224 New Campaign Elites party that interpret the results, handicap the race, determine the viability of candidates, and ultimately pronounce victory and defeat/ Given the prominence of the mass media, it is no wonder that primary campaigns are aimed at the newspaper reporters, the television com¬ mentators, and the readers and viewers at home. Under the current system, candidates need to convince the media elite and the voters first; party officials are of lesser importance. Campaign finance reforms. The campaign finance reforms put into place in 1974 and subsequently modified also have been cited as causes of the decline of the political party, although the 1979 amend¬ ments to the Federal Election Campaign Act (discussed later) por¬ tend a greater role for state and local parties in the presidential cam¬ paign. It is argued that the strict spending limits in the general election have severely curtailed party-related campaign activities by the presidential nominees. (An even stronger case can be made that the limitations on party activities in congressional elections invite more extensive participation by pacs, but such races are not our concern here.) Candidates are forced to spend more than half of their limited funds on television and related production costs, leav¬ ing little money for the paraphernalia of campaigns. Storefront cam¬ paign headquarters are much less common; electoral teamwork among the national, state, and local candidates is diminished because of the reporting requirements imposed by the campaign finance laws. The very fact that the public financing goes directly to the candidates weakens the parties. For candidates who receive partial public funding during the pri¬ mary season, the possible financial penalties and negative publicity that would arise from blatantly violating the individual state and overall spending ceilings encourage a highly centralized and nation¬ alized campaign apparatus in which the state plays a limited role. Indeed, once a state's primary or caucus has occurred, the campaign apparatus within that state usually is disbanded, only to be revived should the candidate win the nomination. In a similar vein, the general election spending ceiling for candidates who receive public financing requires a centralized organization to coordinate a fifty state campaign, both so that spending does not exceed the legally allowed amount and so that ineffective expenditures by state and local personnel are not charged against the candidate's overall spend¬ ing limit. (The specifics of these spending limits are presented in the section on the candidate-centered campaign.) The Three Campaigns 225 There are three other aspects of the campaign financing laws (and court rulings and subsequent amendments) that bode ill or well for the party's role in the presidential campaign. First, the contribution limits established by the 1974 law allow greater donations to be made to party committees, thereby presumably providing an advan¬ tage to the party (Again, some would argue that any limit on politi¬ cal party money in any contest simply encourages candidates to seek out other sources of funding such as pacs.) However, this advantage was more than offset by the Supreme Court decision in the case of Buckley v. Valeo, which struck down the prohibition on independent expenditures by individuals in the presidential campaign as an uncon¬ stitutional infringement on freedom of speech. Hence, if indepen¬ dent expenditures continue to grow substantially, the party will be even less significant in the presidential race (and the intent of the campaign finance reforms seriously undermined). Independent expen¬ ditures are discussed in greater detail in the next section. Finally, there was one development in 1979 that presaged a major role for the political party in the presidential campaign of 1984 and years beyond. Amendments adopted in 1979 provided that state and local political party committees could participate in the presidential campaign in a prescribed set of volunteer-related activities—regis¬ tration and get-out-the-vote drives, literature distribution, and the like. The intent of these amendments was to narrow the widening separation between the presidential campaign and the state and local party committees brought about by the spending limits that publicly funded presidential candidates had to obey in the general election. These allowable state and local activities were classified as exempt, meaning that they did not count against the general election spend¬ ing limits. Moreover, the amendments made it clear that that por¬ tion of the exempt activities that benefited the presidential cam¬ paign was to be paid for by funds collected according to the federal campaign finance statutes. As will be discussed later, the 1979 amend¬ ments may have created a significant opportunity for wealthy indi¬ viduals, corporations, and labor unions to undermine the campaign finance reforms of the 1970s. The Three Campaigns for President The campaign finance reforms adopted in 1974, the Supreme Court rejection of the ban on independent expenditures by individuals in 226 New Campaign Elites the 1976 case of Buckley v. Valeo, and the 1979 amendment that permits state party involvement in aspects of the presidential con¬ test have created the opportunity for three campaigns for the presi¬ dency to be waged—the candidate-centered activities, the indepen¬ dent expenditures by individuals and groups supporting particular candidates, and political party efforts. (The 1985 Supreme Court ruling in the case of FEC v. National Conservative Political Action Committee will further encourage independent expenditures in pres¬ idential campaigns. In this case, the Court extended its Buckley v. Valeo decision by declaring that political action committees can spend unlimited amounts independently on behalf of candidates.) In this section each of these campaigns will be described and assessed in terms of its sources of financial support. Emphasis will be on the 1980 presidential contest (for which ample data are available) and on the 1984 race, in which the party and independent campaigns were particularly prominent. The Candidate-Centered Campaign The presidential contest today is dominated by teams of specialists and loyalists whose first obligation is to the candidate and not to the political party of which that candidate is a leader. Funding for the candidate-centered campaign comes mainly from the two main parts of the campaign finance system established in 1974—partial public funding during the primary season and practically full public fund¬ ing during the general election. With respect to the primary season, the campaign finance reforms of 1974 set a spending limit of $10 million for the 1976 campaign, a figure that was to be adjusted for inflation in succeeding elections. (Hence, the limit for 1980 was $14.7 million and for 1984 $20.2 million.) The 1974 law enabled candidates to spend an additional 20 percent to defray the costs of fund-raising. A 1976 amendment exempted from the overall spending limits the legal and accounting costs incurred in complying with the campaign finance laws. In order to be eligible for public funding during the primary sea¬ son, candidates first had to raise on their own a total of $100,000 from twenty or more states in contributions of $250 or less. In 1980, candidates who met these conditions were eligible for matching pub¬ lic funds for each dollar collected from private contributions up to a total of $7.35 million; in 1984 the matching public funds could total The Three Campaigns 227 $10.1 million. Only the first $250 of any private contribution was eligible for matching funds. A candidate who received a $250 contri¬ bution from each of four individuals would receive $1,000 in match¬ ing funds, while a candidate who received a $1,000 contribution from an individual (the maximum allowed by law) would receive only $250 in public matching funds. Thus, of the $20.2 million that candidates could spend in the 1984 prenomination contest, as much as half could come from public funds. Candidates could choose to reject public funds; in that case, they would not be bound by any expenditure limits, but still could not accept individual contribu¬ tions greater than $1,000. Since the campaign finance reforms were adopted in 1974, only one major contender — Republican John Connally in 1980—has chosen to reject public funding. All other serious contenders have accepted public monies, often racing to qualify first and thereby receive positive media coverage about the progress of the campaign. In addition to the overall spending limit, candidates are subject to spending limits for each state's delegate selection contest. The 1974 limit was $200,000 per state or sixteen cents per eligible voter, which¬ ever was greater; this ceiling is adjusted for inflation at each election so that in 1984 the figures were $404,000 per state or 32.3 cents per voter. Significantly, the total of the fifty state spending ceilings far exceeds the overall spending limit. In 1980 the overall limit was $20.2 million (plus 20 percent for fund-raising), but the sum of the separate state ceilings was approximately $60.2 million. Therefore candidates had to allocate their resources very carefully and some¬ times played games to meet the technical requirements of the law. For example, given the importance of the New Hampshire primary, candidates want to spend the full amount allowed in that state ($294,000 in 1980 and $404,000 in 1984) and then some. One way to accomplish this is to purchase time on Boston television stations (which reach New Hampshire) and charge these costs against the Massachusetts spending ceiling. New Hampshire campaign workers sometimes stay overnight in neighboring Vermont or Massachusetts so that their lodging costs will not count against the New Hamp¬ shire ceiling. The fec and many presidential candidates have urged Congress to eliminate the state-by-state spending limitations in presi¬ dential primaries; fec Chairman John McGarry has referred to them as an "absolute nightmare."*^ A more important consequence of the overall limit and the indi- 228 New Campaign Elites vidual state ceilings is that they may encourage "independent" expen¬ ditures on behalf of a candidate who faces financial difficulties. For example, Ronald Reagan in 1980 and Walter Mondale in 1984 spent heavily at the beginning of the primary season, which left relatively little money for the later primaries. Allegedly independent expendi¬ tures were provided to both candidates to help them overcome their money problems, although in Mondale's case this effort was termi¬ nated when publicity made it a political albatross for the candidate. The Democratic and Republican candidates for president also receive public funds for the general election campaign. The amount set in the 1974 law was $20 million per candidate with an inflation adjustment at each successive election. Thus the amount for 1976 was $21.8 million, for 1980 $29.4 million, and for 1984 $40.4 mil¬ lion. Candidates may reject general election public funding; if so, they are not subject to the general election expenditure limits, but are subject to contribution limits. If candidates accept public money, then they cannot collect private contributions except to help offset the costs of complying with the finance laws. In every election since the 1974 law was passed, both major party nominees have accepted public funding, which might make it seem that the funding of the general election campaign for the major party nominees is very straightforward. But the campaign finance laws also permit coordi¬ nated political party expenditures, exempt expenditures by state and local party committees, and allegedly independent expenditures, all of which increase the general election costs substantially. These opportunities for additional spending (some would call them loop¬ holes) will be discussed shortly. Minor party candidates are eligible for public financing in the general election only if their party received at least 5 percent of the popular vote m the last election. The amount of money given to minor party candidates is proportional to their vote strength. In 1980 the Federal Elections Commission ruled that lohn Anderson's inde¬ pendent candidacy would be treated as a minor party effort, thereby making Anderson eligible for $4.2 million in publie funds after the 1980 election and also in 1984, had he run. For a new minor party to qualify for postelection funding in 1988, it must be on the ballot in at least ten states, receive at least 5 percent of the popular vote and provide assurances to the fec prior to the election that it will com¬ ply with the campaign finance laws.^ Clearly the public financing The Three Campaigns 229 provisions favor the major party candidates, although a wealthy minor party candidate ineligible for public funds could spend an unlimited amount from a personal fortune. The patterns of spending of public funds in the 1980 general elec¬ tion illustrate very nicely the media emphasis of the campaign and the importance of the technological specialist to the candidate's cam¬ paign team. According to Herbert Alexander, the bulk of the public money received by Carter and Reagan went into their media efforts. About $20.5 million (almost 70 percent of Carter's $29.4 million public subsidy) went to the media, with $15.8 million devoted to television, $2.6 million to radio advertisements, and $2.1 million to print advertising and media production costs. Responsibility for the media campaign rested with Carter loyalists Gerald Rafshoon and Patrick Caddell, both of whom had been a part of Carter's cam¬ paign team since he first sought the 1976 Democratic nomination. The Reagan spending patterns were similar, with $16.8 million spent on media advertising and production costs and more than $i million for polling done by Richard Wirthlin's Decision-Making Information, which remained the White House pollster. Although it appears that less money was spent on media for Reagan than for Carter, this is misleading because it does not include the coordinated political party effort and the independent expenditures for Reagan, which will be discussed shortly. There is one additional way that would-be presidential aspirants can promote their candidacies and that is to set up a political action committee. Alexander notes that four candidates for the 1980 Repub¬ lican nomination—Reagan, Bush, Connally and Senator Robert Dole —established political action committees long before their formal candidacies began.The ostensible purpose of these pacs was to raise and spend money on behalf of candidates for other offices and party committees, thereby enabling the aspiring nominees to win favors from party leaders. The most prominent of these presidential pacs was Reagan's Citi¬ zens for the Republic, which was created to help elect conservative Republican candidates. But such a pac also could be used to pro¬ mote Reagan's 1980 chances.*'^ For example, in 1977-78, Citizens for the Republic spent $4.5 million, including $590,000 in contribu¬ tions to federal, state, and local candidates and party organizations. The PAC maintained a full-time staff, produced a monthly newsletter 230 New Campaign Elites with a circulation of 40,000, and in the process of raising funds developed a mailing list of more than 300,000 contributors. Clearly these activities promoted Reagan as well as the recipients of his pac's support. Moreover, the presidential pacs allowed the candidates to travel around the country giving speeches and attracting media cov¬ erage without their travel costs counting against the spending limits that would apply once they made an actual declaration of candidacy. After the 1980 election a number of potential Democratic candi¬ dates set up PACS, including Walter Mondale, Edward Kennedy, Ernest Hollings and Morris Udall, most of which became defunct. Accord¬ ing to Maxwell Glen, Mondale established a pac (the Committee for the Euture of America) in 1981 to promote his 1984 presidential prospects.Mondale's pac raised $2.1 million in 1981-82, yet only $137,000 was contributed to federal candidates; most of the money was used to build mailing lists and pay for Mondale's political operations.^® More important, according to Elizabeth Drew, three Republican legislators with presidential aspirations—senators Rob¬ ert Dole and Howard Baker and Representative Jack Kemp—created their own pacs in the early 1980s even though their likely earliest shot at the nomination would be not in 1984 but 1988.^^ The Kemp PAC —the Campaign for Prosperity—gave $197,000 in 1984 to 109 federal candidates plus assorted contributions to other party and candidate committees. Because it appears that would-be presidential nominees view the creation of their own pacs as advantageous to their presidential ambi¬ tions, we might expect the continued growth of such pacs as a way to get around the expenditure limits that constrain declared candi¬ dates for president. Certainly the available evidence indicates that candidates' pacs will play an important role in the 1988 campaign. Five potential 1988 Republican aspirants—Bush, Kemp, Dole, Baker, and Pat Robertson—established pacs. By the end of 1985 they had raised more than $5.5 million, although less than 7 percent of that money went to other Republican candidates or organizations.Most of the money went for activities (newsletters, travel, political advis¬ ers, literature, etc.) that would promote a presidential candidacy in its early stages. This raised a legal question of whether these pacs were simply a way to skirt the campaign finance laws. The issue came to a head in early 1986 when the legal staff of the FEC challenged plans by Bush's pac (the Fund for America's Future) The Three Campaigns 231 to spend money to recruit candidates for Michigan's 1986 precinct delegate caucuses. Most observers viewed the Michigan precinct elec¬ tions as integral to the 1988 nomination because they were the first step in a three-part process to choose the delegates to the 1988 Republican convention.Hence, the fec staff argued that the fund's outlays were tantamount to presidential campaign expenditures and must be counted as contributions to the Bush campaign. In a contro¬ versial ruling, the fec commissioners rejected the staff recommen¬ dation, arguing that the fund's spending was for the party and not the candidate. Should this ruling stand, candidate-centered pacs proba¬ bly will be highly prominent in the presidential campaign and another loophole will be available for candidates to spend substantially more money in seeking the nomination than current law was designed to permit. The Political Party Campaign Until 1979 the national party's role in the presidential general elec¬ tion campaign was very simple: the 1974 reforms allowed each party to spend two cents per voting age citizen on behalf of its presidential nominee, an amount adjusted for inflation. In 1980, the parties' spend¬ ing limit was about $4.6 million, a figure that increased to $6.9 million for the 1984 election. These national party expenditures on behalf of the presidential ticket do not constitute a separate indepen¬ dent campaign; indeed, the fec formally labels this activity coordi¬ nated party expenditures. According to the fec Record, these expenditures count neither as contributions to the candidate nor as expendi¬ tures by the candidate or the candidate's authorized committee. The party committee may coordinate the expenditures with the candidate's campaign, but the party committee—not the candidate—must report them. . . . Moreover, the party commit¬ tee or organization must actually make the expenditure. ... In the Presidential elections, only the national committee may make coordinated expenditures on behalf of the party's Presi¬ dential nominee, although any agent, including a state or local party committee, may be designated by the national committee to make Presidential coordinated expenditures. ... If the national committee designates a state or subordinate party committee to 232 New Campaign Elites make these expenditures, the national committee nevertheless remains responsible for ensuring that the limit is not exceeded. In 1980, according to Alexander, the Republican National Com¬ mittee (rnc) spent $4.5 million of the $4.6 million it was entitled to spend on the presidential campaign, most of the money being dis¬ bursed in coordination with the Reagan-Bush Committee.Among the major expenditures were $1.1 million for advertising, $i million for travel, $808,000 for direct mail, and $564,000 for polling. This $4.5 million represented only a small part of the spending done by the Republican National Committee that may have benefited the Reagan-Bush ticket in 1980. For example, the rnc spent over $i million to stimulate Republican turnout in the general election (Commitment '80), yet only $27,000 of that money was charged against the $4.6 million it could spend on coordinated party expenditures.^"* The rnc, in conjunction with the Republican House and Senate campaign committees, also spent $9.5 million on a media campaign that encouraged viewers to "Vote Republican, For a Change."^^ None of this money was allocated against the $4.6 mil¬ lion, the rationale being that the activity promoted the entire party ticket and not a specific candidate. Yet certainly the Republican presidential nominee profited from the party's media campaign. The Democratic National Committee (dnc) was not able to raise the full $4.6 million in 1980, and spent only $4 million, of which only $3.4 million was spent before the general election, primarily on media and polling. Unlike the Republican national campaign com¬ mittees (national. House, and Senate), the Democratic national cam¬ paign committees spent little additional money that directly or indi¬ rectly benefited the presidential ticket. This was simply because the Republican committees were far more successful in fund-raising than were the comparable Democratic committees. For example, the vari¬ ous Republican national committees spent about $132 million in 1979-80 compared to only about $19 million for the Democratic committees. The Republican National Committee and the Demo¬ cratic National Committee raised similar amounts (about $10 mil¬ lion) from major contributors and fund-raising events, but the rnc reaped almost ten times more than its Democratic counterpart in direct mail and telephone solicitation—about $40 million to $4 million. The disparity between the parties in fund-raising ability contin- The Three Campaigns 233 ues. According to the fec Record, during 1981-82 Republican party committees at the national, state, and local levels spent more than five times as much as their Democratic counterparts ($214 million v. $40 million), contributed three times more money to congressional candidates ($5.6 million v. $1.8 million), and made special coordi¬ nated party expenditures for congressional candidates that were four times larger ($14.3 million v. $3.3 million).Examining only the three major national committees of each party, Thomas Edsall reported that the Republicans outraised the Democrats by $191.1 million to $31.7 million in 1981-82 and by $246.1 million to $58.8 million in 1983-84.^^ Although the ratio of Republican to Demo¬ cratic fund-raising has declined, the absolute difference remains large. Clearly, the Democrats have some catching up to do, particularly in the area of direct mail fund-raising. It is likely that the Republicans will maintain a sizable advantage in this area since the pool of citi¬ zens to which it directs its mail solicitations is more prosperous, more ideologically homogeneous, and hence more willing to give. The Republican party's superior fund-raising performance and its concomitant ability to do more for its presidential candidates (as well as its congressional candidates) do not undermine the spirit of the campaign finance laws for a number of reasons. First, political party participation generally is valued, if for no other reason than to minimize pac influence. Second, the vast majority of the monies raised by the Republicans comes from relatively small individual contributions, a form of public participation that should be encour¬ aged by a campaign financing system. But there is another disparity between the parties that could threaten the presidential campaign financing system—the presence of "soft money." Moreover, even if the Democratic and Republican Parties had equal ability to raise soft money, these dollars still might be harmful to the letter and spirit of the campaign finance reforms. In 1979, in response to complaints that the campaign finance laws unintentionally restricted state and local party activity, Congress passed amendments that would encourage grass roots party-building and facilitate state and local party involvement in the presidential contest. Prior to the enactment of these amendments, a local get-out- the-vote drive could not mention the presidential candidate, lest part of the cost of that activity be charged against the presidential elec¬ tion expenditure limit; for the same reason, volunteer activities also were constrained. 234 New Campaign Elites The 1979 amendments allowed state and local party committees to spend an unlimited amount of money on campaign paraphernalia —bumper stickers, pins, banners, yard signs, buttons, etc.—if these materials were used for volunteer activities on behalf of a candidate. Party committees also were permitted to spend unlimited sums on volunteer-based voter registrations and get-out-the-vote drives. In both cases the costs of these activities would be considered exempt—that is, they would not count against the general election expenditure limit. The portion of these activities that benefited federal candi¬ dates had to be paid for by funds raised in compliance with the laws governing contributions to federal candidates. This meant that mon¬ ies from corporations, labor unions, and foreign nationals were pro¬ hibited. However, that part of these activities that aided state and local candidates could be paid for by monies collected under state and local campaign finance laws, which in many cases allowed unlimited contributions from individuals as well as contributions from corporations and labor unions. The final restriction was that funds could not be transferred from the national party committees to pay for these activities; instead the state and local committees were to do their own fund-raising. Thus did "soft money” enter the presidential campaign. Essen¬ tially soft money is money not subject to federal regulation. It is money collected from individuals, unions, and corporations, typi¬ cally by state and local party committees, and used by those com¬ mittees to pay for the state and local part of the campaign activities that are encouraged by the 1979 amendments. Although the national party is prohibited from transferring funds to state parties, it does play a prominent role in assisting the state and local committees to raise these monies. Thus, the Reagan-Bush soft money effort in 1980 raised between ten and fifteen million dollars, which far outstripped the Democratic total.In the months before the 1984 election, both parties talked in terms of $20 million soft money programs that would channel contributions from private donors into state and local party committees. Reactions to the introduction of soft money into the presidential campaign have been mixed. Herbert Alexander calls the organiza¬ tional spending by state and local parties "a notable development He argues that the coordination of national, state, and party com¬ mittees "obviously helps strengthen the parties" and points to an The Three Campaigns 235 analysis that recommends removing all limits on state and local party activity in presidential and congressional elections. Elizabeth Drew, in contrast, believes that the soft money loophole destroys much of the campaign finance system and threatens to cor¬ rupt electoral politics.She asserts that although the national par¬ ties have taken on the task of raising and distributing the soft money the money itself is collected under state rather than national law, which means that the only limits on the amounts of such money being spent in states are imposed by the states themselves.^^ And, Drew notes, twenty-eight states permit corporate contributions, forty- one states allow labor contributions, and twenty-five states impose no limitations whatsoever on individual contributions.^^ Hence, she concludes, monies from corporate and union treasuries have found their way into the presidential campaign, as have the sizable contri¬ butions from wealthy individuals that characterized the prereform days. Further, state financing restrictions that do exist are largely irrelevant because funds can be shifted from one state to another. Drew cites the example of how the Republican National Committee treated Texas and Missouri in 1980.^“^ Missouri allowed corporate contributions in its own elections; Texas did not. Neither state lim¬ ited individual contributions. Hence, money raised from individuals in Missouri might be sent to Texas, while Texas corporate money would be sent to Missouri and other states that permitted corporate contributions. This activity was coordinated at the highest levels of the Republican National Committee and candidates Reagan and Bush were actively involved in raising the soft money, even though their general election campaign was financed by public funding.'^^ Drew's pessimistic conclusions are in error on one major point —monies spent for exempt political party activities in the presiden¬ tial campaign must be permissible monies, that is, funds collected according to the federal (and not the state) campaign finance laws. Corporate and labor contributions as well as individual contribu¬ tions above $1,000 and committee contributions above $5,000 can¬ not be used to pay for that portion of the exempt activities that is assignable to federal contests. Separate state, local, and federal accounts, each with their own sources of money must be maintained. However, as John Noble argues, the establishment of state and local accounts by federally regulated political committees can lead to abuses.'^*^ These state and local accounts are not covered by federal 23G New Campaign Elites disclosure laws and limitations, since the monies therein presuma¬ bly go only to state and local races. But as Noble points out: these funds find their way into the federal election process by virtue of federal regulations permitting the allocation of part of the state and local funds to the operating expenses of the affiliated, federally regulated political committee. Without effec¬ tive oversight of the allocation process, and there is none, the affiliated committee is afforded substantial discretion in the determination of an appropriate allocation formula.'^^ The problem becomes one of allocating costs among the federal and the state and local committees, a process in which much discre¬ tion is involved. The fec has issued a number of advisory opinions on allocation mechanisms and has approved a variety of methods. Typically, the fec requires that federal candidates be assigned a higher share of the costs than their numbers on the ballot would indicate. The basic point, however, is that there is great flexibility in making these allocation decisions, which raises the possibility that some of the costs of exempt activities on behalf of the presidential candidate might wind up being paid for by federally impermissible monies collected under state statutes.'^*^ Alexander's sanguine reaction and Drew's worried response to the soft money developments may both be iustifled. Greater state and local party involvement in the presidential contest and greater national, state, and local party coordination may be achieved at the expense of gutting the campaign finance laws and creating an "any¬ thing goes" system. Certainly the response by lawyers, accountants, and politicians to the campaign finance laws ever since their inception has been to circumvent them—legally. A cottage industry has devel¬ oped to probe the boundaries and limits of the law. In 1984 both parties planned to raise large amounts of soft money. In a series of fascinating articles, Washington Post reporter Thomas Edsall detailed some of these activities.*^^ The executive director of the Democratic National Committee hoped to raise $18 million in soft money for the general election.Edsall noted that the Reagan reelection campaign put into place a team similar in structure and personnel to that used in the 1980 soft money endeavor.Moreover, many state Republican parties planned to spend sizable amounts in 1984 on party-building activities and campaign paraphernalia. In I'hc T'lircc Campaigns 237 California, according to Edsall, the state party planned to spend $ lo.s million on registration, absentee ballots, get-out-the-vote drives, and related activities/*^ About t,o percent of this amount would come from a federal account that contained no union and corporate contri¬ butions; the rest would come from a state account with no restric¬ tions on it. Ohio Republicans hoped for a budget of $2.8 million in 1984 with three separate budget accounts.'*'* Hence, although the presidential candidates were restricted in 1984 to a public subsidy of $40.4 million and $6.9 million in coordinated party expenditures in the general election, and were not allowed to raise any private monies for their own campaigns (except for compli¬ ance costs), the total amount spent on behalf of each major party nominee was far in excess of this amount. In addition to the soft money, there is one other major source of funds coming into the presidential contest—independent expenditures. Although the final figures are not yet available, it appears that soft money and indepen¬ dent expenditures in 1984 providetl a monetary advantage to the Republican presidential ticket despite a substantial increase in labor spending on behalf of the Hemoeratie candidates.'*'* The Independent Campaign According to a Federal Election Commission publication, "The i Et; and the Federal Campaign Finance Law,"'*'"* an independent expendi¬ ture is "one made for a communication which expressly advocates the election or defeat of a clearly identified candidate and which is not made with any direct or indirect cooperation, consent, request or suggestion or consultation involving a candidate or his/her author¬ ized committee or agent."'**’ In an analysis of campaign finance laws, Jo Freeman points out that the cooperation mentioned in this definition is presumed to exist when an expenditure is made "based on information about the candidate's plans, projects or needs pro¬ vided to the expending person by the candidate, or by the candidate's agents, with a view toward having an expenditure made."'*'* The problems inherent in determining whether an expenditure is truly independent are illustrated in the following hypothetical exam¬ ple. Imagine a presidential candidate in the general election who allows a privately commissioned voter preference poll in an important state to he leaked. This poll information is reportetl by the press and 238 New Campaign Elites some citircns then ehoose to spend money independently on behalf of the eandidate m that state. Would sueh an expenditure be indepen¬ dent- Or would It be eonsidered eoordinated with the eandidate's effort and therefore inappropriate- Presumably, in order to judge such an expenditure as being "not independent,” one would have to dem¬ onstrate that the eandidate or the campaign organization leaked the data with the intent of generating independent expenditures. Because this IS obviously a very difficult proposition to prove, one can see how large amounts of inappropriate independent expenditures may be entering the presidential campaign. Indeed, this example is not hvpothetical hut real, according to Elizabeth Drew.'*''' Drew inter¬ viewed Paul Dietrich,'*'^ head of the Fund for a Conserv'ative Major¬ ity, which spent two million dollars independently in 1980 during the primaries and the general election to help Reagan. Dietrich asserted, "There is no way to enforce independence as long as there IS a press corps giving us information and as long as one group puts out information and gets it to the others.”*'^ As Drew observes, because there is a close-knit community of pollsters and consultants, information about where independent expenditures might be made most helpfully is readily available."'‘ Although the bulk of independent expenditures in the 1976 and 1980 presidential contests were made during the general election, independent expenditures also occur during the primary season and even earlier. One example of independent expenditures that occurred ven* early in the 1980 presidential election was the large number of committees organized in 1979 with the avowed purpose of drafting Senator Edward Kennedy to be the Democratic nominee for presi¬ dent. According to Alexander, when Kennedy announced his candi¬ dacy in November 1979, more than seventy draft-Kennedy commit¬ tees already existed in thirty-eight states, with total expenditures by these committees of more than Sn 00,000.The Carter campaign committee filed a complaint with the fec about these committees. The FEc’s response was challenged in court and ultimately a U.S. appeals court ruled that under the Supreme Court's Buckley v. Valeo decision, the draft committees were not political committees and therefore not subject to the contribution and expenditure limits that apply to candidate committees. Because the draft committees were viewed as not supporting a candidate m the legal sense of the term, and because these committees were operating without the authori- The Three Campaigns 239 zation of the candidate, they were therefore free to make indepen¬ dent expenditures on behalf of Kennedy.^^ Hence, the skillful use of draft committees may provide another method to circumvent spend¬ ing limits in the future; such expenditures will not count against the individual state ceilings and the overall spending limit during the nomination contest. Independent spending also has occurred during the primary sea¬ son, the largest amount being the $i.6 million spent on Reagan's behalf in 1980, more than half coming from the Fund for a Conserva¬ tive Majority.^"^ According to Alexander, some of these independent expenditures came at critical times for the Reagan campaign.For example, the Fund for a Conservative Majority spent about $80,000 for Reagan in Texas when the Reagan campaign approached the Texas spending limit. Probably the most publicized instance of "independent" expendi¬ tures occurred in the 1984 Democratic nomination battle. The Mondale campaign organized for an early, decisive victory in the primaries and allocated funds accordingly. Thus, when the nomina¬ tion contest between Mondale, Hart, and Jackson became a pro¬ longed one, efforts were made to inject some independent monies into the Mondale campaign. The recipients were teams of delegate candidates running as Mondale supporters to the Democratic convention.And even though the Mondale campaign rejected any PAC contributions, the delegate candidate committees did accept PAC money, primarily from labor unions. Initially, Mondale disclaimed any control over these delegate com¬ mittees, asserting that they were truly independent activities whose spending should not be charged against the spending ceilings imposed on the candidate. However, this claim quickly came under attack by the news media and by Mondale's Democratic opponents. For exam¬ ple, Washington Post reporters George Lardner and David Hoffman^^ wrote that fec reports showed sustantial "apparent coordination between supposedly independent Mondale delegate committees around the country and Walter F. Mondale's national campaign organization. . According to the reports, workers from the national Mondale organization were being shifted to the payrolls of the dele¬ gate committees in states that were about to hold their primaries and caucuses. In addition, Thomas Edsall reported that Mondale finance director Tim Finchcm explicitly expressed support for the 240 New Campaign Elites delegate committees, and that David Ifshin, legal counsel to the Mondale campaign, provided advice about how to form delegate fund¬ raising committees to Mondale delegates throughout the country.^^ In late April of 1984, responding to the sharp political attacks from his Democratic opponents and from the press. Mondale directed that the delegate committees cease operations. Even after this announcement. Mondale received harsh criticism from Gary Hart, who called upon Mondale to return all the monies spent hy the delegate committees. In early April, Hart had filed a formal com¬ plaint with the FEC. Preliminary estimates were that about 132 dele¬ gate committees had been created with a total spending of about $400,000.^° This entire episode illustrates an enduring fact about the campaign finance reforms: candidates and their lawyers and accoun¬ tants are constantly seeking ways to get around the laws. That the Mondale effort backfired into negative publicity for the candidate may have the beneficial effect of making future candidates more wary of such activities. About one month after the November 1984 election the fec accepted a conciliation agreement with the Mondale campaign that required the campaign to pay $18,300 in civil penalties and to return $379,640 in excess contributions to the U.S. Treasury. In return, the FEC agreed to forgo any further legal action against the Mondale campaign and its individual and labor union supporters. This settlement offended many observers as having avoided the basic issues. Herbert Alexander wrote: "The settlement is pointedly inconclusive. It goes to the brink of declaring the Mondale campaign at fault, yet stops short of finding fault. . . . The settlement is inap¬ propriate whether the Mondale campaign broke the law or not. If the law was broken, the penalties were far too light. . . . Conversely, the commission should not have extracted any penalties from the Mondale campaign at all if the law was not broken."*^^ The more important point is that the fec is often politically and administra¬ tively incapable of providing prompt and definitive decisions about alleged violations of the campaign finance laws. Hence, negative publicity is more likely than fec penalties to be an effective deter¬ rent to end runs around the campaign finance laws. The largest independent expenditures occurred in the 1980 and 1984 general elections and most of these independent monies went to support the Reagan campaigns. Alexander reported that more than The Three Campaigns 241 $10 million of independent spending was made for Reagan in 1980, compared to less than $30,000 for the Carter campaign.The pre¬ liminary totals for 1984 show $15.3 million in independent expendi¬ tures for Reagan compared to slightly more than $600,000 for Mondale. These figures represent a dramatic increase from the 1976 election. If the growth rate and the party disparity in independent expenditures continue, it is clear that the intent of the campaign finance laws that both parties have similar financial resources during the general election will be undermined. And a recent Supreme Court decision (discussed below) suggests that independent expenditures will continue to rise. One caveat about the magnitude of indepen¬ dent monies is that a substantial proportion of the funds raised by organizations are used to defray the costs of fund-raising and thus are never spent on behalf of the candidate. Most of the independent expenditures for Reagan in 1980 and 1984 came from conservative pacs rather than wealthy individuals. There was a provision in the finance laws that limited pacs to $1,000 in independent expenditures, but it was suspended when its consti¬ tutionality came under attack. Hence, pacs could spend indepen¬ dently without limit in 1980. Ultimately the Supreme Court dead¬ locked 4-4 on this provision, which led the fec to try to restore the $1,000 limitation. When two conservative pacs —the National Con¬ servative Political Action Committee and the Fund for a Conserva¬ tive Majority—stated that they would try to spend large amounts of money on behalf of Reagan in 1984, the fec and the Democratic party brought suit in lower court to prevent such expenditures. The lower court ruled against the fec and the Democrats, noting that the Buckley v. Valeo reasoning that allowed unlimited independent expenditures by individuals was also appropriate to the situation of PACS. The Supreme Court agreed to review this lower court ruling but rejected a plea by the Democratic party to issue its decision by July 1984. Finally, in March 1985, the Supreme Court by a 7-2 vote struck down the $1,000 limit on independent expenditures by PACS for publicly funded presidential candidates. As in Buckley V. Valeo, the Court ruled that such limitations infringed upon the freedom of speech and association guaranteed by the First Amend¬ ment. Thus, the current status of the campaign finance laws is that unlimited independent expenditures by individuals and pacs arc permissible in the presidential contest. Hut this, of course, begs the 242 New Campaign Elites earlier question of whether most independent expenditures are truly independent. Conclusion Three campaigns for the presidency were conducted in 1980 and 1984. The distinctiveness of these campaigns arose mainly from those provisions of the campaign finance laws and court rulings that permit separate sources of money for candidates, party, and indepen¬ dent efforts. The three campaigns were not independent of each other; indeed, they probably were well coordinated. Certainly, the candidate-centered and the political party campaigns were closely linked, and I would argue that the bulk of the independent expendi¬ tures were effectively coordinated with them, given the widespread availability of information about where independent expenditures would be most helpful to a candidate. It may be that small-scale, individual spending is truly independent, but the sizable, committee- based independent expenditures are more realistically viewed as coordinated spending. Of the three campaigns, only one is working as intended by law — the candidate-centered general election campaign, which is funded primarily by public subsidies given to both major party nominees. A portion of the party-centered effort — the coordinated party expenditures—also works as intended. But some of the state and local party expenditures for exempt activities under the 1979 amend¬ ments may have circumvented at the least the spirit of the campaign finance law's. And, of course, the independent general election cam¬ paign, originally prohibited by the 1974 campaign finance law, was given life by the 1976 and 1985 Supreme Court rulings. Thus the three campaigns exist at the expense of weakened cam¬ paign finance reforms. As discussed earlier, the 1979 amendments encouraging state and local party activity may allow sizable contri¬ butions from wealthy individuals and corporations and unions to reenter presidential campaigns if the allocation among state and federal expenses and the use of impermissible funds to pay for these expenses is not monitored carefully by the fec. The independent expenditures permitted by court rulings also allow big dollars to enter the presidential contest, which undermines the reformist goals of achieving financial parity between the parties, limiting overall spend- The Three Campaigns 243 ing, and eliminating the major donor from presidential campaigns. Spending in the 1984 general election far exceeded the basic $40.4 million subsidy to each major party candidate. The only parts of the campaign finance laws that seem to be working as intended are the limits on contributions to committees and the disclosure of contri¬ butions. Yet the latter may be made more problematic if the 1979 provisions result in monies being raised in certain states and spent in others, thereby making it more difficult to trace the sources of contributions. If one accepts the argument that the three campaigns for president are coordinated to varying degrees and are not independent, where does the major responsibility for coordination lie? The answer is clear—in the candidate-centered campaign. It is the candidate's team of pollsters, media experts, and the like that plays the major role in directing expenditures in strategically effective ways. Thus, even as we see more party involvement in the presidential contest, espe¬ cially during the general election, it is unlikely that the party will exercise more influence in the choice of the presidential nominee. One can envision reforms in the area of campaign finance that would strengthen the parties, such as giving public funding to the parties, which then would distribute these monies to the candidates. However, because the interests of few representatives and senators, particularly those with presidential aspirations, are served by a stronger party system, this seems to be an extremely remote possi¬ bility. A weakened party system provides more maneuvering room for the political entrepreneur. If the Supreme Court would reverse the Buckley v. Valeo and the FEC v. National Conservative Political Action Committee et al. decisions in light of the tremendous growth of independent expenditures and, more important, in response to the growing evidence that only a very small proportion of such expendi¬ tures is truly independent, another loophole would be closed. For its part. Congress might reconsider the 1979 amendments fostering state and local party activity, although this seems unlikely so long as the Republican party is better able to exploit these provisions and main¬ tains control of the White House. One also can propose reforms in the delegate selection process that would enhance the role of the party organization and party leaders in the selection of presidential nominees and would concom¬ itantly reduce the intrusiveness of the mass media, the undue 244 New Campaign Elites influence of Iowa and New Hampshire, and the incentives for candi¬ dates to run against the party in seeking the nomination. One reform that has received wide public discussion is the establishment of a set of regional primaries. But although such a system might reduce the substantial influence of Iowa and New Hampshire and make life more humane for candidates, it seems unlikely to strengthen significantly the party's role in the presidential selection process. Another change that might enhance party influence is to increase further the proportion of convention delegates who are officially uncommitted and who are elected officeholders or party officials. If 33 or 40 or 50 percent of the delegates to the national nominating convention were senators, representatives, governors, state party chairs, state legislators, and the like, then it is unlikely that the primaries and caucuses would be decisive unless one candidate vir¬ tually swept these contests. Certainly, a higher proportion of uncom¬ mitted, "party" delegates raises the possibility that the primaries and caucuses would play more of an advisory role to the nominating conventions rather than the determining role they currently are playing. Moreover, with additional party delegates, a greater opportu¬ nity for peer review of would-be presidents would exist. Presidential candidates would have to do more to convince their party peers by the persuasiveness of their leadership skills and policy positions, skillful bargaining and promises of important perquisites, or both. And perhaps through this peer review process, the interests of the political party itself might be promoted. Although these reforms would not substantially affect the con¬ duct of the campaign, they would enhance the ability of the victori¬ ous candidate to govern effectively. After all, while the three cam¬ paigns for president are of interest in their own right, it is the outcome of these campaigns that is the bottom line. Many observers argue that the various delegate selection and campaign finance reforms have created a system that rewards the skillful campaigner, but pro¬ vides few tests of a presidential aspirant's ability to govern. Moreover, the process is so long and drawn out that it places heavy burdens on incumbent officeholders who aspire to the presidency. The decision by Howard Baker not to seek reelection in 1984 so that he could vie for the Republican nomination in 1988 reflects the harsh political reality that it would be more advantageous to run for president as a former U.S. senator than as the incumbent Senate majority leader. Baker's decision is a sad commentary on a selection system that The Three Campaigns 245 drags on for years and may simply by its duration, weed out many potentially excellent presidents. It is more than coincidence that Carter in 1976, Reagan in 1980, and Mondale in 1984 all won their parties' presidential nominations as former, not current officeholders. The lengthy presidential campaign insures that presidential poli¬ tics will always be in season and that, as a result, presidential honey¬ moons are likely to be shorter and presidential lame duck status achieved earlier in a second term. Political commentators have long observed that presidents must in most instances achieve their major accomplishments shortly after their election or reelection. But today it appears that the window of presidential opportunity is shrinking still further as presidential politics continually pervades the politi¬ cal scene. Speculation about the 1988 election and the post-Reagan era became rampant on election night in 1984 and intensified after the 1986 midterm elections. If the media and politicians are con¬ stantly looking toward the next election, the power base of the presi¬ dent is eroded and governing is made more difficult. As discussed earlier, the oft-reformed campaign finance laws and delegate selection procedures have promoted a candidate-centered presidential campaign that relies heavily on hired guns from the world of marketing, polling, direct mail fund-raising, and the like. Some hired guns bring to their political endeavors a win-at-any-cost attitude that makes the eampaign primarily a candidate promotion effort; the classical idea of democratic theory that a campaign is a process of citizenry education on the major public issues simply is overwhelmed by the hoopla and hype. Even though the classical image of campaigns may be unrealistic and unattainable, it is impor¬ tant to remember that campaigns characterized by a clear discussion of issues may facilitate subsequent governing by the victorious candidate—assuming that the candidate who addresses the issues directly can win. Certainly the candidate who presents policy pro¬ posals before the election and then is victorious will have a better chance of seeing them enacted than the winning nominee who springs new proposals on a surprised citizenry and Congress after the elec¬ tion. There are many reasons why elections cannot be interpreted as mandates for particular public policies. But to the extent that elec¬ tions entail informed choices by an educated citizenry, the capacity to govern after the election will be enhanced. The candidate-centered campaign also may weaken the political party and the prospects for governing when the victorious candidate 246 New Campaign Elites is either unwilling or unable to expand the election coalition to include broader elements of the party in a governing coalition. As mentioned earlier, many of Jimmy Carter's initial problems as presi¬ dent were attributed to his inability to move beyond the close circle of Georgia intimates who were instrumental to his electoral success. In a related vein, the very process of winning the presidential nomi¬ nation by means of a candidate-centered effort may so divide a party that its November prospects are diminished and its coalitional base threatened. And even if victory is achieved in November, the politi¬ cal party may emerge from the process in a precarious condition. One may ask: Why worry about the health of the political party? Why should one care whether the candidate-centered campaign con¬ tributes to the weakening of the political party? Are not parties becoming increasingly irrelevant and outmoded institutions? Many scholars have talked about the functions that political par¬ ties perform for the American political system. There is disagree¬ ment about some of these functions and how well the party performs them, but there is little doubt that the parties play an important role in the governing process by recruiting candidates, organizing and expressing programmatic concerns, and providing linkages across and among levels of government in our highly fragmented political system. Through these and other activities, the parties promote responsiveness and accountability in government. Political parties are in no immediate danger of extinction. Their activities are too central to the political system to witness any sud¬ den demise. Moreover, parties enjoy substantial protection in elec¬ tion laws and there is increasing evidence that the parties are learn¬ ing how to respond to the new technological environment of campaigns and elections. Nevertheless, one still must express con¬ cern for the parties in light of a presidential selection process in which the candidate-centered campaign is dominant, the indepen¬ dent expenditures campaign is likely to grow in importance, and the party effort remains the weakest of the three. If parties were simply organizations for electing candidates, then their future would be of lesser concern, since other organizations (such as political action committees) could just as effectively use current technology and contest elections. But parties do much more and it is for this reason that the way we conduct presidential (and other) elections raises significant public issues about governance in the United States. 10 Regulating Campaign Finance: Consequences for Interests and Institutions XANDRA KAYDEN The 19705 was a decade of major change in the structure of Ameri¬ can politics. One of the most significant elements of that change was the passage of the Federal Election Campaign Act (feca). Origi¬ nally enacted in 1971, the law was amended several times during the decade and was the subject of a Supreme Court ruling. By 1980 the law was clear, as was the fact that it had changed the relationships between interests and candidates, and between candidates and par¬ ties. The presidential selection process, which prompted passage of the law in the first place, was most affected, but the effects of the law reached far beyond the presidency, to Congress and to state and local politics. The law, along with other factors such as the developing technology of communication, has been instrumental in rebuilding the major parties and in giving greater weight to centralization and professionalism in politics. It appears to have nationalized interest group activity at the expense of the interests of local constituencies. This chapter will explore the development of campaign finance reform; its causes, objectives, and consequences. It will consider the new balance of power between the participants in the political pro¬ cess. Some interests, such as business, have lost influence at the presidential level but increased their participation and influence in Congress. Membership organizations that can provide volunteers to help win caucuses and primaries have gained influence. Organiza¬ tions that can make appeals on "hot" moral issues also have benefited. 248 New Campaign Elites although thus far they have had more success in setting the tone of the political dehate than in affecting the outcome of the presidential selection process. They may have more influence in elections with less visibility. The practices of some of the new groups—practices born of new campaign technologies such as direct mail fund-raising and indepen¬ dent spending—are beginning to affect the behavior of older groups. Many of the newer participants in political financing, small donors brought in because of their concern about social and moral issues, may be less committed to the system than their "fat cat" predeces¬ sors, and thus a less stable influence in the process. The net result of these competing forces may not be known for some time. Throughout this essay the analysis will be based on the structures of the law; contribution and expenditure limits, independent expen¬ ditures, and public financing. The new rules have created a new game. Our concern is with the game and how each participant (the candidates' campaign organizations, the parties, and the interest groups) plays its chips and moves about the board. Our knowledge is based on the disclosure provisions of the law. These give us insight into the process, but we still are limited by what the players are willing to say, the threat of law notwithstanding. If there are serious abuses of the law, we cannot identify them. On the other hand, if money is not spent publicly and in a way that makes a difference in the outcome of an election, it may not matter. The law relies upon the players to comply, and whether we believe they do or do not probably depends upon the confidence we place in the political sys¬ tem as a whole. I tend to believe they do comply. The History of the Law Most campaign legislation has been directed first against the power¬ ful interests of big business and secondarily at the corruption of elected officials. Recent efforts have also been concerned with the amount of money spent in campaigns, but it is not clear whether this is a critical problem for the democratic process or even whether it can be effectively curtailed, given the increased costs of communi¬ cation, reliance on professionals, and so on. Considering that it is the officials themselves who must enact the legislation, reform usu¬ ally does not occur unless there have been major scandals, or unless Regulating Campaign Finances 249 established interests fear a change, as when the rise of machines (and the immigrant populations that fueled them) occurred during the Progressive Era. The history of campaign finance legislation began with the pas¬ sage of the Tillman Act in 1907. It prohibited corporate contribu¬ tions to campaigns, provided some measure of disclosure through the filing of reports to both the respective houses of Congress and the General Accounting Office, and established campaign spending limitations.^ The law was observed more in the breach than in prac¬ tice and the ways around it became the rules of the game. Reports were filed, but were not available to the public and were kept for only two years. Most campaign communications costs were exempted, such as stationery, postage, printing, and telephones. Primary elec¬ tions were excluded from coverage, even though a large portion of the country consisted of single party states where winning the primary was tantamount to election. The Progressive movement was more successful in controlling power when it attacked the political parties by instituting primaries and nonpartisan elections at the local level and by enacting office, rather than party ballots. Campaigns them¬ selves are temporary and there is no second chance. If the rules do not fit the needs of politicians who are contesting elections, experi¬ ence suggests that the rules will be bent until they do. Any complaints — after the election—are generally academic exercises. Although there were other attempts at reform in the middle years of the century (the Hatch Act in 1940 limited the influence of incum¬ bency, and the Taft-Hartley Act in 1947 extended the contributions prohibitions to organized labor), it was not until the passage of the FECA in 1971 that the new age of reform began. The first major step in modern reform grew out of the election of John F. Kennedy to the presidency in i960. It reflected, in part, the new president's concern with the cost of campaigning (tremendously increased by the use of paid television advertising) and the sense that only a rich man could afford to run. Kennedy established a commis¬ sion, which suggested that a matching funds program (wherein pub¬ lic funds are provided to candidates in direct proportion to the amounts they raise from private sources) be established for presiden¬ tial elections. President Lyndon B. Johnson expressed interest in elec¬ toral reform but did not submit legislation in time for action before Congress adjourned. The Ashmore-Goodell bill followed in the 250 New Campaign Elites mid-1960s, after the censure of Senator Thomas Dodd of Connecti¬ cut for using campaign funds for personal purposes in 1966. It called for the creation of a Federal Election Commission, which would receive, process, and make public all campaign reports filed by all candidates in federal elections. A weakened version passed the Sen¬ ate in 1967, but the House failed to act on it.^ Throughout the 1960s measures were offered and occasionally passed into law, although none ever saw the light of practice. Senator Russell Long of Louisiana, chairman of the Senate Finance Commit¬ tee, sponsored a bill that called for a subsidy for presidential elec¬ tions to be funneled through the national parties. The bill passed, but it was voted "inoperative” the next year, partly out of fear of giving too much power to the political bosses, particularly the national party chairmen, who could, it was felt, exert undue influence in the selection of presidential candidates.'^ Coinciding with the legislative proposals were academic studies, one sponsored by the Twentieth Century Fund on the costs of cam¬ paigning, with special attention to the media, and another by the Campaign Finance Group at Harvard, which argued that the United States did not spend enough on elections. There were lobbying efforts led by the National Committee for an Effective Congress and later by Common Cause. The Citizens Research Foundation began the impor¬ tant task of gathering data about elections and publishing compre¬ hensive studies of campaign costs. Modern Reform Throughout the 1970s, campaign finance legislation was passed and amended and ruled upon by the Supreme Court. This legislation has changed American politics as much as the reforms of the Progressive Era. Although the motivations for enacting reform were often the same as those in the past (mainly fear of official corruption and of the influence exercised by business) the methods used were more subtle and the consequences often were unintended. Campaign finance reform became a reality with the passage of two bills in 1971: the Federal Election Campaign Act and the Revenue Act, which provided either tax credits or tax deductions for citizens' contributions to political campaigns, and a tax checkoff system to help finance the presidential election. The dollar checkoff system, although controversial at the time, provided the revenue for subsi- Regulating Campaign Finances 251 dies to presidential candidates. Subsidies went directly to the candi¬ dates from the Federal Election Commission, instead of to the par¬ ties as proposed originally in the Long bill. The checkoff's use by voters increased steadily until 1984, although it is hy no means universal. It rose from 7 percent in 1972 to 27 percent in 1980, dropping to 23 percent in 1984, amounting to $13.5 million for the primary period in 1984 and $24.2 million during the general elec¬ tion, for a total of $35.4 million.Unlike several states that have a check add-on system, the federal dollar is taken from the assessed tax and does not add to the taxpayer's burden. The original Federal Election Campaign Act of 1971, which passed into law in January of 1972, had the following major provisions. Contribution limits. Although subsequent amendments were much more severe, the original law focused on the amount candi¬ dates or their families could contribute to their own campaigns ($50,000 for president and vice president, $35,000 for the Senate, and $25,000 for a member of the House of Representatives). The Supreme Court voided this provision in Buckley v. Valeo in 1976, except as it applied to a presidential candidate receiving public funds (who could spend up to $50,000). The law now sets no limit on a candidate's personal contribution to the campaign. It does, however, limit almost everyone else: individuals are allowed to contribute a maximum of $1,000, and political action committees $5,000 per candidate. Politi¬ cal parties also can make contributions to the candidates, usually limited to two cents per voter, but there are a number of other ser¬ vices they can provide candidates at, or below, cost, which frequently makes them the largest single donor to a campaign. Spending limits. The law placed a ceiling on the amount of money that could be spent for media by federal candidates in all elections. This feature, too, was altered, first by the 1974 amendments and then by the Court in Buckley. The limits that currently exist are placed on candidates receiving public funds in presidential cam¬ paigns, and on parties. Oversight. The law called for the clerk of the House and the secre¬ tary of the Senate to oversee elections to their respective bodies by handling reports and disclosure, and for the comptroller general to oversee the presidential candidates and other miscellaneous com¬ mittees. The 1974 amendments then created the Federal Election Commission (fec) to assume these responsibilities. Disclosure. The law required that duplicate reports be filed in 252 New Campaign Elites Washington and with the secretaries of state or comparable officers within each state in order to inform voters about campaign funding. In addition, candidates and political committees were required to report total expenditures, as well as the names, addresses, occupa¬ tions, and principal places of business of each of their contributors. Each expenditure over $ioo also was to be reported, including sala¬ ries and personal services. The 1979 amendments later raised the reporting threshold to $200, but otherwise the provision has remained intact and has become one of the most important elements of mod¬ ern reform. The law also called for public reports to the fec on a quarterly basis, more frequently during election cycles. The 1974 amendments changed the dates of the reports, but the exercise remains and has encouraged the centralization of campaigning. The 1974 Amendments The 1971 law was passed largely in response to a growing concern about the money required to win an election in the television age. The Watergate scandals that stemmed from the 1972 presidential campaign gave new impetus to the perennial reformist theme of curbing the power of large donors and the rapaciousness of some of those who would seek their support. The 1974 amendments were, according to one observer, "the most sweeping set of campaign finance law changes ever adopted in the United States, if not the world."^ Among their features were the following. Contribution limits. Individuals were limited to contributions of Si, 000 to any candidate in any election (primary, runoff, and general). There was a cumulative contribution limit of $25,000 per calendar year for any individual, which includes contributions to candidates, political committees, and parties. The amendments retained the candidate self-contribution limitations (struck in 1976 by the Court), and limited to $1,000 the amount an individual could spend inde¬ pendent of the campaign to influence an election (also struck by the Court). Political action committees (pacs) were limited to contributions of $5,000 per election, but no cumulative limit was set on their contributions. Political parties were limited in their expenditures on behalf of candidates in general elections to $10,000 in House elec- Rcgulatin )4 Campaign f'inanccs 253 tions and $20,000, or two cents per voter, in Senate elections, which¬ ever was greater. Parties also were allowed to spend two cents per voter in presidential elections. In primary elections, the parties were limited to $5,000 and treated as any other committee. At the time, neither party had much money to spend and the limitations were somewhat academic. More recently, the parties have turned out to be far more influential in campaigns because they raise money and can provide services, and because the limitations are more severe on other participants. Public financing’. A matching contributions system was established in which a presidential candidate would qualify for federal funds by raising $5,000 in donations of $250 or less in twenty states. During the primary season, the government would match donations of $250 and less as long as the candidate won 10 percent of the vote in every other primary entered. (A candidate who loses eligibility can be reinstated by winning 20 pereent of the vote in a subsequent pri¬ mary.) This provision, combined with the contribution limit on indi¬ viduals, shifted the focus of political fund-raising away frf)m the proverbial fat cat toward the small donor, who could be reached largely through direct mail campaigns. It has had a major effect on political participation and rhetoric in America. The two major parties received flat grants for the nominating con¬ ventions; thereafter, nominees who chose to accept public financing were required to forgo private contributions during the general elee- tion. In 1984 the presidential candidates each received $40 million. The Federal Election Commission. The new law created an inde¬ pendent, bipartisan commission of six members, to be chosen by the Speaker of the House, the president pro tempore of the Senate, and the president. Under Buckley, this provision was changed to require that all appointments be made by the president (because of the sepa¬ ration of powers required by the Constitution). The commission was given responsibility for administering tbe law, a task made easier by tighter reporting requirements and the required creation of one cen¬ tral committee per campaign, through which all contributions and expenditures were to be reported.'^ Watergate notwithstanding, the passage of the 1974 amendments was not without controversy. Wayne Hays, who chaired the House- Administration Committee, which was responsible for the legisla¬ tion, was a strong opponent of public financing. He stalled the bill 254 New Campaign Elites for more than a year. Because House members come up for reelec¬ tion so frequently, they tend to be wary of all electoral reforms, and these were bound to be far-reaching. The Nixon administration also forwarded legislation, but its proposals met with little support, some believing that they were designed for failure, given the president's difficulties in the last election. It was, in fact, just a few hours before Nixon resigned that the House passed the feca on August 8 , 1974. The Senate, which had passed another bill the year before while waiting for House action, had included public financing of congres¬ sional election in its version, but acceded to the House and dropped that section. The bill was signed by President Gerald R. Ford on October 15, 1974, and went into effect on January i, 1975.^ Challenge in the Courts: Buckley v Valeo Controversy did not end with the passage of the law. A wide-ranging coalition of opponents formed that spanned the political spectrum from right to left. During the legislative process. Senator James L. Buckley, a conservative Republican, introduced an amendment to the law that allowed any eligible voter to bring suit challenging the constitutionality of the feca. The most important issue involved the First Amendment right to freedom of speech, but other constitu¬ tional questions concerned rights of association and equal protec¬ tion. A few days after the law went into effect, Buckley, whose coali¬ tion included Eugene McCarthy and Stewart Mott from the liberal wing of the Democratic party, brought suit against the secretary of the Senate (Francis R. Valeo), the clerk of the House, the attorney general, the fec. Common Cause, the Center for Public Financing of Elections, and the League of Women Voters. Slightly more than a year later, on January 30, 1976, the Supreme Court issued its ruling. The central issue of the case was the relationship between money and free speech, or as Herbert Alexander described it: "Is an expendi¬ ture for speech substantially the same thing as speech itself, because the expenditure is necessary to reach large audiences by the purchase of air time or space in print media? The Court voided the limits on independent expenditures and on what candidates could spend of their own money on their own campaigns (with the exception of presidential candidates who accept public financing). It upheld the other contribution limits on the grounds that they were only mar- Regulating Campaign Finances 255 ginal constraints on contributors but did serve to lessen the influence of large donors—an acceptable policy preference. The Court also upheld the disclosure provisions, the public financing scheme for presidential elections, and the notion of a bipartisan commission. It did not accept the role of Congress in appointing the fec commis¬ sioners, however, which forced Congress to rewrite the law. The in days it took to do so left a hiatus in the functioning of the commis¬ sion and the law in the midst of the 1976 election campaign.^ The Court recognized three matters of public interest as its reasons for accepting the disclosure provisions of the law as they applied to candidates: (i) providing voters information on the sources and uses of campaign funds; (2) the deterrence of corruption, or the appear¬ ance of corruption, by revealing large contributions; and (3) enforcing contribution limits. The Court did not require such disclosure from associational interests lest it inhibit their First Amendment rights: to disclose some groups' membership might deter people from belong¬ ing. It also gave greater weight to the First Amendment than to the equal protection clause of the Fourteenth Amendment when it rejected the limitations on candidates' personal contributions, on spending ceilings that might aid incumbents over challengers (because incumbents are more likely to have higher name recognition than challengers, who must therefore spend more to become equally known), or on candidates with support from wealthy interests, who are more likely to have access to disposable income than candidates without such support. Although there is constant litigation in the courts regarding the law, and some cases have come as far as the Supreme Court, no ruling has yet been as comprehensive as Buckley in its effect on reform efforts and the electoral process in general. No one was entirely pleased with the outcome of Buckley. Rich¬ ard Smolka, citing Chief lustice Warren Burger's separate opinion, noted that the Court by "dissecting the Act" failed to recognize that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Burger argued that Congress had intended to regulate all aspects of federal campaign finance, but what remains after today's holdings leaves no more than a shadow of what Congress contemplated. I question whether the residue leaves a workable program. . . . Tbe more the courts look at the law, the less they see that can pass constitutional muster. 256 New Campaign Elites And what is left may not be sufficient to achieve the primary objective of the law in the first place—to limit the influence or apparent influence of money in campaigns, thereby reducing the likelihood of corruption of elected officials. The Later Amendments: 1976 and 1979 Congress continued to legislate after the Buckley decision. It con¬ centrated more on the Federal Election Commission than on the substance of reform, although it did make some changes. It estab¬ lished annual limits on individual contributions of $20,000 to par¬ ties and $5,000 to other political committees; established limits on PAC contributions to parties of $15,000; limited presidential candi¬ dates who accept public funds to $50,000 of their own money (as provided for in the original 1971 act, but struck by the Court when it voided limits on congressional candidates); limited corporate pacs to solicitations from stockholders and executive and administrative per¬ sonnel and their families (in response to an fec decision deemed favorable to corporations, known as the $unPac Decision, which labor strongly opposed); and increased the amount Senate cam¬ paign committees could contribute from $5,000 to $17,500 per election. Because the fec had been in existence for several years, the law was rewritten with a view toward “correcting” its behavior. All six commissioners were required to be appointed by the president and confirmed by the Senate, although Congress retains a great deal of interest in the selection of the commission, which is the closest thing to an oversight agency on the legislators themselves. The dis¬ cretionary powers of the commission were substantially curtailed, especially in the area of advisory opinions, upon which the fec had relied heavily in the early years, rather than trying to formulate regulations to effect compliance with the law. Because the law was expected to have a profound influence on the political process, the FEC had sought to avoid making broad policy through regulations and instead preferred taking up each question individually.^'^ There was relatively little scandal in the 1976 election, although uncertainty about the law—made more critical for presidential can¬ didates who were depending on the matching funds the commission was slow to dispense because of the hiatus created by the Supreme Regulating Campaign Finances 257 Court ruling—complicated the work of campaign planners. In retro¬ spect, it turns out that the effects of the law were relatively moderate on candidates for other offices and on state and local parties, largely because they ignored it and the confusion was great enough for their lack of compliance to get The 1979 amendments grew out of experience in the 1978 elections when the law was fully enforced for the first time. As regulations were formulated and ironed out, and as individuals and organizations —to say nothing of professionals in law and accounting—discovered what was and was not possible, the body of reform began to take shape. "Unintended consequences" were identified and fine-tuning began under the guidance of Frank Thompson, the new chairman of the House Administration Committee. Fear of corruption and undue influence, and the power of the fec were less important concerns in 1979 than was the influence of the law on the political process as a whole. Organized labor worried about the growth of corporate pacs. The number of corporate and trade association pacs had increased dramatically, especially after the SunPac decision clarified how corporations could establish pacs. This was partly because the Republican National Committee and other pro-business groups made it a priority to organize corporate PACS, and partly because they began to learn from each other. Labor saw itself in danger of being vastly outnumbered since unions could not proliferate. A number of observers were concerned about the disadvantage the political parties seemed to suffer because of the law, especially at the local level. Fears also were expressed about the growing professionalism and centralization that campaigns required in order to meet the law's reporting standards. And since money was more visible because of disclosure, there was ongoing concern about the costs of elections. Independent expenditures, which bothered campaign professionals from the beginning even though there were relatively few of them in the first two election cycles under the law, were thought to be a wild card in the political arena. This fear would grow, although solutions have remained elusive. The 1979 amendments simplified many of the law's procedures and absolved many of the small participants from reporting require¬ ments. State and local party restrictions were eased when it became clear that the burden of maintaining separate accounts was widen¬ ing the division between each party's local and federal candidates. A 258 New Campaign Elites congressional candidate attending a pancake breakfast held by the county party—and attended by other party candidates for local and state office—created a nightmare for accountants who had to allo¬ cate the proportionate benefits and costs between the federal and state candidates. Spending limits were adjusted in some areas and clarified in others. The fec practice of random audits was restricted, with at least some indication of significant violation now required, and although there was some discussion of extending public financing to congressional elections, the issue was not considered in the legis¬ lation lest it jeopardize the noncontroversial problems that Congress wanted to resolve. Campaign Reform in Practice: The Presidential Experience The reforms of the 1970s have succeeded because of their ability to measure the income and expenditures of campaigns. They would not have been possible in a less technologically sophisticated age. Their implementation, however, has increased reliance on technology in politics, and along with it the growth of political professionals (espe¬ cially in law and accounting) and centralization. Another conse¬ quence of the law and the growing role of technology has been the rise of some interests and the decline of others. All of these develop¬ ments are seen most clearly at the presidential level because it is the most visible American election, and because it sets the standard for smaller campaigns. The Campaigns The most important consequences of the law for the campaigns themselves involve contributions and expenditures limitations in the states during the prenomination phase, and compliance proce¬ dures. Public financing—a major feature of the reform that attempted to alleviate the need for candidates to rely on either large donors or their own wealth—has affected fund-raising strategies and fostered the emergence of independent spending. Public financing seems, at this stage, to have had greater influence on the formation and activi¬ ties of the groups making the expenditures than it has on the out¬ come of presidential elections, although it may make a greater differ¬ ence in other elections. Regulating Campaign Finances 259 Contribution Limits An intent of the law was to limit the influence of large donors. From the very beginning, however, the $i,ooo contribution limit has been criticized as being too low for presidential elections. Typically, recom¬ mendations for change suggest a $3,500 to $10,000 limit, scaled down proportionately at the Senate and House levels. As the argu¬ ment goes, "You can't buy a senator for $1,000. You couldn't even rent one." The consequences of the low limit include the following; 1. Campaigns must begin earlier to raise "seed money" and estab¬ lish credibility, making it almost impossible for a late entrant to amass the resources necessary for an effective campaign for the nom¬ ination. The experience of Gary Hart in 1984, as a candidate who became a leading contender only after the caucuses and primaries began, also raises the question of whether the limits—and the times of the primaries—allow enough flexibility to mount a major cam¬ paign. Having poured most of its resources into the early primaries and caucuses, knowing that in order to win it would have to make a strong showing in the beginning, the Hart campaign had little in funds or energy left to sustain its efforts once the first surge of momentum passed. 2. The emphasis the feca places on smaller donations for match¬ ing purposes, combined with the improved technology in direct mail fund-raising, has strongly influenced the methods campaigns use to raise money. Increasingly, ideological and negative approaches are used, which may hurt the chances of centrist candidates in both parties. Although politicians in other nations have used direct mail solicitations successfully without making negative appeals, that strat¬ egy does not seem to work in the United States, where the incentive to make small contributions is presumed to be principally fear or anger. 3. The campaign organization is forced to devote more of its time and resources to raising money, increasing the cost of fund-raising to at least one dollar for every four raised. 4. The new fund-raising strategy and the reporting requirements of the law have so encouraged a centralization of the campaign that local activity has been seriously limited. Still, it is doubtful that the law is the major cause of the decline of grass roots participation in politics. 5. The contribution limitation has not entirely succeeded in tak- 260 New Campaign Elites ing the large donor out of presidential politics. Independent expendi¬ tures, contributions to political action committees, and contribu¬ tions to state parties that do not fall under the federal law and are not reported to the fec, are available and effective alternatives to those seeking influence. In addition, there are other loopholes in the law that have enabled some to make relatively substantial contributions to presidential candidates, including artists who donate their work for sale by the campaign, and individuals who control lists of donors. The intent of the law was to take the large donor out of politics, and, despite the exceptions, it has been somewhat successful. It has certainly expanded the base of contributors to include the less affluent. It is unlikely that legislation could ever entirely eliminate the participation of those who seek power through money, given the strength of power as a motivation for human behavior. As time goes on, major loopholes have emerged that, although not necessarily venal or harmful to the process, have contravened the intent of the law and certain expectations and understandings about how the politi¬ cal system functions. One of the most ingenious loopholes grew from the recognition that the federal law applies only to federal elec¬ tions, not to state elections or state political institutions. Since 1980, both parties, but principally the Republicans, have been organizing and directing those who would like to make large contributions to a number of state parties. The contribution is reported in the state in which it is received, but not in the donor's state or in Washington. The only ones who know the aggregate size of the donor's total contribution are the party coordinators and the presidential cam¬ paign staff. Expenditure Limits For presidential nomination campaigns, the law provides a formula of sixteen cents times the voting age population of a state, or $200,000 (whichever is greater) as the limit for spending in each state. This figure is adjusted to the price index each calendar year, with 1976 as the base year. The total limit is calculated at $10 million, plus an inflation factor, which by 1984 added up to $40.4 million, half of which could come from public funds.The state limits have turned out to be critical in the early primaries and caucuses, especially because Iowa and New Hampshire are states with small populations. Although more of the candidates' problems stem from the prolifera- Regulating Campaign Finances 261 tion and timing of primaries and caucuses than from the campaign reform law, it has become a fact of political life that campaign staffs resort to "creative accounting" and other artificial methods of behav¬ ior to spend as much as they believe they must in order to make a credible showing. Since Massachusetts has a large limit and New Hampshire a low limit, campaign staffers frequently stay in neigh¬ boring Massachusetts hotels and make media expenditures there in order to bypass the lower New Hampshire limit. Another tactic is to charge campaign headquarters expenditures to the costs of compli¬ ance with the law, which are exempted from the spending limitations. One of the most obvious features of the presidential selection process is the timing of the primaries and caucuses, a subject of continuing, some would argue eternal, debate in the Democratic party. However the timing issue is resolved from one election to another, any arrangement will favor some kinds of candidates and hinder others, partly because of the rules laid down by the campaign finance law. There does not seem to be a way to lessen the impor¬ tance of the early events because of the momentum they give to the candidates who win them or come a surprisingly close second. Because of their importance, therefore, campaign managers will do whatever they can to maximize their chances of success. According to a Campaign Finance Study Group report on the 1980 presidential election, most presidential campaigns reported spend¬ ing up to 85 percent of the state limit in the early contests, then dropped to 30 to 40 percent in March, and 25 to 30 percent in April. A similar pattern existed in 1976^^ and in 1984, not only because of political need but also because the later states are larger and have higher limits. Although it may be easier to change the law than to reduce the importance of the primaries, the spending limits' effect thus far has been to engender cynicism about compliance among campaign professionals because of the impracticality of the law. Once the early campaign season is past, candidates pick and choose which primaries to enter to preserve their matching fund eligibility (which requires that they receive 10 percent of the votes cast in at least one of two succeeding primaries they enter) and to enhance their credibility as presidential contenders.Since the larger states yield larger delegations to the nominating conventions, the smaller states now tend to be ignored by the campaigns, at least as measured by campaign expenditures.^' Another result of state spending limits is that once a primary is 262 New Campaign Elites over, campaign headquarters, which are opened about four weeks before the primary, are closed as soon as possible. The staff often will move to the next state, adding to the tendency of campaigns to be run more by professionals (and roving bands of volunteers) and less by local workers. Whatever the objectives of the state expenditures limits (a more even distribution of campaign spending, a compliance mechanism that will help the fec oversee spending, or some combination of goals), they have very few supporters. Most view the state limits as an arbitrary, artificial obstacle that does nothing to advance the pres¬ idential selection process. They are a problem for frontrunners, who must spend early and everywhere in order to maintain both their organizations and their standing in the eyes of the media. They are also a problem for candidates seeking to emerge from the pack. Although eliminating or at least alleviating state limits is not an especially controversial notion, congressional leaders charged with campaign finance have been hesitant to open up the legislative pro¬ cess again lest opponents of the entire concept of campaign finance regulation use the opportunity to gut the law. Compliance Procedures The law calls for periodic reports on campaign income and expendi¬ tures. Meeting that requirement — along with the expenditure limitations—has forced presidential campaigns to alter their organi¬ zational structures. Local headquarters, which used to “live off the land” by developing many of their own activities, raising their own funds, and generally representing the candidate to those who wanted to get involved, have fallen victim to the candidates' need to central¬ ize and to keep strict controls over both fund-raising and campaign spending. Compliance procedures, particularly during the primary period, are often cited as a cause of centralization in campaigns, because of the level of detail required by the fec before matching funds are granted. Campaign staffs estimate that from three to seven full-time people are required to fill out the forms.More important, the roles of accountants, attorneys, and all of the support staff that are associ¬ ated with fund-raising and reporting have been enhanced because of the compliance, contribution, and expenditure limitations of the law. Regulating Campaign Finances 263 Although the work is clearly hurdensome, and stories of fec mis¬ handling are to be found in every campaign, it is clear that modern presidential campaigns are professional enough to handle it. Stories also abound about using compliance expenditures as a cover for other activities whose costs probably would put a campaign over the expen¬ ditures limit in the early primaries and caucuses. Still, no major scandals have erupted after three presidential elections under the law. The most typical ruse, as already noted, is to charge campaign headquarters overhead to compliance costs, thereby avoiding the lim¬ its because compliance costs are exempt. From the beginning, the staff of the fec has been praised by campaigns for its efforts to facili¬ tate their work; as the years have gone by, the procedures have been streamlined and made more efficient. The work of the commission may be an extraordinary accomplishment, considering the difficulties of establishing temporary organizations, let alone regulating them. Independent Expenditures The fear that independent expenditures generate in the eyes of most political actors and academic observers is probably worse than the actual experience thus far would warrant, but since 1976, when Buckley lifted the limits on such spending, campaign managers have forecast dire consequences to the electoral process.As independent spending groups gain experience with the new spending vehicle, they grow more comfortable with it and others follow their lead. Potentially, then, each election will attract more independent spend¬ ing than the last. In 1980, more than $13.7 million was spent inde¬ pendently to influence the outcome of the presidential election ($2.3 million was spent on congressional elections).Of that, $12.2 mil¬ lion was spent to elect Ronald Reagan. In 1980, 85 percent of the independent spending for Reagan was done during the general election, a time when contributions to the campaigns were forbidden to candidates who accepted public financ¬ ing. In 1984, however, only 40 percent of the independent spending was done during the general election; the rest was spent during the primary period and the few weeks before the national convention. The 1984 pattern raises questions about how much independent spending was tied to the prohibition against contributing to publicly financed general election campaigns.^'”’ It would be difficult under the circumstances to use the contribution prohibition as an argu- 264 New Campaign Elites ment against extending public financing to congressional elections. In 1984, $18.5 million was spent independently, $2.5 million of it used to oppose candidates. As in 1980, most of the money was spent in the presidential election, in support of Ronald Reagan ($15.5 mil¬ lion for the president, with $160,000 spent against him). A little more than a half million dollars was spent on behalf of the Demo¬ cratic nominee, Walter Mondale, and a little less than a half million was spent against him. Again, as in 1980, most of the money was spent by conservative groups, with the top five spending more than $14.5 million. But, as Michael Malbin has pointed out, 85 to 95 percent of that money went into direct mail fund-raising rather than the purchase of media advertising to advocate Reagan's election. National Conservative Political Action Committee (ncpac) $ 9,742,930 Ruff-PAC 1,952,071 Fund for a Conservative Majority 1,552,927 National Congressional Club 789,353 Christian Voice Moral Government Fund 339,863 Total $14,576,461 Although almost twice as many groups spent independently on behalf of Walter Mondale (forty-nine to twenty-nine for Reagan), the largest donor, the Senior Political Action Committee, gave only $205,090, which was just about matched by the fifteen labor unions that made independent expenditures ($205,578). Among the other interests that spent in the 1984 presidential election were the nuclear freeze movement ($73,000); antiabortion groups, which concentrated more on congressional elections, but spent almost $11,000 on the presidential race; conservation groups; handgun groups; and wom¬ en's groups. More corporations and trade associations were involved in 1984 than 1980, but the number remained small (fewer than a dozen). Independent spending increased between 1980 and 1984; $2.6 mil¬ lion more was spent at the presidential level, and $4.5 million was spent at the congressional level—more than double the $2.3 million spent on congressional elections in 1980. If it can be assumed that spending is at its least effective when the visibility of the candidates is greatest, then the increase at the congressional level should be of more concern than that at the presidential level. For all the money Regulating Campaign Finances 265 that was spent by the New Right groups, few would attribute Presi¬ dent Reagan's reelection to their efforts. Of course, it would be hard to prove that such spending determined the outcome of any given congressional election, but the chances are greater there, and still greater at the state legislative level. Most of the groups that report independent expenditures do not spend great amounts of money. Many of the expenditures are for ads in local newspapers and on local radio and television stations. Litera¬ ture is also printed independently, but many of these groups just as easily could have made a contribution to a candidate's campaign or to a party, except in the general election of the president. The concern is about the big spenders, partly because they repre¬ sent interests that are often controversial and usually spend nega¬ tively, and partly because independent expenditures have always been perceived as a loophole in the law and as being in conflict with the spirit of campaign reform. The Supreme Court has repeatedly held that curtailing such spending would be an infringement of freedom of speech. According to Justice William Rehnquist, who wrote the majority opinion in a 1985 case brought by the Federal Election Commission and the Democratic party against the National Con¬ servative Political Action Committee (ncpac) and the Fund for a Conservative Majority, the Buckley decision meant that "preventing corruption and the appearance of corruption are the only legitimate and compelling Government interests thus far identified for restrict¬ ing campaign finances."^^ Independent expenditures, according to Rehnquist, are less apt to be of a corrupting nature than contributions made directly to a can¬ didate. The dissenting opinions by justices Byron White and Thurgood Marshall take issue with equating free speech with money. Accord¬ ing to White, If the elected members of the legislature, who are surely in the best position to know, conclude that large-scale expenditures are a significant threat to the integrity and fairness of the electoral process, we should not second-guess that judgment. . . . The cred¬ ulous acceptance of the formal distinction between coordinated and independent expenditures blinks political reality. . . . By strik¬ ing down one portion of an integrated and comprehensive stat¬ ute, the Court has once again transformed a coherent regulatory scheme into a nonsensical, loophole-ridden patchwork. 266 New Campaign Elites Whether Congress will ever find a way to limit independent expen¬ ditures that will pass muster with the Court remains uncertain. A political scandal, a proven electoral effect, and a change in the makeup of the Court may all have to occur before the current law can be altered. The corruption feared by some is not the old-fashioned kind in which a candidate pockets the money and votes quietly in favor of a hidden interest, but rather a corruption of the process itself. In the meantime, if money is equated with speech. Republican nominees appear to have been talking much more loudly than Democratic candidates in the last two presidential elections. With $40.4 million provided in public funds to each major party nominee (and an addi¬ tional $6.9 million permitted to the national parties to spend), the added $15.6 million of independent expenditures for Reagan was a substantial amount. If the issue is one of balance, it cannot be measured only by adding up the independent spendings on one side and comparing it to the other. One important reason for the emergence of the groups that engage in such spending was their fear of labor's influence, especially after the Watergate scandals and the loss to the Republican party of many of its professionals. Labor's strength has been its ability to educate union members (for which it spent $4.4 million in the 1984 election, according to fec data) and to encourage their participation in campaigns. Money is only part of labor's commitment to the Democratic party. There is no estimating the value of the contribu¬ tions it has made through volunteer participation. Republican fears of labor led directly to the formation of some of the most important New Right groups, including, ncpac, whose first director, Charles Black, was campaign director of the Republican National Committee. Whether the response of the right balances out the influence of the left is very hard to tell, especially at the presidential level, because of the complexity of all elections and the visibility of presidential elections, which provide most voters with enough information from different sources to make up their own minds. At a superficial level, it appears to be more a question of balancing apples and oranges, since the concerns of one group are not matched directly against those of the other. On the other hand, labor and the New Right provide a constituency base to their respective parties, which cannot be considered irrelevant. Even though labor is essentially proestab¬ lishment, and the New Right antiestablishment, each maintains an Regulating Campaign Finances 267 uneasy alliance with its party which appears to be the inevitable nature of alliances. Since money spent at the presidential level cannot be proven to have an effect on the electoral outcome, independent expenditures appear to have been more successul in affecting the tone of the debate and in providing an alternative method of participation for some groups. A presidential election profoundly affects American politics because of the attention it commands from the public, the tone it gives the political process, and the patterns it sets for electoral behav¬ ior. Techniques that are pioneered in a presidential election become part of the repertoire of smaller campaigns; the people it brings into politics become party workers, political activists, and government employees for years to come. Draft Committees The 1980 election raised another regulatory problem in presidential campaigns: draft committees. This problem is not dissimilar from independent expenditures because there is a thin line between inde¬ pendence and coordination. It also is tied to the issue of state expen¬ diture limits since the spending of draft committees does not count against a candidate's limits. The complexity of the problem is not difficult to discern: a group of citizens wants to advance the candidacy of someone—Senator Edward Kennedy in the 1980 case—and raises and spends money to prove to him and the rest of the political world that his entrance into the presidential race is both desired and realistic. The draft commit¬ tee's activities undoubtedly did influence Kennedy's decision to enter the race, but once he made it, how much of their spending should come under his expenditures limitations? If the answer is "none," then candidates could delay decisions until well into the primary election period, allowing draft committees to raise money and advance their interests. In Kennedy's case the first draft committee was organized in May 1979, and he did not officially enter the race until November 7. Although suits were filed in the federal courts (which held in favor of the committees on the grounds that they do not fall under the current law). Congress did not act to reform the law between the 1980 and 1984 elections. In retrospect, it may be that draft commit- 268 New Campaign Elites tees are most likely to appear when an incumbent president is chal¬ lenged within the party. If that is true, the issue may not arise again until 1992, by which time Congress may have amended the law. A problem similar to draft committees arose in the 1984 elections with the independent funding of delegate slates. The law allows candidates for their party's nomination to spend on their own behalf, but Hart charged that Mondale was using his delegates' candidacies as an alternative to spending on his own campaign. Mondale eventu¬ ally disbanded his delegate committees and, after the election, the FEC ordered him to reimburse the Treasury for the money that was contributed to them in excess of the federal limits. Parties and Presidential Selection The two major political parties have grown significantly stronger in recent years, and the campaign finance law has been a major source of their resurgence. The limits of their influence notwithstanding,^^ the campaign finance law has given the parties a major role to play in the presidential selection process. This role has been critical in enhancing the parties as institutions in the broader political process. In 1978 the consensus was that the reforms were hurting the parties; destroying the grass roots participation that was the mainstay of parties at the local level; and giving new weight to interest groups, which were seen as a direct threat to the role and influence of the parties. The complexity of the law—its requirements for separate accounts, allocations between federal and state and local candidates, the virtual elimination of local fund-raising activities, and the need to treat corporate contributions (legal in some states but illegal under the federal law) separately—discouraged participation by local parties in federal campaigns. Because federal and particularly presi¬ dential campaigns are so important to the local political process as recruitment devices for party activists, the reforms thus were thought to have a serious chilling effect on party life. Party strength, as mea¬ sured by voter identification, voting participation, and local activity was going down. In 1978 and 1979, Congress moved to ease some of the burdens on the parties. A postal subsidy was passed that enabled the parties to communicate through the mail at the same cost enjoyed by many of the interest groups that qualified as tax-exempt organizations. Both Regulating Campaign Finances 269 national and state and local parties were authorized to spend more money on behalf of their candidates, particularly on volunteer activ¬ ities at the local level, and the recordkeeping requirements on parties were eased. Party Decline The parties had been in serious trouble for a long time. The reforms of the Progressive Era were designed to limiit the influence of party organizations and were successful: the primary, nonpartisan elec¬ tions, and the adoption of the Australian ballot all cut seriously into the principal functions of political parties. The New Deal undercut the material incentives local parties used to maintain themselves through the enactment of the Social Security Act and the multitude of government programs to help the disadvantaged. The crisis faced by the nation in the 1930s, and the subsequent party realignment, camouflaged the parties' internal weakness because they created a generation of strong party identifiers that was largely polarized around the policies and personality of President Franklin D. Roosevelt. By the 1960s a new generation had grown up without strong emo¬ tional ties to the parties, and without believing that the parties had much of a role to play in politics. New issues, such as civil rights and Vietnam, arose and divided the nation. From the mid-1960s into the 1980s, interests became more strident and controversial and the par¬ ties did not have the internal organizational strength to curb them or to bring them into a consensual coalition. Candidates and interests seemed to go their own ways; confidence in the political system declined. The campaign finance law came about in response to the social and political pressures of the period. At the same time that Congress was trying to bring credibility back to the political process in gen¬ eral, and to presidential elections in particular, the parties, too, were embarked upon reform. The Democrats concentrated on participa¬ tion and opening their ranks, the Republicans on rebuilding their national organization with professional skills and financial support from a broad base of small donors. The efforts of both parties, partic¬ ularly the Republicans, and the new campaign rules began to bear fruit by the late 1970s. The critical issue for the parties was to regain control of their 270 New Campaign Elites organizations and their traditional influence over nominations, resources, and public policy. To a large degree they have succeeded; both major parties have highly professional, well-financed national organizations and are reaching down to support strong state party organizations. Although the Republicans are well ahead of the Dem¬ ocrats in developing their resources, the Democrats have been gain¬ ing ground steadily and have not been seriously outspent in most elections. Party Rebirth The campaign finance law has been pivotal in the recent emergence of the national political parties as strong participants in the political process, in some respects stronger participants than they have ever been. The major elements of the rebirth that stem from the law are contribution limitations to campaigns by individuals and groups; expenditure limits in the presidential race,- the need for centraliza¬ tion and recordkeeping; the repertoire of services that only the parties can provide because of the law and because of their resources as permanent political organizations; and a loophole in the federal law that has provided an incentive to contribute to state parties. Contribution limits. The $i,ooo limit on individual contributions and $5,000 limit on groups has left the political party as the largest single donor to all federal campaigns, with its allocation of two cents per voter. In the last several elections, only the Republican party has been able to spend to the maximum, but the Democrats are catching up and as time goes on, all candidates are coming to expect more from their party. Although the parties play a relatively minor role during the pri¬ maries, they are the only other participants allowed to spend money during the general election for a nominee who accepts public financing (as each has done since the law's enactment). Since non- party contributions are forbidden to the candidates, unless a prospec¬ tive donor gives to a group promising to make independent expendi¬ tures, the only remaining vehicle for giving is the party. The law imposes a $20,000 limit on individual contributions to the national parties. This is included in the $25,000 limit on what one can give in all federal elections in a year. But there are other ways of giving to the party that are not covered by the law. Such "soft Regulating Campaign Finances 271 money" is coming to play an increasingly important role for those who want to give large sums. Among the more popular conduits are funds for buildings (hence the new Democratic headquarters in Wash¬ ington, which comes only a few years after a major Republican con¬ struction effort), and contributions to state parties that are coordi¬ nated by the presidential campaign or the national party. In 1980 the Republicans raised $9 million and the Democrats $4 million this way. Soft money clearly subverts the intent of the law to disclose who is contributing, but it is not illegal. As already noted, a donor in Texas can give up to the maximum allowable contribution to ten, twenty, or even fifty state parties, and the donations will be reported only in the states to which they were made (assuming the state has a disclosure law). Only the national party and the presidential cam¬ paign will know the value of the entire contribution. Soft money going to the parties is used for state party overhead, voter registration, and get-out-the-vote efforts, and acts as a kind of mortar binding the state parties to the national party and presiden¬ tial campaign. The latter achievement may seem superfluous to one who assumes that a state party would automatically share the con¬ stituency of its national nominee, but there is an inherent conflict between state and local parties on one side, and the national presi¬ dential effort on the other. The main objective of the state party is to elect state and local candidates; the main objective of the national party and presidential campaign is to elect a president. Candidates for one level of office can have a different constituency than candidates for another. Voter registration efforts directed toward the presidential campaign may hurt a gubernatorial candidate (an experience seen frequently during the 1972 campaign of George McGovern, for example). Other con¬ flicts often arise because the campaign period requires coordina¬ tion between separate organizations, each with its own players and priorities. People in one organization frequently do not know people in the other, to say nothing of rival factions within state parties. There also are cultural differences between the young professionals who staff the national offices and the typically older volunteers who hold positions in the state and local parties. As one Washington worker put it, "It is the difference between the three-piece wool suiter and the polyester crowd." 272 New Campaign Elites Expenditure limits. During the general election, the law limits the candidates to the public money the government provides ($40 mil¬ lion apiece in the 1984 election). In addition, the national parties are provided funds for their nominating conventions and are permitted to raise and spend a limited amount during the general election ($6.9 million in 1984, although the Democrats could muster only $2.8 million). State and local parties also are permitted to raise and spend for volunteer activities; this provision—designed to restore the party grass roots—has become a major vehicle for party activity during the presidential race. Labor unions and other groups such as the Moral Majority are also active in voter registration and get-out-the- vote work, hence their greater value to both the campaigns and the parties compared to nonmembership organizations. In theory, and occasionally in practice, such groups can become competitive with the parties, but on the whole their activities are coordinated with the party (see table 10. i). Resources. The financial strength of the national committees (par¬ ticularly, the Republican National Committee) has been the ability to develop a host of services they can make available to their candi¬ dates. During the 1984 general election the Democrats spent money on media, postage, printing, travel, fund-raising, and support of state committees and of voter registration and get-out-the-vote efforts (including $85,000 paid to the Rainbow Coalition). The Republican National Committee reported similar spending, but also included phone banks, polling, telephone surveys, computer services, key¬ punching, equipment rental, consulting charges, and rent.'^° The money raised and spent by the national committees, particu¬ larly by the rnc, accomplished more for their candidates than the dollar amounts might suggest. Most research expenditures are exempt from campaign finance limitations. Although campaign research on issues used to be an activity designed more to occupy volunteers than to generate significant information for the campaign, it has become important in recent years because of the application of mar¬ ket research techniques and the capacity to retain and retrieve vast amounts of information. The value of party-sponsored research is greater to candidates for offices below the presidency, but is not irrelevant to presidential campaigns. Toward the end of the 1984 campaign, for example, the Democrats could not afford to track the effects of their advertising. Regulating Campaign Finances 273 and this, the Republicans believe, affected the outcome of the campaign. The Presidency and the interests If controlling the interests has been historically the basis of political reform, the best that campaign finance laws can be said to have done is to monitor them. Perhaps that is all that can be done. Although the media tend to concentrate on the behavior of special interests in each election, the entire subject may be likened to the problem of crime; we cannot know for certain whether crime has gone up, or whether the increase is in the reporting. The campaign finance law has made a significant contribution to American political life through its disclosure provisions. For the first time the behavior of groups and their relationships to candidates can be traced and measured. To some, the amounts of money involved are scandalous, to others the openness of the process is a decided improvement over what went on before.^^ For our purposes, however, the discussion of interests and the presidency will be about whether or not there has been a shift in the balance of power among the interests, and whether the new balance benefits, threatens, or has any effect at all on the political process as a whole. The greatest role of the interests in the 1984 election occurred in the prenomination phase of the election when contributions were raised from individuals and groups (although the proportion of funds coming from the pacs was very small, largely because pac money is not matched by the government). Presumably many of those who sent money did so because of the candidates' positions on the issues that were of concern to the contributors, and were encouraged to do so by the candidates and the organizations to which the contributors belonged. The other important role of the interests was in providing volun¬ teer support for the candidates in the primary and caucus states. In view of the expenditure limits, volunteers who can be mobilized and directed to voter registration and get-out-the-vote efforts may be crit¬ ical in a close election with a crowded field of candidates. Among the interests that played such roles were organized labor on behalf of Mondale; black church leaders on behalf of Icsse Jackson and later Mondale; the Moral Majority in reaction to the registration of blacks 274 New Campaign Elites Table lo.i Total income of candidates and other spenders* (in millions of dollars) Independent Campaign PAC Communication expenditures Party Askew $ 3.2 $.001 Cranston 8.0 ■3 Glenn 14.1 •3 Hart 23.2 .005 ($ .0007)" ($ .041) Hollings 2.8 .2 Jackson 10.4 ■03 .002 McGovern 3.0 .013 ( .0009) Mondale 81.6 .122 4-4 .8 2.8 ( .6) (.5) Reagan 74-1 GO 00 ■17 15-7 6.9 ( -045) (. 4 ) 'These figures include the candidate committees (including the $40.4 million pro¬ vided Mondale and Reagan for the general election), communication costs by other organizations, independent expenditures and national party spending, pac figures are included in the candidates' committees and are not additional funds. * 'Figures in parentheses are spending against the candidate. Source: Drawn from data supplied by the fec, run April 5, 1985. The author is grateful for the assistance of Michael Dickerson of the Public Records Division. in the South; and to a lesser extent, groups on both sides of the abortion issue. What is interesting about the particular mix of groups is that they do not represent an even balance of issues (with the exception of the abortion issue). Labor's main opponent is business, not religious fundamentalism. Business, for its part, although still predominantly Republican in registration and cultural allegiance, has become less important in the party's presidential coalition, and while becoming more important in Congress, is clearly divided and less partisan in its giving strategy, favoring incumbents above all. Business interests have never demonstrated an ability to turn out volunteers, which the prenomination campaign requires. Business also suffers because the campaign finance law places a premium on individual over interest group money. In contrast, other interests—principally organized labor and the New Right—contribute both volunteers and a great amount of independent spending; about $15 million each in 1984. Another possible reason for the deflection of business money to Congress is the trend toward deregulation policy, which has left much of the agenda that business is concerned about to the legislature rather than the executive branch of government. Regulating Campaign Finances 275 It is, of course, somewhat simplistic to suggest that labor balances against business, or fundamentalists stand against social liberals, and that these divisions represent the sum total of political cleavage in the nation. What these groups do represent are the coalitions that each party has gathered under its umbrella in order to win elections. Their views are important to the parties, but administrations that come into office with their support do not always repay them with programmatic action. The New Right, particularly, probably plays a greater role in promoting issues for direct mail solicitations by the parties than it does in legislation. It may be that labor has greater strength in the Democratic party than the New Right has with the Republicans because it is an older and thus more accepted part of the Democratic coalition, and because labor contributes directly to candidates. The New Right, while able to balance labor spending in the presidential campaign, has less influence with individual members of Congress because it spends independently of their campaigns, and is essentially antiestablish¬ ment. Richard Viguerie, the leading direct mail solicitor of the New Right, has said that the Republican party had no room for both a Jacob Javits and a Jesse Helms, and has encouraged his supporters to take over a local party if its leaders did not seem compatible with New Right conservatism. To suggest that this attitude might offend party regulars may be something of an understatement. Of the money the New Right spends at the presidential level, there is very little evidence that it seriously affects the outcome of the election. One cannot be certain that contributing to a campaign directly carries greater weight with the candidate than making an indepen¬ dent expenditure on his behalf (or against his opponent). One can say, on the basis of almost a decade's worth of experience, that inde¬ pendent spending remains controversial and campaign managers fre¬ quently try to discourage it. In view of the near-doubling of such spending at the congressional level in 1984, however, and the increase in the number of groups making such expenditures, independent spending may become part of the accepted fabric of political partici¬ pation. In 1986 the New Right was all but absent, while the Ameri¬ can Medical Association pac (ampac) led the list of independent spenders. What happens in the long run will depend on the political content of our elections: how divisive the issues; how vituperative the debate. One of the strongest arguments against independent spending 276 New Campaign Elites relates to the methods the ideological groups use to raise their funds. Direct mail solicitations usually are based on negative appeals: calls to arm against danger. They are appeals to a threatened minority (majorities are less likely to be worried), even if the issue and the sense of danger have to be created in the first place. The use of direct mail solicitations educates recipients and encourages their outrage. It may well expand participation in American politics, but it may do so at the periphery, with those who are less committed to the system and less confident in its institutions. Over time it is possible that these techniques will create a new, divisive, political alignment. The Costs of Elections Controlling the amount of money spent in presidential elections has been, if not the primary objective of campaign reform, at least a hope that is expressed during and after every election. In all likelihood it is a concern that will never be met. On one side of the argument is the position usually taken by such groups as the Campaign Finance Study Group that if money buys communication, more money means more communication, and more communication makes for better- informed choices by the electorate. General television advertising by companies rose i8 percent from 1984 to 1985, to a total of $19 billion, with the largest advertiser (Proctor & Gamble) spending $652 million.Compare this to the $301 million that was spent on the presidential campaign in 1984. On the other side is the argument made recently by Elizabeth Drew, who suggests that "It is not relevant whether every candidate who spends more than his opponent wins. . . . What matters is what the chasing of money does to the candidates, and to the victors' subsequent behavior. . . . The point is what raising money, not sim¬ ply spending it, does to the political process. . Although campaign spending is a broad issue, it is important to recognize that the law has made a profound difference in how money is raised, even if it has not significantly altered how much money is raised. It is clear that what the candidates raise from individuals is only one part of the picture; parties and pacs are growing into more important conduits for funds than they ever have been. In an fec report based on the first eighteen months of the 1983-84 election cycle (pre-general election), pac spending reached $57 mil- Regulating Campaign Finances 277 lion, a 50 percent increase over the same period in the 1981 — 82 cycle, and a 128 percent increase over the spending in the entire 1980 presidential election period.'^'^ By the end of the 1984 election cycle, PAC contributions to congressional candidates reached $104 million, a net increase of 25 percent over the 1982 election and almost double the amount spent in 1980.^^ By the year's end, pac contributions to Congress weighed in at $135 million, as the interests helped can¬ didates pay off their campaign debts and build up treasuries for the next election. (By then, no one had to guess who would win and who would serve on what committee, There is no question that the rising costs of elections are tied to the rising costs of campaign technology (polling, computerized research, recordkeeping, and accounting), of communications (media production and airtime), of transportation, and of the professional¬ ization of politics in general. Elections costs are like the rising costs in health care: we may not require every test or every procedure, but doctors (and campaign managers) are hesitant to omit them. Both candidates and patients face terminal consequences if the right effort is not made. For presidential candidates, the costs of the election turn on ques¬ tions of fund-raising and the structure of the law: the contribution limits, spending limits, and public financing. Independent spending, although not insignificant by any means, cannot be calculated by a campaign or attibuted to a candidate. Contribution limits. To the extent that the intent of the law was to shift the emphasis in fund-raising from large to small donors, it has succeeded to a major degree, although not without generating some concern (especially that the individual limits are too low and consequently will engender alternative ways to contribute outside the law). The majority of prenomination contributions (between 55 and 60 percent, which is comparable to congressional elections) con¬ tinues to come from individuals, and most contributions are less than $500. The Republicans have done much better at raising the greater portion of their funds from small donors, with the average contribu¬ tion running between $23 and $30 in recent years. In 1980, only 45 percent of Democratic money came from small contributors, com¬ pared to 60 percent for Republicans. The value of small contributors is enhanced by the law, not just because small contributions are matched by the government in pres- 278 New Campaign Elites idential campaigns, but because of the methods used to reach them. Direct mail solicitations are centralized, records are easy to main¬ tain, and compliance is neither burdensome nor embarrassing. Unlike the large donor, who expects access to the candidate in return for a contribution, small contributors generally expect nothing but the satisfaction of giving. Public financing. In 1973, Ralph K. Winter, a member of the Yale Law School faculty and a leading opponent of public financing, argued that contributing to campaigns was an important avenue of political expression that would be narrowed by the regulatory aspects of pub¬ lic financing. Campaign finance laws would have a chilling effect on political activity, would be dangerous (because no fair formula has been devised for allocating the money), and might discourage officeholders from taking stands on controversial issues. It also would force taxpayers into political activity against their will.'^^ Her¬ bert Alexander, among others, has argued that public financing in the primaries made possible the candidacy of Jimmy Carter, a little- known regional candidate in 1976, because it had an equalizing effect in lowering the value of large contributors and enhancing the value of small contributors. Similarly, in 1980 public financing helped John Anderson and George Bush, both relatively unknown outside Washington circles.'^® In 1982 the Campaign Finance Study Group reported that public financing had succeeded in limiting the dependency of presidential candidates on a few large donors, and that it did not hamper the fund-raising abilities of candidates, encourage frivolous candidacies, or impose an artificial parity among those running for office.'^^ In 1980, public funding made up about 40 percent of the money spent in the prenomination and general election campaigns; $103 million of $250 million. Of this, $31.3 million went to prenomination matching contributions (which was 31 percent of the $100 million raised by the candidates), $8.2 million to the major parties for their nominating conventions, and $58.8 million to the major party nom¬ inees for the general election. After the election, John Anderson received $4.2 million for winning more than 5 percent of the popular vote.'^^ In the 1984 election, $30.9 million was paid out in matching funds, with another $40.4 million going to each of the major party nominees for the general election.In addition, the Republican and Democratic parties received funds to hold the nominating conven- Regulating Campaign Finances 279 tions. Again, the amount of public money remained around 40 percent of total expenditures. Although Professor Winter could not have foreseen the rise of direct mail fund-raising and its base in large numbers of donors, there is no question that the share of American citizens who participate in cam¬ paigns by making donations to the candidates, parties, and causes of their choice has increased substantially in the past decade. This increase serves the interest of democracy, even if it occasionally raises the temperature of political debate. The Republican party for instance, expected to reach one of every four homes through the mails in 1985 to encourage voters to register as Republicans and to make contribu¬ tions to the party, thus enlarging their base well beyond the three to four million who already make donations to the party. Campaign Reform and the Public Interest Although the motivation for campaign reform has been the desire to control undue influence, its broadest goals have been to provide equal¬ ity of opportunity for those who would enter the electoral system and to ensure an informed and effective choice by the voters. The measure of success would be the freedom and openness of the con¬ test for office. Unfortunately, the rate of incumbent reelection, which has been high at the congressional level since the 1950s, has not been substantially altered. At the presidential level the singularity of each election makes broad conclusions problematic. The reforms have changed the political landscape, but they have not taken the politics out of the process. Interest groups have been institutionalized through the formal structure of political action com¬ mittees and may grow stronger in the course of maintaining their organizations; the two major political parties have become stronger at the national level, reversing the flow of influence within the par¬ ties from the bottom up to the top down; professionalism has replaced much of the volunteer nature of campaigns; and many political orga¬ nizations, mainly major direct mail solicitors like the National Con¬ servative Political Action Committee, have become centralized struc¬ tures that communicate with the local constituencies without benefit of intermediaries. Has all of this altered the democracy? Yes. But we do not know if it has diminished the opportunity to run for office or to make informed choices, at least at the presidential level. 280 New Campaign Elites All of the presidential elections that have occurred since the imple¬ mentation of the law have been without scandals akin to Watergate. Public confidence in the political system has risen according to the polls, but then it was down so low it would be difficult to imagine it not rising. The reforms were doubtless part of the healing process of the post-Vietnam, post-Watergate era, although there are enough loopholes in the law to suggest that the reforms, while necessary, are not sufficient to assure a corruption-free electoral process. Typically, the goal of regulation is to assure a balance between competing private interests that also serves the public interest. According to Marver Bernstein, the latter part of this goal is the most difficult to achieve because it is usually hard to know what the public interest is, even when Congress is regulating economic activity.How much more difficult that task is when the object to regulate is the drive for power. It is a process that is hard to observe, to say nothing of influence, because it is episodic and its struc¬ tures and participants are often temporary. Campaign reform measures money because money is more mea¬ surable than power. Money is assumed to be synonymous with power, but that is too simple. The quest for power is assumed to be con¬ cerned with economic interests, but neither is that entirely true. Power has an attraction of its own; what is more, politics involves interests of morality and soeial propriety that are only marginally related to the distribution of goods and services. Much of the hue and cry in recent years has been about the behavior of ideological groups. Their interests are purposive rather than material in nature. On the other hand, one consequence of campaign reform has been to institutionalize the participants in elections. Campaigns may be temporary, but the supporting players have become a more stable group. Campaign-consulting organizations continue from election to election, and their developing professionalism assures that the individuals involved expect to participate in many campaigns. Pro¬ fessionals look to their peers for approval and care about this as much, or more, than the outcome of any single campaign. The institutionalization of interest has had another effect on the political landscape; it has shifted the balance of power among the interests. To some extent, that was the intent of the reform, but the result deserves some attention. Big business, which traditionally has been seen as the power to be restrained because it has the largest Regulating Campaign Finances 281 disposable wealth, has in fact been restrained by the finance regula¬ tions at the presidential level. Business has lost ground to those who can turn out committed volunteers at the local level to carry the vote in primaries and caucuses. Business has also lost ground to those who can raise tremendous amounts of money through direct mail solicitations on controversial issues, then spend that money inde¬ pendently. Although a few corporations and trade associations made independent expenditures in 1984, none did so at the presidential level, and most corporate spending was less than $500.'^'^ This is not to say that business has entirely lost interest or influence in the race for the presidency. Business pacs contribute more to the campaigns than any other kind of political action committee, but PAC giving in presidential elections is insignificant. There may be other avenues of influence that remain undetected and unreported. Although business has lost ground relative to other interests in presi¬ dential politics, it has become more influential in congressional elec¬ tions, where it now spends more money. This diversion of power ought to be a matter of concern. The lower and less visible the level of office, the more susceptible it is to what can be called undue influence. Disclosure works only if the voting public is aware of who has given what to the candidates. The lower the office, the less likely there will be that awareness. Conclusion As Alexander Heard observed at the close of his book on campaign reform, which was written at the beginning of the reform era: The public habits that comprise campaign practices evolve in response to the total context within which a political system functions. They respond in particular to the expectations of the system held by citizens, expectations that ultimately are rooted in whatever understanding, accurate or inaccurate, there may be in the political system. No fundamental change will be effected in the United States in the process of campaign finance, by legislation or otherwise, without the altered public attitudes and without public recognition of the functions of campaign expenditures, of the propriety of providing them, and of the pen¬ alties for not doing so in socially healthy ways."*** 282 New Campaign Elites The campaign reforms enacted in the last decade have altered the political system, and public attitudes also have changed. These are not necessarily synchronized phenomena. Some parts of the politi¬ cal system have changed rapidly and have demonstrated an extraordi¬ nary adaptability to the new rules and resources. Perhaps it is in the nature of a democracy to require imbalances and a certain degree of instability so that changes in influence can be reflected in the sub¬ stance of the system. Fear of instability, however, has been a dominant theme in the policy of Western nations since World War II, when it was perceived that the instability after World War I paved the way for totalitarian regimes and another world war. That fear has been balanced against the drive for participation and the expansion of democracy, although some would argue that widespread participation is not a necessary condition of a democratic state.Whether they are correct or not, it is a question made critical by campaign finance reform in the United States, which has increased participation at a relatively passive level through contributions, and decreased more active participation among campaign volunteers. The centralization of many American political institutions — notably the parties—is not inherently bad. In many respects it is a coming of age organizationally for the parties. There are signs that public confidence in the political system is increasing in response to the new party strength: both partisan identification and voter partic¬ ipation levels have stopped declining and actually have risen in the last few years. The rebirth of the parties as strong organizations may well be the first step toward recapturing their historical role in the political process as vehicles for compromise and consensus. If the parties succeed, we need not fear the interests, because in the long run it is the parties that will curb them and build the coalitions for governance upon which representative democracy depends. PART I V Presidential Politics and the Mass Media 11 Presidential Politics and the Myth of Conciliation: The Case of 1980 JAMES DAVID BARBER A skeptic's defense of democracy begins this side of the idealist's dream of the steady citizen and the visionary leader. Democracy to the skeptic is not a utopia but a set of necessities in support of the opportunity for a decent life—necessities defined and developed over a long and tortuous history perennially interrupted by lapses into chaos and tyranny. A basic necessity is rational discourse. That is difficult enough to sustain among learned, dutiful elites. Among citizenries composed largely of politically ignorant and indifferent masses led by ambitious cynics, keeping the Great Conversation rational is a never-ending challenge. From the "children's crusades" of the thirteenth century down through to modern Nazism and Com¬ munism, history demonstrates the inadequacy of religious convic¬ tion, intellectual sophistication, and social idealism as guarantors against political madness. Absent concentrated effort, particularly on the part of responsible participants, no automatic guarantee pro¬ tects the United States from popular insanity. Rational discourse in support of democracy requires debate and decision by a very wide circle of participants, conducted through media that often subject politics to truncation, distortion, and dis¬ traction. In the not-so-distant past, errors could be combatted (if not always defeated) by widespread and varied structures of counsel: the otherwise preoccupied citizen would turn to the politician in the neighborhood or workplace for advice. Parties structured such chan- 284 Presidential Politics and the Mass Media nels. Now much of that loose-jointed system is gone. Citizens are more and more dependent on journalists, speaking to them through television and the local newspaper, for shaping the nature and content of political discussion. Historically journalists have contributed significantly to democra¬ cy's maladies, fragmenting reality, touting novelty, and reducing argu¬ ment to linear narrative, for example. But traditionally journalists also have contributed significantly to a strength of democracy; the test of political proposals against facts. If the genius of democracy is pragmatism, the essence of pragmatism is empiricism. Democracy is about what works. Yet, all too easily, political debate can drift away from its factual base, can float out unanchored into a sea of illusion and emotion in which facts are indistinguishable from feelings. The democratic politician may regard that drift as progress. The reduction of politics to sentiment constitutes a leap away from the elitism of expertise toward the equality of emotion. We vary consid¬ erably in the information we possess, but all of us have feelings, and we lay claim to "the right to my opinion." Thus it is little wonder that, as democratization reaches further toward genuine universal suffrage and brushes aside various intermediate political structures, the politics of sentiment appeals to candidates and their media man¬ agers and marketing experts. What sentiments? In The Pulse of Politics I argued and tried to demonstrate that three are dominant in presidential election campaigns.* The conflict theme appeals to the interest that competi¬ tion typically engenders. The primordial form is the war story—the call to arms, the romance of battle carried over into peaceful politics. Harry Truman's uphill fight in 1948 is illustrative. The conscience theme typically is reactive, a call for purity and dignity to counter the corruptions of politics, pejoratively defined. Dwight Eisenhow¬ er's 1952 campaign against "Communism, Korea, and Corruption" is an example. The conciliation theme appears after too much fighting and preaching have whetted the public appetite for solace and ease, unity and friendship. The classic conciliation election in the twenti¬ eth century is 1920, Warren Harding's "return to normalcy." Some¬ times politicians and the journalists who interpret them use these sentiments creatively to attract and sustain interest in substantive politics, as devices for getting across the relevant political facts. Too The Myth of Conciliation 285 often, however, they cooperate destructively in eluding the factual component, drifting past the historical realities into the realm of fiction where sentiment runs free of empirical restraint. The drift to fiction in twentieth-century politics has followed all three of these paths. But the conciliation theme is specially suited for this perversion. Conflict directly argues comparison among can¬ didates, which motivates a search for evidence. The conscience elec¬ tion features the invocation of principles, typically including hon¬ esty and responsibility. But conciliation offers a general relaxation of tension, including the strain of attention, logic, and civic virtue. Especially in the aftermath of troubled times (such as World War I or the stock market crash of 1929), the temptation to voters to set aside calculation and go on a political vacation is powerful. That temptation gains force when a candidate appears who offers just such an appeal. It gains all the more force when such a candidate has the rhetorical skill to convey the appropriate sentiment. When other candidates lack either the conciliatory inclination or the skill to seem that way, the expert conciliator is likely to win out, given a reasonably propitious alignment of political forces. Such was clearly the case in 1920. The Harding Combination In 1920 the configuration of political power favored the Republicans. President Woodrow Wilson, chief Democrat, had collapsed in the middle of his crusade for the League of Nations, but would not release the reins of power to anyone else in his party. It took the Democrats eight days and forty-four ballots to nominate Governor James M. Cox, like Harding a virtual unknown. Harding, too, was a compromise candidate who, however, had behind him the force of a party hungering for a return to power following the Democratic inter¬ ruption to their normal hegemony. National sentiment, what one might call the climate of expecta¬ tions, also favored a Harding, a conciliator. Only four years previously, Wilson had won reelection as the man who "kept us out of war," only to see "The Great War" come and kill fifty thousand American men. What had felt at first like a reprise of the glorious adventure of the last war—the Spanish-American—turned into an epoch of death, anxiety, and disillusionment. Military peace brought labor war, race 286 Presidential Politics and the Mass Media riotS; a Red scare, soaring inflation (28 percent in 1920), tax raises, and prohibition. More than 500,000 Americans died in the influenza epidemic of 1918-19. The fight for the League split the country, and failed. Harding thus came onto the presidential scene at just the right time. He had tried his harmonizing rhetoric at the last two Republi¬ can conventions, without success. What had been politically inap¬ propriate in 1912 and 1916 fit the bill in 1920. What Harding had to say was virtually impenetrable to the atten¬ tive listener, a melange of obsessively alliterative sloganeering, flag-waving, and appeals for unity. But he looked impressively presidential: tall, solid, florid, and white-haired, with a deep and resonant voice audible in the last row of the hall. With a good deal of practice, Harding had mastered the fashionable gestures of public speaking. Aware that he knew little of the major issues of public policy, Harding nevertheless exuded the confidence, patriotism, and hopefulness people wanted to hear. He won. Before long, his admin¬ istration collapsed in scandal, registering Harding among histor¬ ians as the worst president ever, a reputation that survived until the Nixon debacle. The Analogy of 1980 The election of 1980, which empowered Ronald Reagan, will go down in history as yet another 1920, an election of conciliation. Nineteen eighty was not 1920, Reagan is not Harding. But the situational and personal similarities are too evident to miss. Like Harding, Reagan came on at a time when the opposition party was in disarray. The traumas of the pre-Reagan period (notably inflation and Iran) did not match those of 1916-20, but did comprise a series of important national shocks. The candidates competing with Reagan mistook the mood, stepping away by inclination or ineptness from the concil¬ iation theme. Equally important, Reagan himself, in his character and in his political style, honed over years of practice, could hardly have suited better the opportunity 1980 handed him. What happened in that season and in the years to follow highlights in its contempo¬ rary form the ancient problem of the drift to Action in politics. The Myth of Conciliation 287 Carter: Running as President Jimmy Carter approached 1980 as a wounded incumbent. Elected in 1976 after a campaign in which both he and President Gerald R. Ford had concentrated on the moralistic themes of conscience politics, Carter's fortunes had declined. The electorate continued to value him highly as a person, but as a president his Gallup approval rating went down below that of Nixon. Part of that decline is no doubt traceable to Carter's awkward relations with the press, particularly his inability to move from lecturing and preaching to the kind of storymaking journalists appreciate. But Carter also suffered a largely negative "professional reputation," as Richard Neustadt defines it, based on a series of mismanaged relationships with leading congres¬ sional figures and an apparent reluctance to develop priorities. Prob¬ ably the overriding cause of his declining popularity between 1977 and 1979 was his failure to break the economic impasse: soaring inflation, rising unemployment, and energy shortages. In July 1979, recognizing his troubles. Carter assembled a Camp David Domestic Summit, after which he made a national address advocating a new, comprehensive energy program. Some 100,000 favor¬ able letters came in and his approval rating rose eleven percentage points. Then, just as unity and purpose seemed to be developing. Carter suddenly fired four leading members of his cabinet. The impression of incompetence returned. In the fall of 1979, international crises boosted the president's popular standing, in a familiar pattern. On November 4,1979, Iranians seized the American embassy in Teheran and captured fifty-two Amer¬ ican hostages. "Carter" became "The President" as he protested on behalf of the nation and set to work to free the hostages. Near the end of December, Soviet armed forces invaded Afghanistan. Once again. Carter's unfortunate relations with Congress faded in the pub¬ lic mind and he emerged as the conciliator par excellence, the unify¬ ing leader speaking for the whole nation. Publicly he stepped out of political controversy, declaring himself too occupied with interna¬ tional crises to engage in a fight for the Democratic nomination. Behind the scenes. Carter effectively resisted his staff's pressure to conduct a negative campaign, a combative attack on his chief rival. Senator Edward Kennedy. Back in June, Carter had let it be known that if Kennedy ran, he would "whip his ass," a message that neither dissuaded Kennedy nor advanced Carter's reputation. Carter in pri- 288 Presidential Politics and the Mass Media vate did not fail to telephone his friends in the appropriate primary states, to invite politically relevant figures to the White House, to see to the distribution of federal funds to key states, and to time his announcements to political events. But in public, he held to his stance as a statesman above the fray. The Kennedy Challenge Senator Kennedy declared his candidacy for the Democratic nomina¬ tion in November 1979, shortly after the Iranian crisis broke. He, too, got off to a faltering start, beginning with a weak and wandering interview on national television. In the following weeks his speeches came across as vigorous but vague. Then came a classic gaffe, at first unnoticed by the media, soon picked up and headlined across the country. In an interview in San Francisco, after fourteen hours of campaigning, Kennedy said that the Shah of Iran, then America's friend (because deposed by our enemies), had ruled "one of the most violent regimes in the history of mankind" and had "stolen . . . ump¬ teen billions of dollars" from his own people. This basically true statement stimulated candidates across the political spectrum to castigate Kennedy for interfering with President Carter's tireless efforts to secure the release of the hostages. Kennedy fought on, campaigning day and night in his family's hard-hitting style. In the first contest, the Iowa caucus. Carter defeated him, 59 to 31 percent. Misreading the signs, Kennedy lashed out even more aggressively. At Georgetown University he slammed hard and specifically at Carter's policies and advanced his own definite alternatives. His partisans responded enthusiastically, but his mes¬ sage, delivered by the media to the public at large, fell flat. The worse he did, the more aggressive he got, growling that "I have only just begun to fight." Kennedy kept up his hard challenge through the primaries. By the time the Democratic convention opened, Ken¬ nedy had covered no fewer than 300,000 miles in thirty-nine states and Puerto Rico, Mexico, and the United Nations. At the convention itself, Kennedy combatively led a hopeless charge on the rules bind¬ ing delegates to vote as instructed in the primaries. He made a strong and popular speech invoking the New Deal and the fervor of the cause, but despite Carter's troubles and his own famous name, Ken¬ nedy failed to come through as a plausible alternative. He registered The Myth of Conciliation 289 in the politics of 1980 as the first major rejection of a candidate who adopted the conflict mode in a conciliation election. Rejecting the Republican Battlers Former governor John Connally of Texas stomped into 1980 like a cowboy at a tea party and was quickly rejected. Early in the season, his media advisers, sensing the national mood, produced commer¬ cials showing Connally playing gently with his grandchild. But he soon emerged as the Republicans' most combative candidate. As Senator Strom Thurmond said in welcoming Connally to South Car¬ olina, "I don't know of any man on the political scene today who is more dynamic, more aggressive, and more forceful, who is as tough as this man, and we need a tough man." Connally's performances stimulated applause but few votes. Campaigning for fourteen months and spending some $i i million won him only one vote at the Repub¬ lican national convention. He faded from the contest. Other Republican aspirants barely disturbed the political atmo¬ sphere. George Bush beat Reagan in the Iowa caucuses by six percent¬ age points after continuous campaigning in a state Reagan did not even visit. In New Hampshire, Reagan and Bush plodded through a televised debate that not even the Washington Post found interesting: "gop Debaters Restate Basic Positions in N.H. Debate" read the headline. A second debate, in Nashua, threatened disorder when five opponents of Reagan showed up, but he managed the confusion grace¬ fully and avuncularly, in an event the Boston Globe described as "A Golden Night for Reagan." In the New Hampshire primary three days later, Reagan beat Bush two to one. In Illinois, another debate among Philip Crane, John Anderson, George Bush, and Ronald Reagan turned into another victory for Reagan, the calm and humorous elder of the clan. Anderson and Crane snapped at each other; Bush occa¬ sionally interrupted; Reagan basically sat back and let them fight, keeping his cheery and mild aura as he gently condescended to his shrill competitors. He won with nearly half the votes. The press kept up its usual horse race chatter on through the primary session, but in fact there was no serious challenge to Reagan. Thus, as far as the primary season was concerned, conflict was the loser. Reagan the comforting presence and Carter the steady presi¬ dent in crisis each blanked out their aggressive opponents. 290 Presidential Politics and the Mass Media The Lost Cause of Conscience The conscience theme, traditionally recurrent in presidential poli¬ tics, had clearly been the dominant theme of 1976 when both Carter and Ford, sensing the pulse of politics, had stressed the need for honesty and decency in Washington. Approaching 1980, some signs indicated a Carter reprise, by naming his energy policy "the moral equivalent of war," perceiving a popular "crisis of confidence," advo¬ cating "sacrifice." In a curious thematic reversal. Carter and the Democrats began to appear the cramped and confining Puritans, while Reagan and the Republicans cheerfully called for growth, free¬ dom, and progress, in a rhetoric of expansion. The loose-jointed moral¬ ity of boosterism was overcoming the tightfisted morality of restric¬ tion. As the Washington Post's William Greider put it, the message became "elect Ronald Reagan and let the good times roll." Carter the moralizer faded away early in the campaign of 1980. John Anderson, Republican representative from Illinois, substi¬ tuted in 1980 as the exemplar of the conscience theme. Anderson had first emerged in the press as a Republican willing to be quoted against Richard Nixon, as the Watergate crisis gathered. The press discovered him as an apparently hopeless but honest contender. By background, Anderson fit the conscience pattern. A fervent Chris¬ tian since his conversion at a revival when he was nine, he grew up to run for state's attorney. "I prayed over this initial decision to seek public office," he wrote, "just as I have prayed over every major deci¬ sion in my life." Later, as a member of Congress, he three times introduced a constitutional amendment declaring that the United States "devoutly recognizes the authority and law of Jesus Christ, Saviour and Ruler of nations, through whom are bestowed the bless¬ ings of Almighty God." His moral concerns guided his championing of civil rights, his opposition to the war in Vietnam, and his indigna¬ tion at the Watergate scandal. Starting in 1979, Anderson made a sincere try for the Republican presidential nomination, stressing the need for "basic moral cour¬ age," and declaring that he wanted to "arouse the conscience and reason of America." He came across in the press and on television as a familiar type: the messianic politician, "running with missionary zeal," a "preachy and abstruse" speaker who "reminds too many people of an angry minister," as Newsweek reported. Anderson lost the primary in his home state to Californian Ronald Reagan. He The Myth of Conciliation 291 went on to declare his candidacy for the presidency as an indepen¬ dent. On election day he got fewer than 7 percent of the popular vote and carried no state. The most strident voice of conscience politics in 1980 was that of the Moral Majority a following of uncertain extent led by the Rever¬ end Jerry Falwell. The movement's genesis and impulse were plain. Sin was at the root of our problems and government was subsidizing sin; therefore, government had to be reformed. Politics had long been an arena in which the religious left was influential—in civil rights and the peace movement, for example. Now the religious right —faithful people concerned about crime, drugs, abortion, homosex¬ uality, sex education, and other perceived deviations—would mount its campaign. But the evidence is that the religious right made little difference in 1980. The truth seems to be that over the years Ameri¬ cans have become less, not more intolerant. Haynes Johnson, who has trooped the hustings as much as any professional reporter, found in 1980 that with respect to race, sex, and other personal matters, "aside from the vocal single interest groups, you simply don't hear the kinds of passion about such questions. Where once drugs, sex, and other trappings of a permissive society were issues during elec¬ tion campaigns, now they are largely absent." Unlike those election years in which moral concerns topped the political agenda, in 1980 the public in the main found them matters of relative indifference. Carter's Puritanism, John Anderson's ethical emphasis, and the querulous challenge of the religious right all fell flat in 1980. What had seemed a natural agenda-topper in 1976 felt awkwardly out of place in 1980. The Decisive Conventions Neither nominating convention was decisive in terms of its major function, the choice of a presidential nominee. But at each the win¬ ner's performance set the tone of his campaign in a fateful manner. Just when the story of politics as conflict seemed dead for 1980, Carter revived it. Having held back his political aggressions for months, as Kennedy harassed him. Carter chose to demonstrate that he too could perform as a fighting candidate. His acceptance speech matched Kennedy's intensity. Time reported that, "Perspiration pour¬ ing from his face, his voice hoarse, his eyes coldly angry. Carter gave 292 Presidential Politics and the Mass Media a shouting stump speech unlike almost any he has delivered before, in content as well as manner. It was a headlong assault on his rival." The "assault" was mild by the standards of old-time stump poli¬ tics, a toned down for television translation of Theodore Roosevelt. But Carter and his strategists thought it would be easy to defeat Reagan, on his record, with a negative campaign. Over the years, Reagan had filled the files of his enemies with a remarkably exten¬ sive collection of confidently asserted untruths and genially expressed bursts of aggression. Carter's aide Hamilton Jordan advocated hitting Reagan hard on the record, anticipating that "Of all the elections I've been in with Jimmy Carter, this is by far the least difficult." Carter lashed out at Reagan as a "ridiculous" candidate, a man living in a world of "fantasy," a divider at home and a warmonger abroad. As the weeks wore on. Carter occasionally lapsed into hyperbole, suggest¬ ing that Reagan was a racist, or wanted war, or would as president divide "black from white, Jew from Christian, North from South, rural from urban." It was a form of rhetoric Carter had never been very good at; his aggressions often sounded shrieky and unconvinc¬ ing. Worse yet, the press began to point out his "meanness." As Elizabeth Drew explained, "Carter had got across to the public the idea that he was a nice man. When the idea suddenly hit that he might not be such a nice man after all, the public reacted with the sort of disillusionment about which it can be unforgiving." Not until mid-October did Carter and his staff perceive that the attack mode was a failure. In a television interview with Barbara Walters, Carter said that "Some of the issues are just burning with fervor in my mind and in my heart . . . and I get—I have gotten carried away on a couple of occasions." But by then it was too late. Reagan's convention performance could not have been more con¬ trasting. It too set the tone for his campaign, a tone strongly resonant with that of Warren Harding in 1920 and other conciliators in presi¬ dential politics. By the time the Republicans met in Detroit in July, Reagan's nomination was a foregone conclusion. The personal drama of the convention focused momentarily on a bizarre scheme, appar¬ ently developed by Henry Kissinger, to get Gerald Ford to take the vice presidential nomination, on the understanding that he and Reagan would share a "co-presidency." That idea quickly collapsed, despite a good deal of television hype, and Reagan, setting aside his doubts, accepted George Bush for the second spot on the ticket. The Myth of Conciliation 293 Programmatic speculation centered on whether or not Reagan would come forth as a reincarnation of Barry Goldwater, whose rightist ideology he had supported in a stirring speech at the 1964 convention. But Reagan simply transcended these concerns with a classic speech of conciliation, reaching for consensus heyond the disagreements: I am very proud of our party tonight. This convention has shown to all America a party united, with positive programs for solving the nation's problems,- a party ready to huild a new consensus with all those across the land who share a community of values embodied in these words: family, work, neighborhood, peace, and freedom. I know we have had a quarrel or two in our own party, but only as to the method of attaining a goal. There is no argument about the goal. . . . More than anything else, I want my candidacy to unify our country, to renew the American spirit and sense of purpose. I want to carry our message to every American, regardless of party affiliation, who is a member of this community of shared values. The substance of the speech fit nicely with the huge blue banner running across the stage: "Together —A New Beginning." Impor¬ tantly for television, the manner of delivery was even more concilia¬ tory. "The pleasant man might have been talking across the backyard fence or maybe chatting in the kitchen with the kids," said Newsweek, "He seemed relaxed and natural. . . . Indeed, the entire speech sounded as though it were delivered off the top of Reagan's head." At the end he asked everyone to join him in silent prayer and then, with "God Bless America," he triggered the applause. Newsweek con¬ cluded that "The gathering of the Republican tribes in Detroit was in fact mostly remarkable for its make-love-not-war harmonics." The Washington Post's William Greider called the convention "a pivotal event of 1980" in which "the meaning of Republican has changed. In place of the party's old scolding, exclusionary style, there was a new open-armed and confident movement, one that has suppressed the nativist sentiments of its past." Reagan's manager F. Clifton White had told a reporter, "All we're trying to do is keep everybody happy." 294 Presidential Politics and the Mass Media The Contrasting Campaigns Carter continued his attack, quoting Reagan's belligerent statements to paint him as a risky president. But Carter's aggression continued to come across as "mean" in both senses of the word: attacking and petty. Reagan's senior media adviser Stuart Spencer said of Carter, "The harder he gets, the softer we're going to get." When Carter lashed out at Reagan as a divider of "Jews from Christians," Reagan went on network television to say, "I can't be angry. I'm saddened that anyone, particularly someone who had held that position, could intimate such a thing, and I'm not looking for an apology from him. I know who I have to account to for my actions. But I think he owes the country an apology." Again, Reagan's calm and confident manner matched his rhetoric. Accusations that he had changed his positions over the years, confirmed in snippets of videotape, scarcely ruffled his happy demeanor. Nor was he particularly disconcerted when the media took note of his frequent gaffes, demonstrating remarkable lapses in his basic policy information. Still, the polls were close as the election approached. Reagan's own polls showed that about 44 percent of the people agreed he was "most likely to get us into an unnecessary war," so on Sunday eve¬ ning, October 19, he went on national television in the manner of Franklin Roosevelt's first Fireside Chat, in the crisis of 1933. Reagan began, "I'd like to speak to you for a few moments now not as a candidate for the presidency but as a citizen, a parent—in fact, a grandparent—who shares with you the deep and abiding hope for peace." Nearly quoting FDR, he said "The only thing the cause of peace has to fear is fear itself." In this talk, he spoke the word "peace" forty-seven times. Fearing that the president might come up with some "October surprise," such as the release of the hostages or an invasion of Iran, Reagan suddenly accepted a long-standing invitation to debate Car¬ ter on October 28, Just one week before the election. Broadcast from the Cleveland Music FFall, the debate reached the largest audience in political history, some sixty million families. Reagan began, hardly pausing to notice the question he had been asked, with a comforting thought: "I'm only here to tell you that I believe with all my heart that our first priority must be world peace, and that the use of force is always and only a last resort, when everything else has failed, and then only with regard to national security." The debate continued. The Myth of Conciliation 295 with reporters pressing policy questions and Carter cutting hard at Reagan's "ridiculous" plan to cut taxes lo percent a year over three years. Carter scored point after point. Reagan, in contrast, did not compete, he condescended: "He infused the occasion with a style, a presence, a grandfatherly sense of dignity and kindness that evoked sympathy among millions of Americans who seemed for the first time to understand what kind of a man he really is." As Elizabeth Drew noted, "looking genial is what he does." Jimmy Carter's attempt to paint Ronald Reagan as a dangerous villain failed, not because Reagan had not said dangerous things, but because he did not seem a dangerous man. As election day approached, Reagan spoke tellingly of the emotion that impels the thirst for conciliation. "Many Americans seem to be wondering, searching, feeling frustrated and perhaps a little afraid," he said. And he set the criterion of decision for 1980 in precisely appropriate terms, not of achievement or principle, but happiness: "Most importantly—quite simply—the basic question of our lives: Are you happier today than when Mr. Carter became president of the United States?" Conciliation Triumphs As was to be expected, the postelection polls showed that Reagan had won because the public wanted a change. The turnout rate was the lowest in thirty-two years. About half of the eligible electorate stayed home. Ideology played no markedly significant role. There was no conservative tide—not even a conservative trend. A careful study by Gerald Pomper and colleagues concluded that "There is no evidence that indicated a turn to the right by the nation. Reagan was not elected because of increasing conservativism in the country." "Furthermore," Pomper and his associates reported, "there is no indi¬ cation that the electorate in 1980 was significantly more conserva¬ tive on specific issues than it had been four years before," and "Over¬ all, there is no reason to accept the election outcome in 1980 as indicating a conservative tide in this country, even though the elected candidate was clearly known and perceived by the electorate as a conservative."^ The 1980 Presidential election centered instead on the politics of conciliation. The public made a clear choice between a worried and 29G Presidential Politics and the Mass Media combative Jimmy Carter and a calm and comforting Ronald Reagan. As Carter adviser Patrick Caddell put it, the election was “a referen¬ dum on unhappiness." Reagan's adviser Michael Deaver placed the election exactly in the Harding context: it was "a return to nor¬ malcy." As the new administration came in, Time sensed that "the U.S. is famished for cheer" after too long a period of feeling "wary, worried, and waiting." Surveys in 1979 had shown 67 percent of the people picking the pollster's alternative that the country was in "deep and serious trouble," 70 percent agreeing that "things are going . . . badly." Regarding the country's future, pessimists had outnumbered optimists by three to one. Confidence in government, business, religion—indeed the whole range of dominant institutions—was far down from the sunny days of the Eisenhower administration. Despite Carter's diagnosis of the problem as some form of alienation or "mal¬ aise," the public's troubles were real: inflation and unemployment at home, humiliation at the hands of kidnappers in Iran. Thus again, in reaction to a period of too much conflict and too much moralizing, the American public was ready for relief, for the balm of comforting reassurance. An eighty-four year old delegate to the Republican national convention, Terence Martin, had it right when he observed, "This is what I've been working for since 1920, when I got involved in the Harding campaign. This time, we've got the right man at the right time." The Pulse of Politics The election of 1980 confirmed in a clear case the dominance of a single national mood (or "climate of expectations"),'^ that of concili¬ ation, which in varying degrees had dominated the presidential elec¬ tions of 1908, 1920, 1932, 1944, 1956, and 1968. Following on the clearly conscience-dominated election of 1976, the 1980 election once again indicated the regular sequences of alternating moods —that an election dominated by moral concerns is likely to be fol¬ lowed by a conciliating election. Close analysis of the 1984 cam¬ paign and election probably will confirm a revival of the combative, conflict pattern, pointing to 1988 as a return to the conscience pat¬ tern once again. These regularities, matters of balance and domi¬ nance, not of solo characterization, point to an emotional compo¬ nent in elections of considerable interest to candidates and their The Myth of Conciliation 297 managers as well as to scholars of the presidential selection process. For if these rough regularities hold, candidates who fit their rhythm are likely to do better than candidates who contradict them. Such was the case with Jimmy Carter and the others who read 1980 wrongly and with Ronald Reagan who read it as rightly as any president in modern history. The hypothesis is simple: underlying the immediate particularities of presidential campaigns and elections there is a reg¬ ular (and emotively understandable) mood swing that can contribute significantly to the outcome of the election. The Drift to Fiction But there is another, perhaps more fundamental result of the concili¬ ation election, a danger inherent in its reaction against the calcula¬ tions of politics. That is the drift to fiction. The conciliation elec¬ tion tends to represent a flight from political argument, from the clash of evidence on the one hand and the clash of values on the other. The longing fo r happiness and harmony can lead the natio n away f rom the realities of poli t ics into terr itory beyond the reach of the fa^._At tl ^ extreme , the test of policy is transJorniedTfrom pragmatism to sentimentality, in which the symbolic and emotional dmiehsion of political discourse overwhelms testing against the his¬ torical actualities. Nineteen eighty called into question whether the nation was los¬ ing its capacity to deliberate effectively in choosing a president. The question is neither partisan nor individual. Political science has a weak record in assessing the performance of incumbent presidents,- the Reagan administration is no exception. Typical studies of incum¬ bents concentrate on technique and short-term and immediate "effec¬ tiveness," postponing for history the far more significant questions of large and deep political consequences. The 1980 case may well illustrate, more clearly than any modern election, how the debate over who should be the next president can degenerate into a theatri¬ cal fiction far more concerned with gestures and postures than with serious national alternatives. Accepting the nominations of their respective conventions, both Carter and Reagan saw the mote in the eye of the other. Reagan insisted that "the Carter Administration lives in the world of make- believe." Carter in turn accused the Reagan team of inhabiting "a 298 Presidential Politics and the Mass Media world of tinsel and make-believe . . . fantasy America.” Both contrib¬ uted to that drift, although Reagan came to exemplify it. In 1976, Carter had in an important sense run against politics itself—against the calculations by which important new political purposes gather support among the significant actors. Carter tended to reduce poli¬ tics to technique, on the one hand, and character on the other. The former spreads attention so thinly over a flat agenda of many items and concentrates on such narrow channels of action that the major concerns get little visible definition in public debate. The latter, the reduction to character, can focus so strongly on morals and motives that fact-based calculations fade out. The politically creative contri¬ bution of a moralist like Carter is to link the achievement of values to conditions and opportunities in the real world. The pathology of moralism is the drift into a pattern in which praise and blame substi¬ tute for effective action. Reagan exemplified a different political pathology, directly linked to the drift to fiction. In character he is a passive-positive—a presi¬ dent who simultaneously exerts relatively little personal energy and maintains a demeanor of smiling optimism.'* Like Harding and Wil¬ liam Howard Taft, also of that type, Reagan's primary personal moti¬ vation in politics is to secure the affection and encouragement of those around him. The passive-positive is essentially an "other- directed” person, in David Riesman's phrase. Reagan through the years developed a remarkable sensitivity to small and larger audi¬ ences, learning just how to charm and divert them toward an appreci¬ ation of himself. From childhood on he had been attuned to playact¬ ing, not only in theaters, but at school, at home, on the playground and beach. As a radio sports announcer and then a Hollywood actor, Reagan operated in a world in which pretending was not considered lying but performing as a professional. "So much of our profession is taken up with pretending,” he wrote, "with interpretation of never- never roles, that an actor must spend at least half his waking hours in fantasy.” Reagan carried those capacities over into the General Electric lecture circuit, where he quickly discovered that audiences almost never questioned confidently asserted arguments or evi¬ dence as long as they found the speaker engaging. The transition to politics was no great leap. Extending his long-honed skills, Reagan expressed simply and convincingly, to a largely indifferent and ill- informed electorate, his anecdotal politics. His cheerful story mak- The Myth of Conciliation 299 ing and easy eloquence on television made him a natural item of curiosity for modern journalism, much of which found him interest¬ ing, if inaccurate. Again and again, responsible journalists took note of some colossal gaffe of Reagan's, some startling revelation of igno¬ rance directly relevant to major policy decisions, only to discover that Reagan's bland reaction was matched by that of readers and viewers. "Like any other speaker," he said, "I'd see something, and I'd say 'Hey that's great,' and use it." As David Broder put it, "It is apparently President Reagan's belief that words can not only cloak reality but remake it." Reagan demonstrated the possibility that mod¬ ern political rhetoric can unplug itself from the facts, provided, as in 1980, that the media and the electorate accept plausibility as proof. "Politics is just like show business," Reagan told his aide Stuart Spencer. "You have a hell of an opening, coast for awhile and then have a hell of a close." Fictional rhetoric similarly escapes the pressure for consistency over time, a pressure that can, of course, stifle rational adaptation. Political calculation depends significantly on the capacity of voters to assess the relationship between intention and performance—a requirement for rationality in the electoral process. In California and in Washington, Reagan's indifference appeared to cancel that check on actions (in economics, defense, foreign policy, etc.) that were mark¬ edly contradictory to what he had led voters to expect. The calcula- bility of politics can sustain itself only to the degree that the link between words and actions is steady enough to be discerned and assessed. Finally, fictional politics sacrifices the requirement of sincerity, that is, the voter's confidence that the politician touts values rooted in his life. Reagan's list of values, for example, advertised "family, work, neighborhood, freedom and peace" as his highest principles —none of which, in fact, had represented strong behavioral commit¬ ments on his part in the past. Just as Reagan apparently felt no compunction about acting in his own television commercials with¬ out knowledge of or even interest in what his producers gave him to say, so his professed political values remained largely distinct from any personal commitment. By 1984 the climate of expectations had shifted once again, although the drift to fiction seemed still in train. Reagan fundamen¬ tally withdrew from partisan debate in 1984 as had Nixon in 1972, 300 Presidential Politics and the Mass Media with a similar result: media attention focused strongly on Demo¬ cratic primary races, in which Walter Mondale was challenged by John Glenn, Jesse Jackson, and Gary Hart. There the usual battle and horse race language predominated. In the general election campaign. Mondale attacked the Reagan deficit, thus concentrating on a con¬ cept few voters understood and a threat to economic welfare yet to be experienced. To meet that threat, Mondale called for a rise in taxes, a threat nearly all voters could immediately understand. But conflict in 1984 did not depend primarily on dramatic issues. To Reagan's eventual advantage, media-dominated politics concen¬ trated on television debates. George Bush and Geraldine Ferraro traded barbs in one, Ferraro lashing out to say, "I almost resent, Vice-President Bush, your patronizing attitude." Two presidential debates formed their own drama. More than 100 million people watched. In the first. Mondale prevailed—surprisingly, given Reagan's stature as a "Great Gommunicator"—by combining personal geniality with pointed attacks on the president's policies and competence. Reagan appeared confused, ending with a long statistic-ridden ramble, no doubt designed to give the impression that he was well informed. The press declared Mondale the winner. In reaction, the Reagan forces leapt into negative anti-Mondale advertising. But in the second debate, with expectations of Mondale running high, Reagan the media per¬ former came through, discounting attacks on his age with good humor, and stressing his devotion to nuclear disarmament. Most significant regarding the drift to Action, however, was that the conflict of 1984 was essentially a conflict of styles. The televised debates provided information on the candidates' issue stands, but such data were almost completely ignored. Instead, the fight was defined in the press as a style show, a comparison based on dramatic effectiveness in a mode of debate no president has to face in office. Image prevailed. The concreteness of empirical conditions gave way to theatrical politics in which facts were reduced to items to be assessed for their contribution to an emotional confrontation. If the contemporary election of conciliation lends itself to sentimentality, the contemporary election of conflict lends itself to theatricality. Both move away from the mundane pragmatism that historically has sustained the rationality of American democracy.^ As 1988 approached, Reagan's habitual preference for Action over fact was repeatedly and dramatically confirmed. With the help of his The Myth of Conciliation 301 aides he managed to “spin" a failed summit with the Soviets in 1986 into an image of success. That year revealed a blatant contradiction between the president's forceful rhetoric against deals with terrorists and his secret attempt to ransom hostages by means of an arms sale to the Iranians. His dramatic preelection war on drug use in 1986 was undercut by his proposed cuts in appropriations for the antidrug fight in 1987. Increasingly the contradiction between his public per¬ sona as a president in charge and the true situation became ever more evident. As with Nixon in 1974, these presidential lapses from objectivity aroused interest in the critical question: how was it possible, in 1980, for Reagan to be nominated and elected? The reso¬ nance between his conciliatory image and the electorate's hunger for a holiday from hard thinking helps to explain how we got onto the course in 1980 that led us to the Reagan second-term presidency. Had Ronald Reagan not appeared in 1980 to perform as a pied piper of presidential politics, some other experienced modern media man would surely have taken his place. Given the level of public indiffer¬ ence, the complexity of the real issues, and journalism's (and espe¬ cially television's) new taste for literary rather than empirical stories, not much more time could be expected to pass before either of the parties turned to a professional television figure to run against an amateur. The reduction of politics to sentiment is an ancient threat. And the death of democracy, the ancients understood, results when politicians no longer even aspire to Adlai Stevenson's standard: “Talk sense to the American people." 12 Television and Presidential Politics: A Proposal to Restructure Television Communication in Election Campaigns THOMAS E. PATTERSON Presidential election campaigns center on television. The medium's role often is exaggerated, but its importance is obviously substantial. Millions of Americans view the campaign through the network eve¬ ning newscasts; additional millions see it on morning newscasts, interview programs, and special election telecasts. When news pro¬ grams do not catch the public's eye, televised political advertising does. Presidential candidates repeatedly present themselves through short commercial messages that intrude on television's entertain¬ ment programs. Television has transformed the candidates' campaigns. The politi¬ cal parties were at the center of election strategy in the early 1900s, and candidates continued in the 1940s and 1950s to assign the party a role nearly as important as that of the media. This strategy was less a testimony to the party's vitality than an indication of how difficult it was to organize a media campaign. The print media, which con¬ sisted of a large number of locally based dailies, did not provide an especially suitable foundation for a national campaign. Nor did early television, with its brief newscasts, offer a suitable basis. In the early 1960s, however, network television increased its newscasts to the present thirty-minute format and greatly expanded its news-gathering capacity. Presidential candidates then had a medium tailored to their needs. Because the network audience was national, network news became the center of journalistic coverage of national politics —particularly presidential politics. Television and Presidential Politics 303 Televised political advertising also became a significant part of presidential campaigning in the 1960s. Spending on advertising increased by 300 percent between the i960 and 1964 elections, a rate of increase that has not since been equaled. Today televised advertis¬ ing accounts for the largest share of candidates' spending. Since 1976 the major party candidates in the general election have spent nearly half of their campaign budgets to prepare and buy political ads on television. Television also provides candidates with special opportunities to reach the voters. The most important of these are the national con¬ ventions, which have been televised since 1952, and the general election debates, which were held in i960, 1976, 1980, and 1984. These events, particularly televised debates in the general election, attract a large and unusually attentive audience. The importance that candidates attach to these televised opportunities is not easily exaggerated. Entering a convention or debate, candidates cease nearly all other activities, concentrating their effort so as to make the best possible impression on the television audience. The Two imperatives of Election Television This chapter will suggest ways of improving television communica¬ tion during presidential campaigns. The analysis will concentrate on the activities of presidential candidates and television broadcasters, but the interests of the voting public are the ultimate concern. The purpose of the inquiry is to propose a restructuring of the television communication system that will enable the electorate to respond more effectively to the choices it faces in a presidential campaign. Two imperatives guide the inquiry and recommendations.^ The first imperative is that presidential candidates must have ample oppor¬ tunity on television to get their message across to voters. That candi¬ dates appear frequently on television does not alone satisfy this requirement. Candidates bear the responsibility to mobilize the elec¬ torate during the campaign; one of them will be responsible for governing the nation when the campaign has ended. It is essential, therefore, that candidates have frequent and significant televised opportunities to establish, on their own terms, their views on national policy and leadership. Election television, however, cannot be entirely within the control of the candidates. Not surprisingly, presidential eandidates try to 304 Presidential Politics and the Mass Media present themselves in one-sided ways, exaggerating their strengths and disguising their weaknesses. A second imperative, therefore, is that television broadcasters must act as the voters' trustees, seeing that neglected aspects of the candidates' records, character, and poli¬ cies are included in the flow of information. This is not to suggest that broadcasters should act as the political opposition, for this role can be played properly and effectively only by rival candidates, fac¬ tions, and parties. Neither is it to claim that broadcasters can effec¬ tively organize public opinion when candidates are unwilling or unable to do so. Broadcasters can, however, bring hidden facts about the candidates to light, act as a constraint on the candidates' claims, and help the voters to understand the candidates' platforms and abilities. Some observers may disagree with these imperatives. They may feel, for instance, that presidential candidates cannot be entrusted with the campaign's agenda. After the 1976 campaign, one of Ameri¬ ca's leading iournalists complained: If President Ford or Governor Carter had really raised a new issue, or defined an old one in new terms, the press would have been startled into reporting it. In the whole of the campaign, neither Mr. Ford nor Mr. Carter made a single memorable speech, so the press summarized their dreary cliches and the candidates were lucky that the press didn't print the full text of what they said. Other journalists may share this view, and certainly there are voters who do. Polls indicate that some Americans believe that candidates will say almost anything (or nothing) in order to gain election. Such beliefs, however, are not an adequate basis for broadcast policy in presidential elections. Candidates provide the electorate with its only choices, and if they break faith with the people, the problem will not be solved by restricting their opportunities to communicate with the voters. The conclusion that candidates are untrustworthy, moreover, is unsupported by available evidence. Gerald Pomper's exhaustive study of campaign pledges indicates that winning presidential candi¬ dates, once in office, try to fulfill nearly all of their eommitments and succeed in fulfilling most of them.^ Broadcasters, too, have been criticized in recent elections. Broad¬ casters are accused of "poisoning the well" by saying repeatedly that Television and Presidential Politics 305 candidates are motivated mainly by their desire to win votes rather than by their commitment to particular national policy goals. Whether broadcasters are overly arrogant and cynical, however, is not a basis for undermining their position in the campaign. The news media's responsibility as public trustee can be preserved in practice only by giving reporters the freedom to pursue that responsibility as they see fit. In accepting the judgment that both broadcasters and candidates must have ample opportunities on television to express their views, the important question becomes; What is the proper balance between the candidates' need to present themselves on their terms and the broadcasters' need to interpret what the candidates are saying? This is a question that, admittedly, has no single answer. There are a variety of communication patterns that would fulfill the require¬ ment, and one searches with difficulty for a basis to narrow the alternatives. Nevertheless, one consideration suggests itself: exist¬ ing patterns of broadcast communication should be altered only as much as necessary to meet the public's needs. Although radical alternatives are tempting, such proposals should be ignored as imprac¬ tical. Moreover, existing patterns of communication are only in part a function of broadcast norms and policy. The extraordinary length of American presidential campaigns, for instance, has a substantial influence on the flow of election information. Radical proposals inev¬ itably would fail to account adequately for such factors. On the other hand, a modest proposal for incremental change may find a wel¬ comed place in the existing presidential selection system. The Broadcasters’ Imperative For broadcasters to fulfill their imperative, they must have frequent and significant opportunities to act as the voters' trustee. In its pres¬ ent form, election broadcasting provides these opportunities. Broad¬ casters are in a strong position to constrain and evaluate the candi¬ dates' claims and to bring neglected aspects of policy and leadership to the electorate's attention. This section will indicate how present conditions fulfill the broadcasters' imperative. The analysis begins with a review of the federal regulations that affect broadcasting and concludes with an evaluation of broadcasters' ability to control elec¬ tion news. 30E Presidential Politics and the Mass Media Section 31$ and Election News Broadcasters are not entirely free in their coverage of a presidential campaign. Television editors and reporters operate within a frame¬ work of federal regulations, particularly section 315 of the Commu¬ nications Act and the Fairness Doctrine. Broadcasters contend these regulations violate their First Amendment rights and inhibit their ability to act as the public's trustee. In practice, however, neither section 315 nor the Fairness Doctrine are major constraints on tele¬ vision journalists. Section 315 requires broadcasters to provide candidates for public office with "equal opportunities." Commonly called the equal time provision, this section stipulates that when broadcasters permit a candidate to "use" a station's facilities, they must provide an equal broadcast opportunity to opposing candidates for the same office. In a 1959 amendment. Congress exempted bona fide news coverage from the equal opportunities provision of section 315. Congress felt the public would be better served if broadcasters were free to exercise their news judgment when reporting on candidates for public office. Broadcasters accordingly are largely free to decide how much and what kind of regular news coverage each candidate will receive. They may, for instance, interview a political candidate during a scheduled newscast without conducting similar interviews with other candi¬ dates for the same office. Such interviews are exempt from the equal opportunities provision even if the station does not routinely invite public figures to appear on its newscasts.^ News interview programs such as "Meet the Press" and "Face the Nation" are also exempt from section 315. Congress granted this exemption in 1959 in order to encourage television networks and stations to provide expanded coverage of important political issues and persons. As a result, a broadcaster can invite a candidate to appear on a regularly scheduled news interview program without having to extend this opportunity to opposing candidates. Broadcast¬ ers are exempt from section 315 in these cases as long as the "selec¬ tion of persons to be interviewed and topics to be discussed are based on their newsworthiness."'^ However, the exemption applies only if the broadcaster maintains editorial control of the interview program. If a candidate is allowed to determine the questions that are asked during the program, the broadcaster would not be exempt from section 315.^ Television and Presidential Politics 307 Broadcasters may alter the format of a regular news interview pro¬ gram and still be exempt from the equal opportunities provision. For instance, the Federal Communications Commission (fcc) will per¬ mit stations to lengthen a regularly scheduled interview program or even move it to another time. The fcc regards such changes as news judgments, which are justified by the level of public interest in par¬ ticular topics or persons.^ News documentaries are also exempt if a candidate's appearance is incidental to the subject of the documentary. This fcc ruling came in the case of "Television and Politics," a documentary that examined the use of television by candidates. Although the program included an appearance by a candidate for public office, the fcc ruled that his opponents were not entitled to equal opportunities because the can¬ didate himself was not the subject of the documentary.^ Finally, "on-the-spot coverage" of bona fide news events is exempt from section 315. This exemption was provided in 1959 by an act of Congress. Television's coverage of the Democratic and Republican national conventions, for example, carries no equal opportunities obligations to other political parties. Thus, the networks can broad¬ cast in their entirety the acceptance speeches of presidential nomin¬ ees without providing time to opposing candidates. The fcc has ruled that broadcasters also may interview candidates selectively at a party's convention without violating section 315.^ In an important 1975 ruling, known as the Aspen Institute Ruling, the FCC broadened the live coverage exemption to include certain candidate debates and press conferences. Before this fcc decision, televised presidential and vice presidential debates between the Republican and Democratic candidates (but excluding candidates from other parties) could be held only if Congress acted to suspend section 315. In 1975, however, the fcc ruled that debates could be carried live on television if they were bona fide news events. To qualify as such, a debate could neither be sponsored by a broadcast¬ ing organization nor use its facilities. Moreover, the debate would have to be carried live and in its entirety, and be televised because of "reasonable journalistic judgment of the newsworthiness of the event."'^ On this basis, the television networks broadcasted general election debates sponsored by the League of Women Voters in 1976, 1980, and 1984. In Chisholm v. FCC (1975) a federal court of appeals upheld the 308 Presidential Politics and the Mass Media Aspen Institute Ruling. In making its decision the court studied the 1959 deliberations in Congress when the original exemption for live news events was granted. The court noted that although the congres¬ sional discussion had made no specific reference to either debates or press conferences, Congress clearly had intended to broaden broad¬ casters' discretion in their news coverage. The fcc's decision to let broadcasters cover debates and press conferences sponsored by other organizations was, the court ruled, consistent with congressional intent. In 1976 presidential candidates Eugene McCarthy and Lester Maddox challenged their exclusion from a nationally televised debate between Gerald Ford and Jimmy Carter. The fcc ruled against them, saying it lacked the authority to compel the sponsoring organization to include them, and that broadcasters had acted in good faith in covering a debate from which the two alternative-party challengers were excluded. The fcc also ruled that although Carter and Ford had partial control over the content and format of their debate, this did not, "by itself, exclude coverage of the event" under the equal oppor¬ tunities provision of section 315.^^ In 1985 the FCC exempted presidential debates entirely from sec¬ tion 315. They are now regarded as bona fide news events that broad¬ casters can cover "on-the-spot." A broadcaster now can sponsor and air presidential debates; the one restriction is that the broadcaster cannot turn control of the debate over to the candidates—in other words, the broadcaster must moderate the debate. A televised appearance by a presidential candidate in a situation other than those mentioned above is considered a "use" by the can¬ didate, and the broadcaster must provide opposing candidates with equal opportunities. The most obvious nonexempt appearance occurs when a broadcaster provides a candidate with free time to be used as the candidate chooses. A broadcaster also cannot arrange a one-time "special" program featuring a candidate without affording the same opportunity to other candidates for the same office. Finally, the fcc has ruled that the news interview exemption applies only to regu¬ larly scheduled programs. Nevertheless, it is apparent that broadcasters have broad discre¬ tion in their news coverage of presidential candidates. The major obstacle to expanded election programming has not been legal re¬ strictions on broadcasters but a lack of interest by the broadcasters Television and Presidential Politics 309 themselves. Section 315, for example, requires only that “opposing" candidates receive equal broadcasting opportunities. During the nomi¬ nating phase, this means that only legally qualified candidates within the same party must participate in special broadcasts. The networks have largely ignored the possibilities for political discussion inherent in this aspect of section 315. They have not, for example, regularly conducted televised debates during the presidential nominating cam¬ paigns, despite the willingness of major party candidates to partici¬ pate. For the most part, these debates have been sponsored instead by noncommercial educational stations, which have a significantly smaller audience. It is often said, unfairly, that commercial broadcasters are con¬ cerned only with their profits. On the other hand, the profit motive cannot be dismissed entirely. Nominating debates disrupt profitable entertainment programs, which presumably is why the networks have not covered these events regularly. Economic considerations also may be at the root of the networks' reluctance to create other opportunities allowed by section 315. fcc policy apparently permits a network to invite the Republican and Democratic nominees to appear (perhaps back-to-back) on its Sunday interview program, which could be expanded to an hour (and perhaps even moved to prime time). The networks have not tried to arrange such broadcasts, which would give the public opportunities to view the candidates in what could be particularly revealing situations. The Fairness Doctrine and Election News The Fairness Doctrine applies primarily to issues, not candidates. It requires that broadcasters provide “reasonable opportunities" for the presentation of opposing positions on controversial public issues. Under the Fairness Doctrine, broadcasters are obliged to provide sub¬ stantial coverage of important public disputes. A second obligation is that, when a broadcaster presents one side of such an issue, significant opposing views also must be presented. Broadcasters can¬ not lawfully ignore significant political opinions that are contrary to their personal beliefs. Broadcasters have urged the repeal of the Fairness Doctrine, largely on the grounds that it compels them to give time to views they find disagreeable, which they believe infringes on their First Amendment 310 Presidential Politics and the Mass Media rights, their news judgment, and their responsibility to bring issues before the public. However, broadcasters are granted considerable discretion in com¬ plying with the Fairness Doctrine. It allows them substantial free¬ dom of choice in determining time, format, and speakers. The oppos¬ ing sides on political issues do not have to be given equal time; each must receive only a "reasonable" amount of time to present its views. If one side's opinion is presented in a news story or editorial, the opposing side does not also have to be broadcast in this way. No one has a right of access; broadcasters can determine for themselves who will speak for each opinion. The Fairness Doctrine has a special meaning in election campaigns. The FCC has ruled that a significant "issue" in a campaign is the opposing candidates. A broadcaster's failure to cover a "significant" opposing candidate may be regarded as a violation of the Fairness Doctrine. The Fee's position is that broadcasters will cover cam¬ paigns thoroughly and that significant opposing candidates will have "reasonable opportunities" to appear in this coverage.This policy does not require broadcasters to give roughly equal news time to the Republican and Democratic presidential candidates in the general election, even though broadcasters sometimes have acted as if they had this obligation. In 1972, for example, Richard Nixon made only seven campaign appearances during the general election, but the networks balanced their coverage of him and George McGovern by reporting on the campaign activities of his surrogates, including Julie Nixon. This practice was legally unnecessary and, in fact, ran counter to the spirit of the Fairness Doctrine. The FCC has imposed a few specific "fairness" restrictions on elec¬ tion coverage. Broadcasters are not prohibited from endorsing candi¬ dates for public office, but when they do, they are required to provide opposing candidates an opportunity to reply.This situation arises when a representative of a station indicates directly or by implica¬ tion that the station is backing one candidate. In this case the broad¬ caster must permit the other candidate or a surrogate for the candi¬ date to respond to the editorial. However, if the broadcaster indicates that a surrogate will make the reply, the fcc has ruled that, except in extraordinary circumstances, the choice of who will speak rests with the candidate. On the whole the fcc's interpretations of the Fairness Doctrine Television and Presidential Politics 311 have greatly favored broadcasters. The fcc holds that the Fairness Doctrine was not meant to place tight restrictions on broadcasters, and has argued that they must be given wide discretion in their news judgments. This stated policy has been honored in practice by the FCC. It does not monitor broadcasts to check on compliance with the Fairness Doctrine, responding instead to complaints. The burden of proof is on the complainant.^^ The fcc receives several thousand complaints each year but rejects nearly all of them as not meeting the prima facie criteria for a valid complaint. These criteria are: 1. The complaint must refer to broadcast coverage of a specific pub¬ lic issue. 2. The complaint must indicate by time(s) and date(s) when the alleged fairness violation!s) occurred and the nature of the alleged violation(s). 3. The complaint must demonstrate that the issue in question is controversial and of public importance. 4. The complainant must indicate that the station apparently has not provided coverage of opposing views on the issue. (The com¬ plainant may do this, for example, by claiming to be a regular viewer and claiming not to have seen coverage of opposing views.) The small proportion of received complaints (less than 5 percent) that meet these criteria are sent by the fcc to the broadcasters for rebuttal. The broadcasters' rebuttals nearly always satisfy the fcc that a fairness violation has not occurred. Since 1984, in fact, the fcc has directed only one station (wTVH-Syracuse, N.Y.) to broadcast addi¬ tional programming in order to comply with the Fairness Doctrine. Even then, the broadcaster chose to appeal the fcc's decision to the federal courts. Coverage of Presidential Campaigns Broadcasters obviously have substantial freedom under the Fairness Doctrine and section 315, and could reasonably make greater use of it. A presidential campaign, in fact, provides broadcasters with innumerable opportunities to act as the public's trustee. To the extent that they fail to do so, it is largely the result of journalistic norms that lead broadcasters to downplay the substance of election campaigns. 312 Presidential Politics and the Mass Media Reporters once served mainly as common carriers, taking their news primarily from candidates' prepared statements. "In the old days," Carl Leubsdorf has noted, "emphasis in election reporting was on what the candidates were saying."^° Campaign coverage contin¬ ues to be an outlet for the candidates' appeals. With rare exceptions, every important new statement by a major candidate finds a place in the news. As Timothy Crouse observed, there is even much that the candidates say that is unimportant, or even downright trivial, that the press dutifully reports.Journalists' concern with what Walter Lippmann called the "overt phases of events" also enhances the candidates' control of what the media report.Since the candidates decide what they will say, and where they will say it, they frequently can direct the press's attention to what they want it to see. Nevertheless, candidates no longer can dictate election news, partly because of the lengthening of modern presidential campaigns. The shorter campaigns of the past enabled candidates to establish the news agenda; whatever they had to say was likely to be fresh news. It is all but impossible, however, for a candidate to control the news for the three hundred or more days of the present campaign. On most days, in fact, reporters are more or less free to base news selections on their own values. And because the media have a daily appetite for stories about the presidential election, reporters are regularly able to portray the campaign in their own terms. Journalists have a different conception of presidential elections than do candidates. In their coverage of a campaign the media con¬ centrate upon strategic situations, downplaying the national prob¬ lems, goals, and issues that the candidates are emphasizing. Although journalists consider the campaign to have more than ritual signifi¬ cance, they tend not to view it primarily in terms of the national policy and leadership themes being addressed by the candidates. To journalists the campaign is mainly a competitive "game." "The game," notes Paul Weaver, "takes place against a backdrop of governmental institutions, public problems, policy debates, and the like, but these are noteworthy only insofar as they affect, or are used by, players in pursuit of the game's rewards."^"^ Weaver claims that this journalistic perspective has prevailed in America for more than a century. Not until the campaign reached its present length, however, did reporters have a full opportunity to impress their views on news coverage. In a study of the 1940 election Paul Lazarsfeld, Bernard Berelson, and Hazel Gaudet found that about Television and Presidential Politics 313 50 percent of the election coverage in newspapers was devoted to matters of national policy and leadership. Only 35 percent was con¬ cerned with game-related topics, such as winning and losing, strat¬ egy, tactics, and logistics.Studies of recent campaigns, however, reveal that the game is now the main subject of election news. In the 1976 campaign, for example, 60 percent of television coverage and 55 percent of newspaper coverage dealt with game-related topics, partic¬ ularly the candidates' success in the race and their strategies. Only 30 percent of the election news on television, and 35 percent in newspapers, pertained to issues, national problems, leadership con¬ cerns, and related topics. Television's greater emphasis on the game is mainly the result of differences in the styles of broadcasting and newspaper reporting. In the newspaper most election reports are descriptive. They do not have a tight story line and perhaps are best described as strings of related facts that editors can cut almost anywhere in order to fit a story into available space. Nearly always, these strings include verba¬ tim statements by candidates on matters of national policy and leadership. Television reports, on the other hand, tend to be interpretive in form. Television places greater emphasis on "why" than on "what," attempting to explain rather than to describe. Television's emphasis on interpretation derives from its need for tightly structured stories. To be understood readily by the listening audience stories must be given a clear focus,- they cannot be allowed to trail off as a newspaper story does. Further, the average television news story is only ninety seconds long, not long enough for the reporter to tell the news through the words of public officials or with a listing of the facts of an event, as is typically done in the newspaper. The television reporter must assume a more active role, sharply defining and limiting the story so that it can be told in one hundred to two hundred words. For these reasons, most television news stories are built around themes. Television's "principal need," says Weaver, "is for a clear, continuous narrative line sustained throughout the story—something with a beginning, a middle and an end." Quite unlike the newspaper, television's primary concern is not the facts of an event; it is the theme. On television, notes Weaver, the facts become "the materials with which the chosen theme is illustrated."^^’ Description gives way to interpretation. Consistent with the general tendency of journalists to see the 314 Presidential Politics and the Mass Media election primarily as a game, the dominant themes of television are the status of the race and the candidates' strategies. This tendency insures that what is said about the election's substance will not stand out as much on television as it does in the newspaper. Facts about what the candidates represent are placed here and there in television reports but frequently serve only a supporting role, acting as background, transitional, or illustrative material for the game- centered narrative. Fulfillment of the Broadcasters’ Imperative The broadcasting imperative demands more than that broadcasters have sufficient opportunities to discharge their role as public trustee. Whether broadcasters use these opportunities to provide a running commentary on the election game or to assist the electorate in its choice is a secondary issue. Because broadcasters have in the news a powerful means to communicate with the public, there is no com¬ pelling need to alter the existing structure of election broadcasting to give them additional opportunities. Nevertheless, broadcasters should be encouraged to review their election coverage. A presidential campaign is a competitive race for the nation's highest office, an eminently newsworthy topic. But the campaign also affects the direction of national policy and leadership, and broadcasters abdicate their trustee's role in failing to address this aspect of elections more fully. A recommendation for election news coverage could begin with the simple understanding that presidential campaigns are unusual events. Television news normally is oriented to swift reactions to emerging developments. Broadcasters ordinarily ignore routine activ¬ ities. Election news is an exception. Although elections consist mainly of repetitious appearances by the candidates, the networks feel compelled to produce daily reports from the campaign trail. Since there is little novelty in what the candidates say and do from day to day, the news gravitates toward the political context of these activities, which may be novel. Is the candidate gaining or losing ground? Trying to win the support of a particular group? Adjusting strategy? Broadcasters could liberate themselves from this pattern and, in fact, have made some efforts to do so in recent elections. The net- Television and Presidential Politics 315 works now routinely fit a biographical profile of each major presi¬ dential candidate into their news broadcasts at some point. Broad¬ casters, however, are unwilling to deviate too far from the "here and now" principle of the news. During the 1980 campaign, for example, CBS Evening News at no time provided a retrospective report on Reagan's record as governor of California or as head of the Screen Actors Guild.Broadcasters certainly have the time to prepare such reports if they would choose to do so. Broadcasters have responded to the criticism that their news pro¬ grams are lacking in issues by saying that voters are not interested. In a sense, this is correct; the television audience undoubtedly would tune out if election news night after night showed "talking heads" reviewing the candidates' campaign promises. It is also true, how¬ ever, that viewers do not regard election news in its present format to be particularly interesting or important. Audience research indicates that people tire rather quickly of the largely repetitious reports on campaign activity that currently are directed at them.^® The challenge of election news is to find interesting ways of pre¬ senting significant information that will help the voters to understand the choices they face. This could include news coverage of many of the same activities now being covered, but accompanied by serious analyses. Much of the present analysis is trivial. To suggest, for instance, that a candidate's speech on agricultural policy is an attempt to win the farm vote hardly deserves to be regarded as analysis; an effort to assess the feasibility and probable effects of the proposed policy would be more thoughtful and perhaps more interesting, as well as more useful, to the electorate. Television news also could include more reports on the candidates' backgrounds, accompanied by analyses of the possible implications for presidential performance. The prospects for change, however, appear limited. For years now, critics have urged the networks to make their coverage more infor¬ mative. In the quiet period between presidential campaigns, broad¬ casters themselves have often vowed to do so. Their good intentions, however, inevitably fade as the next campaign begins. Existing pat¬ terns of election reporting are deeply ingrained and reinforced by conventional news standards. As long as journalists are tuned mainly to new developments in the election race, news coverage will con¬ tinue to stress the candidates' changing strategies and fortunes. 316 Presidential Politics and the Mass Media The Candidates’ Imperative The second imperative of election broadcasting is that presidential candidates must have frequent and significant opportunities to pres¬ ent themselves on television in ways they wish to be seen. Candi¬ dates are responsible for their campaigns, and one of them will gain the presidency. It is essential, therefore, that candidates be able to communicate their views on national policy and leadership. The principal broadcast opportunities for candidates are provided by tele¬ vision newscasts, televised political advertising, and special tele¬ casts, particularly general election debates. For various reasons these opportunities cannot satisfy the candidates' communications needs. The great failing of the present system of election broadcasting is that it does not enable candidates to meet their imperative fully. The primary objective of broadcast reform should be to develop addi¬ tional broadcasting opportunities that will permit candidates to estab¬ lish their agendas in the voters' minds. Candidates and Television News Television news does not provide candidates with sufficient opportu¬ nities to communicate their agendas. Broadcasters' emphasis on the election game is only one reason. The issues the candidates stress most heavily are not those reported most frequently in the news. Candidates build their campaigns around both broad policy commit¬ ments, such as promises to keep the peace and to control inflation, and specific pledges to the groups and interests aligned with their party. These issues, however, tend not to be the favorites of reporters. The candidates' coalitional appeals are thought to be too narrow to be of general news interest, and their broad appeals are regarded as too vague for easy use. Moreover, these issues usually do not involve the intense conflict that reporters prize in their stories. Pomper's research indicates that only one in ten issue pledges place the candi¬ dates in directly opposing positions. Most of the stands they take either overlap with their opponents' positions or appeal to different groups of voters.Finally, the candidates' basic appeals are repeti¬ tious, contained in finely tuned stump speeches that are repeated at nearly every campaign stop and before nearly every audience. "When candidates say the same things over and over," says television corre¬ spondent Judy Woodruff, "it is not news." Television and Presidential Politics 317 Journalists like clear-cut issues that neatly divide the candidates. Preferably, these issues are also controversial and can be stated sim¬ ply, usually by reference to a shorthand label, such as "star wars." Often, these issues have relevance only in the context of the cam¬ paign. The two most heavily reported issues of the 1976 general election, for example, were not matters of public policy, but gaffes by the candidates—Carter's Playboy interview and Ford's remark on Eastern Europe during the second presidential debate. In 1984 another gaffe—Geraldine Ferraro's initial refusal to release her family's tax returns—was covered intensely. Such issues fit the press's concep¬ tion of "good news"—they are colorful, conflictual, unusual, and sensational. When campaign issues break, they make the headlines and top the television newscasts. For a week or more they are likely to remain major news stories. This was true of several such issues in 1984, among them Jesse Jackson's reference to Jews as "Fiymies" and his association with Muslim leader Louis Farrakhan. When Jackson appeared on nbc's "Meet the Press" in April, he was asked nine straight questions about Farrakhan. Jackson protested; "I want to talk, if I might, about industrial policies to put people back to work, or about African policy, which most of you tend to ignore, or South African oppression. I think that continuing to raise this issue, frankly, is overspending my time." Michael Robinson's analysis of network evening news coverage during the 1984 general election provides more systematic evidence of the media's concern with clear-cut issues. He found that they accounted for nearly 40 percent of all television news coverage. Included among these issues were George Bush's attempts to define "shame" from several dictionaries and his "kick ass" remark about his debate with Ferraro; Ferraro's finances and her verbal battle with Archbishop John O'Connor; Mondale's controversial meeting with Andrei Gromyko; and Reagan's inaccessibility to the press and his suggestion that the Beirut bombing was somehow Jimmy Carter's fault. To be sure, candidates do not ignore such issues completely. When an opponent blunders, a candidate exploits it. In general, though, such issues are of secondary interest to candidates, a conclusion supported by Benjamin Page's exhaustive study of campaign issues. He found that each presidential nominee since 1932, including ideo- 318 Presidential Politics and the Mass Media logues like Barry Goldwater and George McGovern, stressed general goals and coalition appeals more than specific disputes.'^^ Other research has documented the same tendency, \vhile also showing that television journalists tend to downplay such goals and appeals. One comparison of candidates' speeches and election news, for exam¬ ple, revealed a dramatic difference in these communications. Gen¬ eral goals and coalition appeals provided 67 percent of the issue content of candidates speeches, but only 26 percent of the issue content on the nightly newscasts.The networks' extraordinary depreciation of goals and appeals is mostly the result of television's preference for subjects that do not require lengthy exposition and appeal to a diverse audience. Even newspapers are sometimes reluc¬ tant to make room for the hundreds of words that may be required to present the candidates' broad appeals in a meaningful way. With its preference for action film and brevity, television news seldom makes time for such presentations. Journalists also have a tendency, as Walter Lippmann noted, to "stylize" issues, a process that reduces issues to catch phrases, which makes them easier and more interesting to report but also distorts them substantially.'^'^ In the 1984 campaign, for instance, Walter Mondale's appeals to traditional groups within the Democratic coali¬ tion made him "the captive of special interests" in press reports, while Gary Hart's tendency to address issues analytically led to the charge: "Where's the beef?" Once attached, such labels are difficult for candidates to shed, working as roadblocks to their efforts to make the electorate aware of their actual positions. Reporters' concern about what is new and different in the candi¬ dates' positions also makes it difficult for candidates to get their messages across. In October 1980, for instance, cbs correspondent Bill Plante enumerated positions that Ronald Reagan had either altered or, more typically, ignored since his nomination. As Plante talked, X's were drawn across Reagan's face to dramatize his apostasy. Plante suggested that Reagan had moved to the political center in order to win the election. Had Reagan actually changed his policies? The answer, from a reading of Reagan's standard campaign speeches in the fall of 1980, is no. He spoke then mainly of big government, high taxes, and inade¬ quate national defense, the same things he had been attacking for more than fifteen years. His positions were those of a conservative Television and Presidential Politics 319 Republican, not of the centrist that Plante portrayed. The reason he looked so different in Plante's report was that Plante, like other jour¬ nalists on the campaign trail, concentrated on what was new and different in Reagan's statements, however slight these changes might have been. The first time that a candidate announces his position on an important issue, he can expect television news to report it. After that, the position is no longer newsworthy, but small amendments are. An effect of this pattern of television reporting is that candidates may appear to voters to be uncommitted to their positions and manip¬ ulative of issues. Based on their content analysis of the cbs Evening News's 1980 election coverage, Michael Robinson and Margaret Sheehan concluded that network television presents a negative image of presidential candidates. "Network reporters," they observed, "do seem to want to make the public more aware of the frailties and inadequacies of their elected leadershipAlthough most news sto¬ ries were neutral or ambiguous, cbs gave the candidates about three times as much "bad press" as "good press": "cbs, particularly in its coverage of frontrunners, seemed to be turning some motherly advice inside out—the correspondents said something critical or they said nothing at all. . . . Most bad press stories merely chided candidates for contradicting themselves, behaving politically or engaging in symbolism."^^ Robinson and Sheehan estimate that about half of the bad press reports on television came in "closers," the last sentence of a news report that places events in context. These closers often emphasized the self-serving nature of the candidates' campaign appearances and appeals. Audience research supports the conclusion that the nature of tele¬ vision news confounds the efforts of candidates to use it as a plat¬ form. Viewers' perception of the candidates' chances of winning, of campaign events, and of the candidates' campaign styles and strate¬ gies are significantly related to what they see on television.Televi¬ sion news exposure also seems to be associated with more negative images of presidential candidates.'^® Frequent exposure to television news, however, is not closely related to voters' understanding of the candidates' policy positions and records, which broadcasters largely downplay.®‘^ To change the news simply to serve the candidates' purposes is no answer to the shortcomings of television news. Journalists and can- 320 Presidential Politics and the Mass Media didates have different roles to perform in an election, and the blur¬ ring of their responsibilities, which already has progressed to an unhealthy stage in American campaigns, cannot serve either their separate interests or those of voters. Broadcasters could, in Paul Weaver's terms, provide voters a better "window" on the candidates, but cannot responsibly serve as their "platform Televised Political Advertising Televised political advertising offers the candidates a platform, and they use it primarily to communicate the main themes of their campaigns. Because viewers are suspicious of advertising, however, it fails to meet fully the candidates' communication needs. Most advertising for presidential candidates involves policy appeals, partly on the assumption (probably correct) that voters would be intolerant of commercials that try to sell would-be presidents as if they were soap or cars. Larry Sabato reports that when consultants created some productlike commercials for President Ford's 1976 cam¬ paign, test audiences snickered as the ads appeared on the screen."** A study of the 1972 campaign found that advertising generally tried to give the voters solid reasons for supporting one candidate instead of the other. These appeals depended largely on issues: the sponsor¬ ing candidate attempted to link himself with issue positions that he felt would win him votes and tried to associate his opponent with positions that would cost him votes. Of the political commercials televised during the 1972 general election, 42 percent were primarily issue communications, and another 28 percent contained substan¬ tial issue material."*^ Another study, this one of the 1976 campaign, documented that the candidates' political advertising conformed closely in its issue content to what the candidates were saying in their major speeches. Broad appeals and coalition pledges accounted for 62 percent of the issue material in the candidates' televised commercials, and 67 per¬ cent in their campaign speeches. Issues involving clear-cut differ¬ ences between the candidates, which were so prevalent on television news (74 percent of issue coverage), were a smaller aspect (38 per¬ cent) of the candidates' advertising, just as they were a smaller pro¬ portion (33 percent) of the candidates' speeches. Advertising has characteristics that can make it a uniquely power- Television and Presidential Politics 321 ful form for communicating the candidates' messages. Unlike televi¬ sion news, where the candidates' messages may be obscure, fleeting, and surrounded by competing information, advertising is concen¬ trated. Commercials contain such direct messages that they leave almost no room for misunderstanding, and these messages can be repeated again and again, or at least as frequently as the candidate's budget permits. Audience research indicates that viewers do learn about the candidates' policy positions from exposure to advertising. In fact, available evidence suggests that, in a presidential general election, viewers gain a clearer understanding of the candidates' poli¬ cies from televised advertising than from television news.'’^'*^ Some critics recommend that the United States adopt the policy of Great Britain, which bans paid advertising. They contend that ads trivialize political discussion, foster electronic demogoguery and drive up the costs of presidential campaigns. Their recommendation, how¬ ever, ignores some important facts: most election information, whether in the news or through advertising, flows in bits and pieces; lengthier and more desirable forms of paid broadcasting, such as thirty-minute broadcasts, fail to attract sizable audiences; and most alternative forms of paid communication (for example, direct mail) are more expensive and potentially more devious than televised adver¬ tising. Moreover, proposals to ban advertising fail to account for the uniqueness of American politics. Great Britain has strong parties, within and outside of Parliament, and provides free broadcast time to its parties, which can be used by their leaders. The American presidential system rests on weak parties and self-starting candi¬ dates, who often need advertising to establish public recognition and distinguish their agendas from those of their opponents. Advertising, however, cannot fulfill the candidates' imperative. Advertising's problem is its credibility. Because it is purchased by candidates, viewers substantially discount much of what is said in commercials. Advertising lacks the authoritative quality of broad¬ cast news. Viewers are more than twice as likely to question a tele¬ vised message about a candidate conveyed through advertising than through a newscast.Their assumption, a perfectly reasonable one, is that the candidate's message is not to be completely trusted. 322 Presidential Politics and the Mass Media Fulfilling the Candidates’ Imperative To fulfill their imperative, presidential candidates must be provided tvith opportunities to make significant broadcasts, largely under their own control, that will be regarded by the electorate as opportunities to learn about the candidates' policy and leadership intentions. The simplest proposal would be to give presidential candidates blocks of free time, much as many European political systems grant free broadcast time to parties and candidates. Free broadcasts, how¬ ever, may be less useful to candidates than is commonly assumed. The electorate may not take these programs seriously. This is what has happened in Britain, apparently unnoticed by those who have proposed similar programs for American elections. Although the British party broadcasts have large audiences, they are neither a highly attentive nor a trustful audience; labelled from the start as unopposed propaganda—and standing "solitary" in that respect from the rest of election output . . . they seem almost tailor-made to put audiences on their guard and to trigger anti-party and anti-political sentiments. Although the judgment of another informant—"they tend to be counter¬ productive, because it's in the nature of things that party broad¬ casts are meant to be misleading"—may seem extreme, we all immediately recognize that point of his remark. Even politi¬ cians are sensitive to the resulting gap between principle and practice. . . British disenchantment with party broadcasts has been progres¬ sive. When the bbc's audience research department first questioned British voters in 1959, a substantial majority indicated that they enjoyed the party broadcasts. Surveys in each succeeding election found declining satisfaction and attention. This trend was nation¬ wide, affecting voters even when watching the broadcasts of their party. By 1974, 60 percent of the British electorate said they were dissatisfied with the programs, and a majority deliberately avoided exposure to any of the party broadcasts. The common British com¬ plaint was that the broadcasts lacked credibility; the candidates were perceived to be engaged in unrestrained efforts to sell themselves. American presidential debates, in contrast, draw a large, interested audience. These debates provide substantial opportunities for the candidates to convey their messages to the public. Although journal- Television and Presidential Politics 323 ists ask questions, candidates typically have not felt severely con¬ strained by them and have used the debates primarily to stress the policy and leadership themes they have been emphasizing through¬ out their campaigns. If their statements are not ordered and struc¬ tured exactly as they would be in the absence of participating jour¬ nalists, what they say is at least a fair representation of their conception of their candidacies. The influence of broadcasters on presidential debates comes pri¬ marily through the news coverage that precedes and follows each debate. The pattern of this coverage is that of election news generally. The 1976 Ford-Carter debates are an example. As the debates approached, reporters began to "hype" them as pivotal to the elec¬ tion outcome, and the news was dominated by speculations on how the candidates would perform, who would win, and how the cam¬ paign might be affected. A typical news report was the following: A television audience of perhaps 100 million Americans will be watching. A large percentage of them might well decide which man to support on the basis of what they see that night. Even though there will be two more debates between Carter and Ford, first impressions are difficult to shake, as the i960 opening debate between Jack Kennedy and Richard Nixon demonstrated. It may well be that the Philadelphia showdown is a more crucial test for Carter than it is for Ford. That had not seemed true when Ford issued his debate challenge at the Republican Con¬ vention in mid-August. Then Carter was far ahead in all the opinion polls and Ford seemed to be playing a desperate catch-up game. The President still trails, but much more narrowly. Yet for better or worse, depending on the voter, he is a known quantity. By contrast, despite Carter's all-out post-convention campaign¬ ing, he remains the man on whom millions of voters are still reserving judgment. If he reassures his shaky majority, he might breeze on toward certain victory. If he fails to do so, his support could erode badly. By the time the first debate took place, the contest theme clearly dominated news coverage, and it was largely in this context that the debates subsequently were reported. More than half of the postdebate coverage concerned the debate's competitive aspects; about a fourth of that coverage dealt directly with the question of who had won, the 324 Presidential Politics and the Mass Media rest with matters of performance and the debates' effect on the can¬ didates' chances of election. Only about a third of all news space was given to the issues that the candidates addressed. The effect on voters of this pattern of debate reporting is substan¬ tial. On their own, viewers of a debate naturally tend to draw conclu¬ sions about who won and who lost, but this impression is thor¬ oughly mixed with their thoughts about the substance of the candidates' remarks. Polls taken immediately after the first presiden¬ tial debate of the 1984 general election indicated that a majority of viewers thought Mondale "won" the debate but a majority also said they found Reagan's answers closer to their own thinking on the issues. Studies indicate, however, that as a debate recedes in time, and people are exposed to postdebate news analyses, they become increasingly preoccupied with the candidates' styles and perfor¬ mances, largely apart from the substance of the candidates' remarks. The news media's question—who won? — becomes the electorate's lasting impression of the significance of a debate."^® These observations are an argument, not against debates and can¬ didate programs, but against the context in which they normally occur. Their context must be altered if these broadcasts are to meet adequately the needs of candidates and voters. The rest of this essay contains a proposal for election debates and candidate programs that is designed to frame them in a way that will better serve the electorate's interest. The proposal is a specific one, but the details are less important than the underlying idea. A Modest Proposal A first principle for new-style television broadcasts is that they must draw attention primarily to what candidates say rather than how they say it. A candidate's performance inevitably is part of any tele¬ vised appearance, but its significance should not be so exaggerated that the substance of what the candidate says becomes secondary. This is the problem of presidential debates as they are presently organized. A second principle for these election broadcasts is that they must allow candidates to say what they want to say, yet under conditions in which they can be held accountable for their remarks. The candi¬ dates' advocacy, in short, must be coupled with immediate scrutiny. Television and Presidential Politics 325 The problem with the British party broadcasts is that they do not include mechanisms of accountability. Candidates are free to say whatever they want and often make extravagant claims. Recognizing this, the electorate is both less interested and more skeptical of what they say. When their statements are subject to immediate review, however, the candidates are likely to address policies more realisti¬ cally, and the electorate, in turn, is more likely to regard what they say as important and interesting. A proposal that meets these conditions would combine presiden¬ tial debates with broadcasts that are mainly, but not solely, opportu¬ nities for the candidates to present themselves as they choose. Specifically: Four weeks before election day. In the fourth week preceding the general election, there would be a national broadcast in which each major party candidate would have the opportunity to present a lengthy (say, twenty minutes) prepared statement on domestic policy, fol¬ lowed immediately by a period (perhaps ten minutes) in which jour¬ nalists, acting as public trustees, would respond as they saw fit (including questions of the candidate). Three weeks before election day. In the third week before the general election a candidate debate on domestic issues would be broadcast. This debate could be similar in format to those of recent elections, although alternative formats that allow for a more free¬ wheeling give-and-take between the candidates should be consid¬ ered. The debate, in part, would provide an opportunity for candi¬ dates and their questioners to explore further the policy discussion of the previous week's broadcast. However, neither the candidates nor the participating journalists would be confined to topics that were raised in the previous broadcast. 7 \vo weeks before election day. A broadcast similar to the one in the fourth week, except on foreign policy. One week before election day. A debate similar to the one in the third week, except on foreign policy. This proposal would provide an entirely different setting for elec¬ tion broadcasts than either debates or candidate programs alone. The first major broadcast event of the general election would be the can¬ didates' domestic policy presentations. This advocacy broadcast would have none of the qualities of a debate. Its main feature would be the uninterrupted period it provides candidates to present their domestic 326 Presidential Politics and the Mass Media policy agendas. Unlike a debate, in which the discussion moves quickly from one candidate to the other, the candidates' presenta¬ tions would he concentrated and entirely within their control. Each statement, however, would be subject to immediate scrutiny by par¬ ticipating journalists, who could present questions to the candidate and observations of their own choosing. (Presumably, however, their attention would be concentrated on critical evaluations and follow-up questions to the candidates' remarks.) The press buildup to the advocacy broadcasts might concentrate on the question of which candidate was likely to "win." It is unlikely, however, that this concern would dominate to the extent that it presently does in predebate news. The broadcast would direct jour¬ nalists' projections partly to speculation about wbat the candidates would say, and how this would clarify their candidacies. The postbroadcast reporting also could be expected to treat the domestic policy differences between tbe candidates. To be sure, journalists would be concerned about the candidates' performances, but it is unlikely that this concern would be as consuming as it has been in recent postdebate coverage. The advocacy broadcast likely would influence news about tbe debate on domestic policy that would follow in the next week. There would be speculation about how the debate might clarify some of the policy positions taken during the broadcasts. After the debate the news emphasis undoubtedly would shift to the question of who won and who lost. Nevertheless, this concern would be tempered by the news media's build-up of the next week's broadcast, which would feature the candidates' foreign policy statements. Correspondingly, the public's attention would be affected by the nature of these broadcasts and the attending news coverage. Although the debates probably would draw larger audiences, the advocacy broad¬ casts would have a substantial following. People would be attracted by the advance news coverage; by the link between each broadcast and the debate that follows; and by the coupling of candidate advo¬ cacy with journalistic scrutiny. The series of four broadcasts would help to fulfill the candidates' imperative,^® while providing journalists with additional opportuni¬ ties to meet theirs. Each broadcast would give the candidates a significant opportunity to present themselves on their own terms, subject to review by journalists in their role as public trustee. The Television and Presidential Politics 327 benefits to the voters would be substantial. Relative to present arrange¬ ments, the four broadcasts would direct voters' attention to the can¬ didates' policies and leadership abilities. The four broadcasts, or another arrangement based on the same considerations, could be organized by the networks or a group such as the League of Women Voters. The advocacy broadcasts may or may not conform to the Fee's conception of bona fide news events, but they do contain the essential elements—joint appearance of the candidates and journalistic scrutiny—that governed the Fee's recent exemption of debates from the section 315 requirement. If the Fee should decide against the advocacy broadcasts, which seems unlikely given its increasingly laissez-faire position on broadcasting, congres¬ sional action would be necessary. In theory a similar series of broadcasts would seem advisable dur¬ ing the presidential campaign's nominating phase. The establish¬ ment of a set policy for this period, however, is confounded by ques¬ tions of timing and participation. From one perspective the ideal period would be before the first of the state contests so that inter¬ ested voters around the nation would have the opportunity to assess the full field of contenders. But recent contested nominations have attracted a half dozen or more candidates, which can result in unwieldy forums. Furthermore, once the state contests begin, the candidates' standing in the race can change suddenly and dramati¬ cally. Also, when an incumbent president is seeking renomination, there may or may not be justification for broadcasts of that party's contest. For such reasons a flexible broadcasting policy—one responsive to existing situations—-would seem desirable. There will be times, such as the Ford-Reagan race of 1976, when a series of national broadcasts like that proposed for the general election would be sensible at the earliest stage of the nominating contest. In other situations, like the Mondale-Hart-Jackson race of 1984, the series could come later in the nominating campaign. When the field is so large as to be unman¬ ageable (as in the Republican race at its early stage in 1980), consists only of the incumbent (the Republican race in 1984), or is winnowed to a single nonincumbent at an early stage (the Democratic race in 1976), broadcasters could reasonably decide that the public interest would not be served by a series of national telecasts. In any case, the uncertainty that attends the present nominating system requires 328 Presidential Politics and the Mass Media judgment about the merits of special broadcasts. These are essen¬ tially news judgments and unless the nominating system is altered significantly, would appear to be best left to the discretion of broadcasters. Above all, the commercial networks should be encouraged to be more responsive to broadcast opportunities during the nominating phase. When national broadcasts are clearly needed, there is no effec¬ tive alternative to network involvement. Noncommercial television and statewide broadcasts have played an important role in recent presidential nominating campaigns and should continue to make this contribution. Only network telecasts, however, attract large national audiences and thereby can serve the legitimate needs of the full elec¬ torate. The networks' public service obligations are not fulfilled by leaving their noncommercial counterpart or local stations to carry the burden of candidate-centered broadcasts during the nominating phase. This observation can be extended to network telecasts of the national party conventions. Conventions clearly do not have extra¬ ordinary audience appeal, and it obviously is tempting for a network to curtail convention broadcasting in favor of entertainment program¬ ming. A national party convention, however, is a time of extra¬ ordinary importance to the polity, regardless of whether it contains the built-in drama of an uncertain outcome. A convention is a social¬ izing and galvanizing event for the electorate, and a legitimate oppor¬ tunity for the major party nominees to clarify and establish their agendas. Broadcasting decisions about these events based on their entertainment value are totally inconsistent with the broadcasters' role as public trustee. This is not an argument for gavel-to-gavel coverage or for broadcasters to act solely as common carriers during their convention broadcasts. It is to argue, however, that broadcasters must realize that the airwaves they dominate must serve the broader interests of the political system as well as the narrower needs of the licensees. A Concluding Note This chapter began by positing two imperatives of presidential elec¬ tion television; that candidates must have significant opportunities to present themselves to the electorate as they wish, and that broad- Television and Presidential Politics 329 casters must have significant opportunities, as the voters' trustee, to assess the candidates. It concluded that the existing system of elec¬ tion television enables broadcasters to fulfill their imperative, but does not allow candidates to meet theirs. Along with a few minor proposals for reform, the essay presented a major one: a series of broadcasts during the general election campaign that combines can¬ didate advocacy with journalistic scrutiny. Such a series is almost a necessity if today's television-based presi¬ dential campaigns are to serve the voters' needs for information. The proposed broadcasts also would help create a more constructive rela¬ tionship between candidates and broadcasters. Television has become so important in the selection of presidents that neither candidates nor broadcasters are willing to respect and recognize fully the proper function of the other. Candidates constantly try to manipulate the news agenda, which is one reason for their uneasy and often tense relationship with broadcasters. For their part, broadcasters have placed themselves more and more in the way of candidate advocacy. To describe presidential conventions, debates, and news interviews as "candidates' time" is to ignore the great influence that broadcasters have over the content of these telecasts. The proposal for a series of broadcasts in the general election is premised on a different relationship between candidates and broad¬ casters. It accepts neither the fiction that broadcasters can organize public opinion nor the opposite fiction that unfettered candidate advocacy meets the needs of today's sophisticated electorate. Yet it asks neither candidates nor broadcasters to compromise their respec¬ tive advocacy and scrutiny functions. Instead, it combines these func¬ tions in a complementary way that would enable candidates to pre¬ sent their agendas and broadcasters to assess them. This arrangement not only respects the roles of candidates and broadcasters, but would enable America's voters to understand more clearly the momentous choice they face in the election of their next president. ■‘f?" ‘VfA it M .ill . >?cf •■■. ■■ ■ '■. '■■♦‘WfSSS'l :'" *<’1 1 ' ■' ...v ■» ’ ■' ■%.-of i0^ .■ ,. 0.‘ ■ ■ ■» «*M ■ I'- * .r^7^ ,, .1.'‘ 'i f. li ♦tj,i-4.||;( , _ •». < PART V Provisions for the Unexpected 13 Presidential Selection and Succession in Special Situations ALLAN P. SINDLER When the customary selection process works without hitch, a presi¬ dential and vice presidential candidate win a majority of electoral votes, take office, and complete the four-year term without interrup¬ tion. The unexpected may occur, however, as in the case of a dead¬ locked election or the death or disability of a victorious candidate or officeholder. Unusual circumstances like these call for tailored modes of presidential selection. The selection procedures that have been adopted to take care of such special situations are the subject of this essay. The initial, criti¬ cal choice of procedures is between special presidential elections and presidential successorship by a stated sequence of public officials. In American practice, special elections have been consistently rejected and, within the context of successorship, the vice president has been accorded first place. Much of this essay, accordingly, deals with suc¬ cession and the vice presidency in its description and evaluation of selection methods for special situations. Several terms concerning presidential successorship that are used frequently in this essay should be defined at the outset. "Direct," "first," or "immediate" successorship refers to the elected vice presi¬ dent. A "double vacancy" is said to exist when both the president and vice president who initially were elected are unable to complete their terms of office. (Prior to ratification of the Twenty-fifth Amend¬ ment in 1967, a vacated vice presidency remained unfilled and a 332 Provisions for the Unexpected double vacancy meant that the two top offices were unoccupied. For the period since 1967 the presidency and vice presidency each could be occupied by a person who originally was nominated by a president and confirmed by Congress as a successor vice president. “Double vacancy" as used here also includes this situation.) “Contingent" successorship refers to the line of succession that comes into play when a double vacancy exists, that is, the list of persons designated to succeed to the presidency in the event that the originally elected vice president is unable to do so, including anyone appointed to fill a vacated vice presidency. Basic Practices When an American president is unable to finish the four-year term of office, the arrangements for what follows differ from those of other major and mature democracies. In other nations, the dominant party or party coalition promptly designates a new governmental leader or an interim head makes do temporarily until a special election can produce a new leader. In the United States, by contrast, specific public officials, beginning with the vice president, are authorized to suc¬ ceed to a vacated presidency and to complete the balance of the interrupted term. These basic American practices—an avoidance of special presidential elections and a reliance on the vice president as the first successor and on other officials as contingent successors to a vacated presidency—warrant further discussion. Avoidance of Special Presidential Elections Proponents of special presidential elections advance at least three arguments.^ The first and most fundamental claim is that in a democ¬ racy based on popular sovereignty the only acceptable president is one who has been elected as president, not someone who was chosen to be something else and then succeeds to the presidency upon its vacancy. From this perspective, no other public official can properly serve as a full presidential successor. Many advocates of this view note, as a second line of argument, that the original Constitution required the president to “be elected," and commend this as a sound concept. The third argument, made either in conjunction with the others or independently, is that the only way to ensure a presidential- quality successor is by special presidential election. Selection and Succession 333 However theoretically meritorious the special presidential elec¬ tion may be, it fails on practical grounds. Its opponents observe that for the United States, as elsewhere, political succession arrangements lie close to the heart of the political system, are often fragile, and require continuing care. Many other countries have been plagued by persistent and severe problems of political succession, contributing at times to chronic instability in the basic regime. In contrast, the American experience has been one of rapid and legitimate succes¬ sion, even under such trying circumstances as assassination or incipi¬ ent impeachment of the president. Stability is seen as no small vir¬ tue of the present system and it should not be taken for granted as a guaranteed outcome no matter what succession arrangements are in force. Since the need for a presidential successor may occur under condi¬ tions of high social stress, the prevailing judgment is that succession by means of special election is too risky. It would involve, on the one side, a constricted caretaker government for a significant period of time and, on the other, an intense, competitive and perhaps divisive campaign. In 1974, for example, would it have been advantageous to have followed President Richard Nixon's resignation with a special election rather than the automatic succession of the vice president? Moreover, what of the possible dangers to the country in having to operate with a mark-time government pending the running of the presidential campaign and the outcome of the election?^ Although American practice on presidential succession has con¬ sistently rejected special elections, the intent of the original Consti¬ tution is less clear. Article II, Section i required that both the presi¬ dent and the vice president "be elected," and provided (in clause 6) for succession as follows: In Case of the Removal of the President from Office, or of his Death, Resignation, or Inability to discharge the Powers and Duties of the said Office, the Same shall devolve on the Vice President, and the Congress may by Law provide for the Case of Removal, Death, Resignation or Inability, both of the President and Vice President, declaring what Officer shall then act as President, and such Officer shall act accordingly, until the Disability be removed, or a President shall be elected. The ambiguity of two phrases left the interpretation of this clause open to disagreement. Did "the Same shall devolve on the Vice Presi- 334 Provisions for the Unexpected dent" refer to the presidency itself or merely to the powers and duties of the office? And did "until ... a President shall be elected" imply that a special election could or should be held? Some have urged that the phrases in question should be read as limiting the vice president (or any other successor) to only a brief stint as acting president, pending the outcome of a special election.'^ A provision of the Twelfth Amendment arguably lends support to that view. When the House is obligated to choose a president, but is unable to do so by inauguration day, the amendment states: "The Vice President shall act as President, as in the case of the death or other constitutional disability of the President." Others have maintained, however, that Congress lacks authority under Article II, Section i, to provide by statute for a special election to fill a vacated presidency; to do so would require, in their view, a constitutional amendment.'^ Helpful to this position, at least with respect to the original Constitution, was the Framers' provision for awarding the vice presidency to the runner-up presidential candidate. Successorship to the vice presidency, unlike that to the presidency, was dealt with unambiguously in the Constitution. The matter was left entirely to congressional determination, including the possibil¬ ity of not providing for any successor to that office. Indeed, to leave a vacant vice presidency unfilled made excellent sense in view of the original award of the vice presidency to the major losing presidential contestant, for whom there could be no successor.^ Once arrange¬ ments were made to handle the situation of a double vacancy, the absence of a vice presidential incumbent would raise no grave problems. Acting under its constitutional authority (clause 6), Congress set a contingent succession line in the event of a double vacancy, with the successor serving until "a President shall be elected." The first presi¬ dential succession law, enacted by the Second Congress in 1792, provided that if a double vacancy occurred when more than six months of the presidential term remained, the contingent successor would act as president only until a new president (and vice presi¬ dent) were chosen in a special election, conducted under the elec¬ toral college method used for regular elections. The scheduling of the special election depended on the time of year that the double vacancy occurred; the maximum period a contingent successor could serve was seventeen months. Although the 1792 law was not explicit Selection and Succession 335 on the length of term for a specially elected president and vice presi¬ dent, it probably intended a new and full four-year period of service. In the judgment of the Second Congress, then, the Constitution required or at least permitted a provisional successorship under con¬ ditions of a double vacancy. Confirmation of this judgment by later events cannot be had, of course, because the first instance of a dou¬ ble vacancy was not until 1974, by which time the Twenty-fifth Amendment had altered the Constitution's original provisions on succession. Whatever the Framers' intentions with regard to presidential suc¬ cession, and whatever the theoretical arguments for and against full or provisional successorship, history has settled the matter. The first opportunity to apply clause 6 came in 1841, when President William Henry Harrison died shortly after his inauguration. Amid debate that revealed confusion and disagreement over what the Constitu¬ tion required. Vice President John Tyler successfully asserted a right —aptly symbolized by his taking the presidential oath of office—of full successorship for the remainder of the uncompleted term. Suc¬ cessor presidents have held to that practice ever since. In explicitly endorsing the practice of full successorship in the present presidential succession law (passed in 1947), Congress also rejected the recommendation of President Harry S. Truman concern¬ ing succession to a double vacancy. As a successor president himself, Truman felt strongly that in a situation of double vacancy the con¬ tingent successor should serve only until a new president and vice president could be chosen in a special election to complete the exist¬ ing term. Congress disagreed, on the grounds that requiring a special election would produce an excessive discontinuity of leadership within a period of less than four years. Instead, Congress placed the House Speaker and the Senate president pro tempore first and sec¬ ond, respectively, in the line of contingent succession after the vice president and, for the first time, directed the contingent successor to serve "until the expiration of the then current presidential term." Final rejection of the special election device took place when the Twenty-fifth Amendment was adopted in 1967. Section i flatly states that "in case of the removal of the President from office or of his death or resignation, the Vice President shall become President." The amendment also provides, for the first time, for the filling of a vacant vice presidency; the designated method is by presidential 336 Provisions for the Unexpected nomination and congressional confirmation. Even under conditions of a double vacancy, then, the present constitutional arrangement is for succession by an appointed vice president rather than by the victor of a special presidential election. The Vice President as First Successor In both its constitutional design and practice the United States has always placed the vice president at the head of the line of presiden¬ tial succession. This decision originally was made by the Framers, and it raised for them—as it has for later generations—a paradoxical and vexing question. On the one side, the role as first successor calls for a vice president of presidential quality, someone who by record and reputation has earned national standing as, in effect, an alternate president. On the other side, the formal powers assigned to the vice president are meager, indeed trivial; to preside over the Senate, except in the conduct of an impeachment trial of the president, and to cast a vote to break a tie in that body. The contrast between what the vice president would become after succeeding to a vacated presidency and the official, day-to-day authority of the vice presidency scarcely could be more marked. The troubling problem thus emerged from the outset: How could persons of acknowledged presidential quality be persuaded to become vice president? The Framers’ solution. The Framers imbedded an ingenious and effective solution to the vice presidential problem in the new Con¬ stitution, but it proved to be short-lived. Their central insight was to rely solely on presidential elections to produce vice presidents of presidential quality. Thus, although the mode of presidential elec¬ tion was essentially intended to shape the character of the president, it also set that of the vice president. In the original Constitution, presidential electors were required to vote for two persons for president, “of whom one at least shall not be an inhabitant of the same state with themselves," and without being able to indicate a preference between them. By means of this double vote device each state's electors were encouraged to go beyond paro¬ chial support for local leaders and to vote also for prominent leaders in other states. The winning presidential candidate, therefore, usu¬ ally would have significant backing from enough states to approxi¬ mate, m total, a national consensus. Since the vice presidency was Selection and Succession 337 awarded to the presidential candidate with the second highest num¬ ber of electoral votes, his pattern of support was also expected to be more national than local in character. In terms of both the size and qualitative meaning of his voting support, then, the vice president could be appropriately viewed as an alternate president. To succeed, the Framers' election arrangements for the vice presi¬ dency depended on two conditions being met. The first was that electors, when casting their two votes, would confine their prefer¬ ences to genuine presidential candidates. If, instead, electors infor¬ mally differentiated in their double vote between presidential and vice presidential contestants, the vice presidency would be awarded not to the runner-up presidential contender but to the leading vice presidential candidate. The second condition, implicit in the Fram¬ ers' design, was that political parties either would not exist or would be willing to have the leader of an electorally defeated party succeed to a vacated presidency. These two conditions reflected the Framers' hope that electors would function as an enlightened elite, free from ties of party or faction, in selecting a president and, as a by-product of that process, in designating a vice president as well. Both conditions soon proved unrealistic. The beginnings of politi¬ cal parties were evident during George Washington's tenure, and as parties developed they quickly rejected the idea that the vice presi¬ dency should be assigned to the major losing presidential aspirant. Instead, each party insisted on sharply distinguishing between its presidential and vice presidential candidates and on controlling both offices. This basic change in the political environment not only made the original design of vice presidential selection infeasible but also opened the presidential election process to partisan exploitation and abuse. Both major parties distinguished between their presidential and vice presidential candidates and sought to capture both offices. In 1796, Federalist electors deliberately gave fohn Adams (their presidential candidate) more votes than Charles Pinckney (their vice presidential candidate) to assure Adams's election, but that enabled Thomas Jef¬ ferson (the opposition's presidential candidate) to come in second and win the vice presidency. In 1800 the Republicans gave Jefferson and Aaron Burr tlie same majority of electoral votes, thus requiring the House of Representatives to choose between them for president. Although the Republicans clearly intended Jefferson to be president. 338 Provisions for the Unexpected the lame-duck House was controlled by a Federalist majority, and for two months and thirty-five ballots no House majority was produced for either Jefferson or Burr. The stalemate finally was broken when Alexander Hamilton decided to back Jefferson, who was then chosen with the support of ten of the sixteen state delegations. Prior to the 1804 election, the Federalists (by then the minority party) threatened to manipulate the election process to the Republi¬ cans' disadvantage unless they were, in effect, guaranteed the vice presidency for their presidential candidate. If some Federalist elec¬ tors were to cast their votes for the Republicans' vice presidential candidate, they could make him the presidential winner in place of the Republicans' presidential candidate. To be sure, the Republicans thus would capture both offices, but only at the cost of reversing their intended order of candidates: their presidential candidate would become vice president and their vice presidential candidate would become president. In exchange for not allocating their votes in this fashion, the Federalists demanded that the Republicans hold back on voting for their vice presidential candidate so that the Federalist presidential contestant would have the second highest number of electoral votes and become vice president. Faced with this blackmail strategy, the Republicans threatened to retaliate by reversing the Fed¬ eralists' order of candidates. By allocating votes to the opposition's vice presidential candidate, the Republicans could ensure that he, rather than the Federalists' presidential candidate, came in second and won the vice presidency. If both parties had executed their threats, the result would have upended the constitutional design: candidates of vice presidential (not of presidential) quality would have been president and vice pres¬ ident. These maneuverings provoked bitter quarreling; each party castigated the other for subverting the intent of the Constitution. In truth, the breakdown of the Framers' plan was unavoidable because It was premised on partyless competition. Recognizing the transfor¬ mation that had been caused by the durable reality of party rivalry, the Republicans quickly secured congressional approval of the Twelfth Amendment, which was ratified promptly by the states to take effect before the 1804 election. This formal revision of the Constitution marked the official end of the Framers' clever attempt to ensure that vice presidents would be of presidential quality. The Twelfth Amendment and recurrence of the problem. The Selection and Succession 339 Twelfth Amendment reserved the presidential race solely for presi¬ dential candidates and set a separate competition for the vice presi¬ dency. The double voting device was eliminated; each elector now had a single vote to cast for president and another single vote for vice president. The winning vice presidential candidate, like the victori¬ ous presidential contender, had to receive a majority of electoral votes. Should that condition not be met the Senate was empowered to choose between the two vice presidential candidates with the largest number of electoral votes.^ Finally, the eligibility of vice pres¬ idents was stated explicitly: "no person constitutionally ineligible to the office of President shall be eligible to that of the Vice President. . . ." The Twelfth Amendment thus guaranteed that the presidential election would be won by a presidential and not a vice presidential candidate, but at the cost of institutionalizing the separation of vice presidential from presidential choice. Once this separation was built into the election process, the basic paradox of the vice presidency reappeared: How could an office that was "nothing" in itself none¬ theless attract persons worthy to be the initial successor to a vacated presidency? In truth, the American experience has been that vice presidential candidates are not ordinarily selected for their qualifica¬ tions to become president through succession. The running mates of presidential nominees typically have been chosen to satisfy the needs of the upcoming campaign, not the postelection needs of governance or successorship. The predominant concerns in the designation of vice presidential candidates have been their anticipated contribution to unifying the party, enlarging its electoral appeal, and meeting other election-related objectives—that is, to ticket balancing. Not surprisingly, then, many vice presidential nominees have been relatively obscure political leaders and the vice presidency generally has remained a thoroughly subordinate office. To be sure, well-known leaders occasionally have been selected to complete the ticket, as in the recent examples of Lyndon B. Johnson under John F. Kennedy (i960), Hubert H. Humphrey under Johnson (1964), Walter Mondale under Jimmy Carter (1976) and George Bush under Ronald Reagan (1980). Even in these instances, however, the relative influence of ticket balancing and first successorship criteria remains open to argument. The thin and irregular provision of vice presidents of presidential 340 Provisions for the Unexpected quality has provoked considerable criticism and many reform pro¬ posals over the years. These suggestions typically seek to strengthen the standing, authority, and independence of vice presidential candi¬ dates and vice presidents, at the nominating, electing, or governing stages. Although varied in their particulars, the proposals broadly share the critical flaw of pursuing an illusory quest. The dynamics of the American political system allow no viable role for an "alternate president" in addition to the president. This is the systemic reason why, despite the acknowledged need for highly qualified presidential successors, vice presidents have not ordinarily been chosen with that consideration much in mind.^ This systemic explanation applies not simply to the vice presi¬ dency but to any office whose primary purpose would be to supply presidential-quality successors to a vacated presidency. Relatively few posts merit consideration: on the elective side, the House Speaker and Senate president and, on the appointive side, the cabinet heads and the chief justice of the Supreme Court. (Except for the chief justice, those are the persons who have been designated as contin¬ gent successors in the event of a double vacancy.) Whichever post might be picked to replace the vice presidency as first in presiden¬ tial succession, there is little likelihood that its occupant would be chosen with that function uppermost in mind. And, in truth, when the roster of recent incumbents of these offices is reviewed, not many of them would have been considered at the time of their selec¬ tion to be of presidential caliber. In sum, placing some office other than the vice presidency at the head of the line of presidential suc¬ cession would not enhance the prospects for providing leaders of presumed presidential status on a regular and routine basis. A modern transformation of the vice presidency! In recent years the political standing of the vice presidency appears to be on the increase. The Twenty-fifth Amendment provides for the first time that a vacant vice presidency will be filled, that the vice president has a significant role in the determination of presidential disability, and that a successor vice president (one nominated by the president and confirmed by Congress) has the same status and authority as the initially elected vice president. The vice president's formal authority has been expanded in recent years to include membership on the National Security Council, the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, and the board of the Smithsonian Institution. By Selection and Succession 341 custom and the acquiescence of successive presidents, the vice presi¬ dent has become a member of the cabinet and has an official resi¬ dence and a sizable staff. Recent presidents have chosen to make more effective use of their running mates as political and policy advisers after the election, as in the case of Carter and Mondale and of Reagan and Bush. Additional evidence of the enlarging role of vice presidents is pro¬ vided by changes in the patterns of renomination, consideration for presidential nomination, and victory in the presidential race. A much higher proportion of vice presidents have sought and gained renomi¬ nation in this century than in the nineteenth century. All four elected vice presidents who have succeeded to the presidency since 1900 easily won presidential nomination in their own right and then went on to election victory. (This record may say more, however, about the expanding role of the presidency than of the vice presidency.) In sharp contrast to the 1800s, nearly all twentieth-century vice presi¬ dents seriously pursued and were considered for presidential nomi¬ nation, the most recent examples being Richard Nixon in i960 (lost the election) and in 1968 (won), Humphrey in 1968 (lost), and Mondale in 1984 (lost). From the start, George Bush was widely considered to be a major contender for his party's presidential nomination in 1988. The rising perception of the vice presidency as a base from which to launch a serious presidential candidacy has contributed signifi¬ cantly to the political attractiveness of the office. Ours is an age when political careers may be greatly affected by media attention and name recognition among the public. In this setting, a surefooted incumbent can use the vice presidency to promote his visibility and image as a major candidate for presidential nomination. Through party organizational activities, moreover, the vice president can effec¬ tively connect with party and interest group leaders around the coun¬ try and develop political loyalties and debts from candidates whose campaigns he has assisted. Heightened public visibility together with a national network of friends and potential backers, are valuable assets to anyone contemplating a run for a party's presidential nomi¬ nation. The change in the vice presidency from career dead end to springboard to presidential candidacy is reflected in the greater will¬ ingness of major political leaders to accept the second place on the ticket. Examples include Henry Cabot Lodge and johnson in i960, Edmund Muskie in 1968, and Bush in 1980. 342 Provisions for the Unexpected Although these developments plainly have enhanced the standing of the vice president, do they add up to or necessarily presage a transformation of the office, as some commentators have urged? Such a judgment is both overstated and premature because there is no guarantee that these positive developments will last. After all, the fundamental characteristics of the anomalous office of vice presi¬ dent have remained essentially the same, which greatly inhibits the extent to which that office can be transformed. The fate of the vice presidency remains as firmly as ever in the hands of presidential nominees. Their commitment to balance the ticket in order to win the election continues to thrive. Presidential successorship criteria presumably played a modest role at best in the following instances of recent vice presidential nominations: Truman (1944), John Bricker (1944), Alben Barkley (1948), Nixon (1952), John Sparkman (1952), William Miller (1964), Spiro Agnew (1968), Thomas Eagleton and his replacement Sargent Shriver (1972), Robert Dole (1976), and Geraldine Ferraro (1984). The striking example of traditional ticket balancing by Ronald Reagan in 1976 merits special mention. As the principal challenger to President Ford's nomination, Reagan estimated shortly before the Republican national convention that he needed only a small number of additional delegate votes to win. In an effort to secure those votes, Reagan announced that his mnning mate would be Richard Schweiker, a little-known senator from Pennsylvania who was far more liberal than Reagan. He then called on Ford to follow suit by naming his own intended nominee in advance of the convention. Ford declined to do so and went on to defeat Reagan for the nomination. Although some major leaders have accepted second place on the ticket, others have remained uninterested. Senator Edward Kennedy indicated his lack of interest in the position to Humphrey in 1968 and to McGovern in 1972; Rockefeller did the same to Nixon in i960, as did Reagan to Ford in 1976. This disinclination to take on the vice presidency reflects generic as well as idiosyncratic consider¬ ations. One is that even if the vice presidency now is viewed more positively as a launching pad for a presidential bid, it is but one of several such offices, including senator and governor. Another consid¬ eration is that the prominence that comes from being associated in the public mind with a particular president and his administration is a two-edged sword. A vice president who seeks to become the party's Selection and Succession 343 standard-bearer cannot readily reject current policies or espouse new policies that are at marked variance from those of the president without inviting party disunity, charges of disloyalty, and adverse public perceptions of his credibility, competence, and trustworthi¬ ness. Thus Vice President Humphrey paid a high price for his identification with President Johnson's position on America's war in Vietnam, and for his inability or unwillingness during most of his 1968 presidential campaign to disassociate himself from the presi¬ dent on that issue. In 1984, Mondale had a comparable problem because of the unpopularity of the Carter administration. As one commentator shrewdly observed: "Carter's 1980 defeat is a disaster Mondale must distance himself from, yet he must do so without seeming to be disloyal or denying his own history. Indeed, Mondale wants his vice presidency remembered as much as he wants Jimmy Carter forgotten. It is a tricky balancing act."® Even a vice president in a popular administration may find the greater visibility of the office to be as much a liability as an asset when competing for the presidential nomination. This is a problem Bush had to contend with in preparing for the 1988 election. Chosen as running mate in 1980 because he had been Reagan's leading rival for nomination and a leader of the moderate wing of the Republican party. Bush as vice president demonstrated thorough loyalty to the president and unequivocal support of his policies. As a result. Bush's own ideological identity became blurred and confused, which under¬ mined his standing within the party. Many conservatives, unper¬ suaded of the genuineness of his seeming change in policy outlook, continued to regard Bush as an outsider while some moderates ceased to view him as a reliable member of their group. Fundamentally, then, the vice president's dependency on and subordinacy to the president—from nomination to election cam¬ paign to the activities of office—have undergone no real change. The increase in the formal authority of the vice presidency has been slight, and in no way alters the president's continued control of the role of the vice president in the administration. President Carter's greater reliance on Mondale and President Reagan's on Bush provide a model that later presidents may or may not choose to emulate. The relationship during the four-year term will continue to turn on the extent to which the president personally trusts the vice president, respects his talents, values his advice, and wants to put him to good 344 Provisions for the Unexpected use; the operating style of the president and his staff; and how well particular roles and assignments for the vice president fit the admin¬ istration's political circumstances and needs. The meaning of the modern vice presidency's increased standing relates more, therefore, to heightened prominence and publicity than to durably expanded power. It remains the case that for a vice presi¬ dent to function significantly in office, the president must desire that to happen and the vice president must take care to operate in the carefully circumscribed role of agent for the president, avoiding any appearance of being an independent political actor. In addition, the practice continues of selecting vice presidential nominees for reasons other than their abilities to be first-rate presidents should succession be required. Without substantial revision of these core characteristics of the office, no transformation of the vice presidency is likely to occur. Contingent Succession Over the course of American history nine presidents have failed to complete their term; seven of them departed with more than half the term remaining. In this century there have been fifteen elected presi¬ dents covering twenty-two terms of office (four terms for Franklin D. Roosevelt, two terms for Woodrow Wilson, Dwight D. Eisenhower, Nixon, and Reagan, and one term for the others). Five of these presi¬ dents were unable to serve their full term: two were assassinated (William McKinley in 1901 and Kennedy in 1963), two died from natural causes (Warren G. Harding in 1923 and Roosevelt in 1945), and one resigned (Nixon in 1974). Since a vacant vice presidency was left unfilled before the adoption of the Twenty-fifth Amendment, that office has been unoccupied a significant portion of the time. Prior to 1967 there was no vice president during part of eight administrations for reasons other than succession (seven died in office and one, John C. Calhoun, resigned) and during part of eight other administrations because of succession. Overall, the office was unoccupied for thirty- seven years, more than 20 percent of the time. As these data on presidential succession and vice presidential vacancy make clear, luck accounts for the fact that in every instance of an interrupted presidency a vice president was available to succeed to the office for the balance of the four-year term. Every time the Selection and Succession 345 elected president was unable to finish his term, it happened that the vice president was available as first successor; and every time the vice presidency was vacant, it happened that the elected or successor president was able to complete the term. Contingent succession extending beyond the vice presidency has never had to be used to fill a vacated presidency and, since the Twenty-fifth Amendment now provides for an appointed successor to a vacant vice presidency, there is little chance that contingent succession will need to be used in the future. Implementing its constitutional authority under clause 6 of Arti¬ cle II, Section i. Congress legislated on contingent succession in 1792, 1886, and 1947. Because the 1792 act provided for provisional service and a special election, a contingent successor was not required to give up his regular office to serve temporarily as president. A short successor list was set, consisting of the two formal leaders of Congress: first the Senate president pro tempore, then the House Speaker. This arrangement was completely overturned in 1886, when a cabinet line of succession was established and ordered according to the dates the departments were created, starting with State and Trea¬ sury. The two congressional leaders were omitted altogether. The 1886 law also abandoned the requirement of a special presidential election, and instead gave to Congress discretionary power to decide whether and when to call a special election. The present contingency succession law, enacted in 1947, rein¬ stated the two legislative leaders at the head of the line, but reversed the 1792 sequence by placing the Speaker before the Senate president pro tempore. The cabinet department heads completed the list. Pro¬ visional successorship and a special election were rejected. The con¬ tingent successor was explicitly directed to serve "until the expira¬ tion of the then current presidential term." In such a case, therefore, the Speaker or Senate president pro tempore would be required to resign both his legislative leadership post and his seat in the cham¬ ber as a condition of assuming the presidency. The interplay of politics and principle explains the changes in succession in the three statutes. In 1792, Jefferson was secretary of state and his forces were most powerful in the House; Hamilton was secretary of the treasury and his Federalist party controlled the Sen¬ ate. The House voted for a cabinet line of succession, beginning with the secretary of state; the Senate chose the two congressional lead- 34G Provisions for the Unexpected ers, starting with the Senate head. The 1792 arrangements reflected the victory of the Federalist view. The revamping of contingent succession in 1886 was sparked by the happenstance that there was neither a Senate president nor a House Speaker when Vice President Chester A. Arthur succeeded to the presidency on President James Garfield's assassination or when Vice President Thomas Hendricks died less than a year after taking office. Once the issue of succession was reopened, considerable oppo¬ sition to the composition of the 1792 list, not just its brevity, became apparent. One concern was that, although the Constitution confined Con¬ gress in its determination of contingent successors to persons who were "Officers" of the United States (clause 6), it was arguable that a congressional leader was not a national officer within the constitu¬ tional meaning of that term. Another principled concern was that the service of a congressional leader as president or as acting presi¬ dent, especially while retaining his legislative post, did not square with the separation of powers doctrine, or with Article I, Section 6, which stated that "No Person holding any Office under the United States shall be a Member of either House during his continuance in Office." A third worry was that when a Senate president pro tempore (or House Speaker) was serving as acting president, the Senate (or House) could replace him by selecting another legislative leader in his place. Furthermore, there was a potential conflict of interest, revealed in the impeachment of President Andrew Johnson in 1868, in having a contingent successor preside over the body whose judg¬ ment would determine whether the president would be impeached. Finally, and by no means least, there was concern that the 1792 arrangements could result in the party that was defeated in the last presidential election gaining control of the White House through succession. The deficiencies that were attributed to the 1792 act led Congress to abandon its succession provisions; the two congressional leaders were excluded and the cabinet heads assigned in their place. This arrangement held until the strong beliefs of a successor president, Truman, led him to propose its revision in 1947. Reflecting his per¬ sonal view of what American democratic values required, Truman urged that a contingent successor should be an elected rather than an appointed official and, most especially, that it should not be an official Selection and Succession 347 who had been nominated to an appointive post by the president. Congress went along with this recommendation, thus reintroducing the top legislative leaders (this time with the Speaker ahead of the Senate president) as the initial contingent successors, followed by the cabinet department heads.^ The unexpected and unprecedented events of 1973 and 1974— when in the year following the resignation of Vice President Agnew, President Nixon also resigned—produced the first and only instance of a double vacancy in American history. Had the successorship in that situation been determined by the 1947 act, the House Speaker, Democrat Carl Albert, would have become President. This did not occur because the Twenty-fifth Amendment, adopted only seven years earlier and primarily to settle the question of presidential disability, had a provision bearing on contingent succession. Reversing the prac¬ tice followed since the Constitution was adopted, the amendment required that a vacated vice presidency be filled by presidential nom¬ ination and congressional confirmation, and gave to a successor vice president the same authority as that of an elected vice president, including the status of first successorship to a vacated presidency. Hence, when President Nixon resigned in 1974, the appointed vice president, Gerald Ford, was already in place and ready to assume the presidential office for the balance of the term. By ensuring that the vice presidency would seldom be unoccupied, the Twenty-fifth Amendment made it almost certain that a vice president would be available to succeed to a vacated presidency.*^ Its practical effect, therefore, was to substitute the new position it created—an appointed vice president—for the House Speaker as first contingent successor. This substitution completed the hold of the vice president, whether elected or appointed, on presidential succes¬ sion, whether direct or contingent. Basic Criteria and Their Application If the basic practices discussed in the preceding section are con¬ sidered acceptable and not open to serious revision, what criteria should be used to judge the merits of proposed modifications? Several criteria are proposed in this section, then applied to identify defects in current arrangements and to suggest corrective changes. 348 Provisions for the Unexpected Same-Party Control in Succession Presidential succession arrangements should satisfy the criterion of same-party control; a president who is unable to finish the four-year term to which he was elected should be succeeded only by someone of the same party. The emergence and growing appeal of this crite¬ rion, it will be recalled, undercut the Framers' original design of the vice president as presidential successor and brought about the insti¬ tutional changes that are embodied in the Twelfth Amendment. In modem times this criterion has become so well entrenched as to make unthinkable any serious effort to re-create the Framers' plan to secure a successor of presidential quality by awarding the vice presi¬ dency to the major defeated presidential candidate. Same-party control should be maintained in any succession arrange¬ ment because of the important connection between governance and popular sovereignty. The American party system, however loose it may be compared to its European counterparts, still serves as the major institution that links the public and the government, stmc- tures governance, and subjects the administration of the day to review and criticism. Turning over a vacated presidency to the opposition party not only would violate the integrity of the party system, but also would betray popular sovereignty by overturning the electorate's decision. In spite of this criterion's importance and widespread support, it has not been incorporated as a required condition in either the con¬ stitutional or legislative provisions for successorship. Depending on circumstances, the possibility has always existed that a succession could take place that contradicts the principle of same-party control. This undesirable happening could occur under direct or contingent succession, although it is more likely in the latter case. The criterion of same-party control is disregarded when first con¬ tingent successorship is assigned to the two highest legislative lead¬ ers, as Congress did from 1792 to 1885 (Senate president and House Speaker, in that order) and from 1947 to the present (House Speaker, then Senate president). For the period 1821 to 1985, the party of either or both of the legislative leaders differed from that of the president in fifty-eight of the 164 years. (The out party controlled both chambers for thirty years, the House for twenty-four years, and the Senate only for four years.) From 1821 to 1886, the president pro tempore and the president were from different parties for ten years Selection and Succession 349 (15 percent of the time); the vice presidency was vacant in one instance, while Millard Fillmore served as successor president. Dur¬ ing the period from the enactment of the current succession statute (1947) to the adoption of the Twenty-fifth Amendment (1967), the Speaker and the president came from different parties for eight of twenty years; the vice presidency was unoccupied in two instances, while Truman completed the balance of Roosevelt's fourth term and Johnson completed Kennedy's term. The Twenty-fifth Amendment's designation of an appointed vice president as first contingent successor greatly reduces but does not wholly eliminate the possibility of the Speaker succeeding to a vacated presidency. No successor vice president can take office until his nomination has been confirmed by Congress, so the president can¬ not fill the office temporarily with an acting, interim, or recess appointment. The amendment sets no time limit, once the vice presidency is vacated, for either the president to submit a nominee or for Congress to decide on confirmation. In 1973, Congress took 57 days after receiving the nomination to confirm Ford and, in 1974, 121 days to confirm Rockefeller. Throughout both these periods the Speaker was first in the line of presidential succession. In working out the terms of the Twenty-fifth Amendment, the Senate considered but rejected a proposal to set a thirty-day limit to fill a vice presidential vacancy or to require that Congress complete its confirmation review and come to a decision immediately. Speci¬ fying time limits for action was unwise, it was felt, because nomina¬ tions would require varying amounts of review, including the need to conduct a thorough investigation of the nominee's background, activ¬ ities, and record. Any inclination of Congress to exploit an open- ended time period for political advantage would be curbed, it was believed, by the public's expectation that Congress was obligated to finish its confirmation process expeditiously and responsibly. Although this argument for no time limit has merit, the sounder solution is to specify a generous time limit. An excessively long confirmation process could discredit the integrity of Congress's per¬ formance and the legitimacy of its decision. Rather than run the risk of delayed action on confirmation, presidents might choose to confine their nominations to "politically safe" persons who would be expected to arouse little congressional opposition. Similarly, the absence of a time limit provides Congress with an incentive to use the threat of 350 Provisions for the Unexpected confirmation delay as leverage for influencing the president in the selection of the nominee. (Note, in this regard, the persistent rumors in 1974 that some Democratic legislators wanted to hold off Rocke¬ feller's confirmation beyond early November so that Republican can¬ didates in the midterm elections would be deprived of his campaign efforts on their behalf.) On balance, then, it seems sensible to set an adequate time limit—say, ninety days from the date of the presi¬ dent's nomination—for congressional completion of the review process.If Congress failed to act within that time, the nominee would be considered confirmed and would become vice president. To be faithful to the standard of same-party control, anyone not of the president's party should be ineligible to succeed to a vacated presidency. Congress should revise the existing succession statute accordingly: the category of legislative leaders should be omitted (as in the 1886 succession law) or, if retained, it should be broadened to include the leader of the minority party in each chamber. Under the latter arrangement, the Speaker and the House minority leader would have equal successorship standing, with eligibility assigned to the one who belonged to the president's party. While a cabinet line of succession is simpler and probably more appealing politically, it could violate the criterion of same-party control if the president had cho¬ sen an opposition-party member to be secretary of state. Hence even if contingent succession was confined solely to the heads of cabinet departments, eligibility should still be explicitly conditioned on the successor being of the same party as the president. Departures from the principle of same-party control also remain at least theoretically possible with respect to the vice president as the direct or as the first contingent successor. A presidential candidate could nominate, subject to the approval of the party convention, a vice presidential nominee from outside the party. Similarly, a presi¬ dent could choose or could be pressured by Congress to fill a vacated vice presidency with someone not of his party. More worrisome, perhaps, are the procedures mandated by the Constitution to resolve an election in which no candidate has secured a majority of electoral votes. Because the House chooses the president and the Senate the vice president, the possibility arises that the two national officials might be from different parties. Admittedly, such situations are unlikely to occur, but prudence suggests the wisdom of planning for the unexpected. (What odds would have been given on the possibility Selection and Succession 351 that an appointed president and vice president would be in office during the same term?) The troubling examples noted above can be dealt with by requiring that presidential succession by the vice presi¬ dent take place only when it also satisfies the principle of same- party control. Presidential Control of Succession Succession arrangements in the modern era not only have concen¬ trated initial successorship in the vice presidency but also have greatly expanded the president's role in selecting the vice president. In the beginning an incumbent president had no say on successorship because the runner-up presidential candidate was awarded the vice presidency and the contingent successors were legislative leaders. Even after the Twelfth Amendment, which formalized the changed character of the vice presidency, the presidential nominee was only one of many party leaders who participated in the process of desig¬ nating the second member of the ticket. In recent decades, however, the party's candidate for president has come to play a major, often decisive, role in the selection of the vice presidential nominee. Reflecting and reinforcing this practice, the Twenty-fifth Amend¬ ment provides for a presidentially nominated successor vice president. Congress's decision to empower the president to name a successor vice president recognized the unsoundness of imposing on a presi¬ dent a vice president he neither prefers nor perhaps even wants. As a practical matter, it was acknowledged that the president defined the vice president's role in office and, therefore, that the initiative in selection should come from the president, subject to congressional review. Moreover, if presidential successorship were to occur, the chances of having policy continuity and a smooth transition would be strengthened if the successor president had been the choice of the president. Assigning the president the major role in designating his succes¬ sor is desirable because of its fit with the principle of popular sover¬ eignty as well as with the workings of the political system. Succes¬ sion should be understood as filling not a vacant but a vacated office, not as beginning a new, abbreviated term of office but as completing an interrupted term. The departed president represents the most recent popular verdict on the presidency and his successor, therefore. 352 Provisions for the Unexpected should be acceptable to him and sensitive to the policy preferences of his administration. In this sense the best way to approximate a special presidential election is to structure succession in a way that makes more probable the successor's continuation of the president's programs. Assuring the president a dominant role in naming his successor promotes that objective, although it plainly cannot guar¬ antee its achievement. Applying the presidential choice criterion, succession by a con¬ gressional leader (whether or not from the president's party) would be disallowed. So, too, would the selection of a vice president by popular election if that process were not dominated by the presiden¬ tial nominee. As it is, a major party's vice presidential candidate is a junior partner of the standard-bearer, and in effect takes a piggyback ride to victory or defeat in an election that is dominated almost entirely by the presidential race. Requiring the vice presidency to be voted on would set constraints, to be sure, for the presidential nomi¬ nee in choosing a running mate, but the office is not a genuinely elective one in the customary meaning of that term. This criterion also necessitates the rejection of most of the numerous reforms that have been proposed to strengthen the vice presidency. Although their particulars differ, they share the general objective of promoting the independence and authority of the office by reducing its subordinancy to and dependency on the president. One proposal to change the way vice presidents are selected is consistent with the criterion of presidential control and, therefore, merits consideration. Building on the innovation introduced by the Twenty-fifth Amendment and its subsequent application in 1973 and 1974, the proposal would amend the Constitution to convert the vice presidency from an elective to an appointive office, to be filled by the same procedure now used to designate a successor vice presi¬ dent. Presidents thus could choose as vice president someone to help meet their postelection governance needs rather than, as at present, someone to promote the chances of election victory. As a conse¬ quence, it is likely, although far from certain, that the prior record and standing of appointed vice presidents would be superior, on the average, to that of elected vice presidents. The proposal's political feasibility, unfortunately, is much lower than its substantive merits. Its chief political vulnerabilities reflect mistaken notions but because these notions are widely held and Selection and Succession 353 resistant to change they constitute formidable barriers to adoption of the proposal. One notion (emphasized by Truman in his recommen¬ dation to Congress to revise the succession statute) is that for a president to control successorship is repugnant to a democracy. The other (also stressed by Truman) is that presidential successorship offices should be elective, not appointive. If these criticisms were valid, they would dispose of the proposal promptly and negatively. When these two notions are applied to the presidential successor- ship role of the vice president, they support succession by a vice president who was elected but not by one who was appointed. The root error in this judgment is to mistake form for substance. In both cases presidential control is predominant but must be exercised in awareness of the confirmatory role of others. For the elective vice president, the presidential nominee's choice must not offend the convention, fellow partisans, or the voting public. For the appointive vice president, the president's choice must not offend Congress, fel¬ low partisans, or the public. Most fundamentally, the special claim that is made for an elected vice president is hollow because, as indi¬ cated earlier, the election is more nominal than real. From the stand¬ point of popular sovereignty, neither the elected nor the appointed vice president is linked directly to the voters. Both are linked, instead, indirectly through the president who selected them and whom the voters elected. It follows that the successorship standing of an appointed vice president should not be sharply distinguished and downgraded from that of an elected vice president. Whether these arguments could counter the opposition's theme that the vice presi¬ dency should not be removed from popular selection and control is, however, very doubtful. Although the criterion of presidential control ordinarily is but¬ tressed by the principle of popular sovereignty, they conflict on one important matter that is easier to resolve in theory than in practice. The Twenty-fifth Amendment sets no closure, other than the time limit of a fixed four-year term of office, on the possibility of a repeti¬ tive cycle of appointed vice presidents and presidents. Should such a cycle of appointed vice presidents succeeding to a vacated presidency be limited and, if so, in accordance with what principle? Popular sovereignty, expressed through the election of the president, is the appropriate touchstone for sorting out this issue. Anyone whom the elected president has picked to be vice president 354 Provisions for the Unexpected —whether the elected vice president or a subsequently appointed one—is entitled to succeed to a vacated presidency. The situation is theoretically quite different, however, for a successor president and the successor vice president(s) he appoints. Their relationship to the originally elected president is too distant and attenuated for the successor vice president to claim a right to presidential succession on grounds of popular sovereignty. Applied to the events of 1973-74, this position countenances Ford's succession to the presidency but not Rockefeller's right to succeed Ford. The rule, then, should be that multiple successions to a vacated vice presidency, but only one succession to a vacated presidency, would be permitted. The cycle of successor vice presidents—or indeed, of any other officials—serving as president would be stopped at the point when the initial successor president was unable to finish the term. A special presidential election at this point would be required to satisfy the logic of the popular sovereignty position. But the authors of the Twenty-fifth Amendment subordinated popular sovereignty to other concerns when they stipulated that multiple succession was preferable to a special election. Their decision for a successor vice president is thoroughly supportable, and accounts for the absence of limits on a possible continuing cycle of appointive presidents and vice presidents. A Deadlocked Presidential Election The constitutional provisions for resolving a deadlocked election —one in which no presidential or vice presidential candidate has a majority of electoral votes—raise several problems. Two relate to basic characteristics of the process; the other problems involve smaller or more technical matters. The main actors in resolving an electoral vote deadlock are national legislators: the House selects the president and the Senate the vice president. One major defect of the procedure is the purely federal basis of House voting—each state delegation has one vote—that resulted from a political compromise at the Constitutional Conven¬ tion. The obvious remedy is to give greater emphasis to the populis¬ tic principle of representation. The House voting base should be changed to "one legislator, one vote" or, if the interests of the smaller states or of senators must be accommodated to secure Senate sup- Selection and Succession 355 port for revision, the Senate could be included, with both chambers operating by one vote per legislator. Another large problem stems from the absence of agreed-upon decision rules to guide legislators in choosing the president. Should a representative vote for the presidential candidate of his party, or for the candidate with the most popular votes in his district, his state, or in the nation? What role should a legislator's political ambitions, conscience, and policy preferences play in deciding how to vote? However the respective merits of these diverse guidelines are assessed, what is disturbing about the current process is that individual legis¬ lators remain free to base their votes on whatever considerations they wish. This is not an acceptable context for making a critical choice that, in the eyes of the public, must meet high standards of legitimacy in both appearance and substance. It would be better for Congress to operate by an imperfect but uniform decision rule than by no rule at all. It is the newly elected House that selects the president from among the three candidates with the highest electoral votes.Voting is by state delegations, with each state having one vote; an evenly decided delegation casts no vote. A secret ballot is required, and the backing of an absolute majority of the delegations (twenty-six of fifty) is needed for a candidate to win.^^ The Senate, including senators who have not completed their six-year term and those, about one-third of the body, who were just elected, chooses one of the two candidates with the most electoral votes as vice president. Each senator has one vote, and a majority vote (fifty-one of one hundred) is required for election. The initial deadline for House action is January 20, the date of inauguration for the new president and vice president. This leaves about two weeks after Congress officially counts the electoral vote and announces that no presidential or vice presidential candidate has secured the requisite majority of electoral votes. In the event the House is unable to make a presidential choice by January 20, the Twentieth Amendment specifies that the vice president-elect "shall act as President until a President shall have qualified." If the House is able to select a president by the March 4 deadline set by the Twelfth Amendment, he would assume the presidency immediately and the acting president would become vice president. The separation of presidential and vice presidential selection is 356 Provisions for the Unexpected troubling for obvious reasons. The electorate's choice is between paired tickets, which is the appropriate basis, one consistent with the criterion of same-party control. The Constitution's arrangements allow divided party control of the presidency and the first succession post and, if no president is selected, require the Senate to choose a vice president without knowing who the president will be. Consider¬ ation should be given to correcting this defect by requiring the presi¬ dent and vice president to be designated as a team, by majority vote of both the House and the Senate. If neither the House nor the Senate makes its selection by inauguration day, the provisions of the 1947 succession act take effect. To become acting president, however, the House Speaker (or the Sen¬ ate president pro tempore) must relinquish not only his legislative leadership post but his seat in the chamber. Should he not be willing to take on a temporary presidency at that cost, the cabinet line of succession would be used. Note, though, that the only cabinet heads available to become acting president would be the carryovers from the previous administration. Once the Senate selected a vice presi¬ dent, he would immediately displace, of course, any of these contin¬ gent successors as acting president. There needs to he a consistent sequence of subsequent contingent succession whenever the Speaker or someone further down the suc¬ cession line becomes acting president. With but one exception, this has been accomplished. If the Speaker resigns his House seat and becomes acting president, his replacement as Speaker becomes the new contingent successor next in line. If the president pro tempore becomes acting president because the Speaker declined or failed to qualify for that post, he cannot be supplanted by a new Speaker. If the former president pro tempore dies in office as acting president, contingent successorship goes first to the Speaker, if different from the Speaker at the time the president pro tempore became acting president, and then next to the new president pro tempore. However, whenever a cabinet department head becomes acting president because of the absence of a Speaker and president pro tempore, he may be displaced by a subsequently elected Speaker or president pro tempore. This latter "bumping" provision, unlike the others, is inap¬ propriate and should be eliminated.^’ The Twenty-fifth Amendment's provision for filling a vacant vice presidency does not apply if an acting president is in office,- other- Selection and Succession 357 wise, an impossible situation would result. If the vice president¬ elect was acting president, his designation of anyone hut himself as the vice presidential nominee would lead to his transfer of that office to a replacement. If the Speaker (or anyone else further down the contingent succession sequence) was acting president, he would be displaced in the latter role by any newly appointed vice president. And who would the new appointee he? On the one side, congres¬ sional confirmation of one of the two candidates who led in the deadlocked popular election would be unlikely because the Senate already had been unable to muster majority support for either of them. On the other, both the acting president and Congress would be reluctant to designate as vice president someone other than the chief rival in the last election. Plainly, then, a temporarily unoccupied vice presidency would be treated as occupied—as in the instance of a vice president serving as acting president during a period of presi¬ dential disability—under the conditions of resolving an electoral vote deadlock. Presidential Inability The main purpose of the Twenty-fifth Amendment was to handle the problem of presidential inability in office, which had been poorly dealt with in the original Constitution and had remained ever since as a defect in institutional design that required correction. Article II included inability along with other causes of presidential vacancy and stated: "In Case of. . . Inability to discharge the Powers and Duties of the said Office, the Same shall devolve on the Vice Presi¬ dent . . ." Whether "the Same" meant just the powers of the presi¬ dency or the office itself was a critical ambiguity that could be, and was, interpreted either way. Acting President, Not President As earlier discussed, there are good grounds for believing that the Framers intended the vice president's role to be that of an acting president. In the case of the removal, death or resignation of the president, the vice president would serve as president until a special election could be held to choose a new president. In the case of the president's disability, the acting president would return to the vice 358 Provisions for the Unexpected presidency when the disability ended and the president resumed the presidency. When Vice President Tyler succeeded to the vacated pres¬ idency in 1841, however, he established an enduring precedent by claiming the office, with all of its powers, for the remainder of the uncompleted term. Successor presidents followed the Tyler example, and it was explicitly approved by Congress in the 1947 succession law. Since the first part of clause 6 lumped “inability" in with "removal, death or resignation," rather than differentiating that situation from the others, the Tyler precedent could be held to apply in part to presidential inability as well—that is, a vice president would become president, not acting president, for the period that the original presi¬ dent was unable to perform the powers and duties of his office. No vice president was to put this constitutional question to the test, for fear of appearing to be a usurper of the presidency. (Vice President Thomas Marshall, for example, made no effort to assume leadership during the lengthy period of President Wilson's disability.) In the 1950S and 1960s, prompted initially by the three occasions of Presi¬ dent Eisenhower's disability, the president and vice president worked out an agreement providing that the latter would serve as acting president during any period of presidential disability. Entered into between Eisenhower and Nixon, then Kennedy and Johnson, and Johnson and Speaker John McCormack, these agreements had, of course, neither constitutional nor legal standing. Seen against this background, the Twenty-fifth Amendment pro¬ vides a clear resolution of the matter. Presidential inability is prop¬ erly distinguished from the removal, death, or resignation of a presi¬ dent, and the vice president's role is differentiated accordingly. In the case of inability the vice president serves as acting president, and the president returns to office when the period of inability has ended (Sections 3 and 4). When the president has permanently vacated the office, however, "the Vice President shall become President" (Sec¬ tion i). It is no small accomplishment of the Twenty-fifth Amend¬ ment to have put this long-standing problem to rest. The Pivotal Role of the Vice President Section 4 of the Twenty-fifth Amendment treats the most difficult category of disability, which is when the president is unwilling or Selection and Succession 359 unable to declare inability on his own and, therefore, others must make the determination and the declaration. The vice president and a majority of cabinet department heads, taken together, are author¬ ized to make that declaration, after which the vice president would become acting president. When the president later submits a decla¬ ration that his inability has been removed, the same bodies—the vice president (now acting president) and a cabinet majority—may challenge that declaration. If they do, the challenge is referred to Congress, which has twenty-one days to act. Unless more than two- thirds of those present and voting in both chambers vote against the president, he reassumes the presidency and the vice president ceases to be acting president. Section 4 empowers Congress to set up a body in place of the cabinet, and gives the legislators wide latitude in devising whatever substitute they wish. That is not the case, however, with respect to the vice president's role, which is fixed and not subject to congres¬ sional alteration. Without the agreement of the vice president (even if the cabinet was unanimous), no Section 4 declaration of presiden¬ tial inability can be made and no Section 4 challenge to a president's declaration that the disability is ended can be successful. In sum, the vice president is the most important official in the arrangements set by Section 4. The vice president's pivotal role in a Section 4 disability is consis¬ tent with and provides a partial explanation of Congress's decision to require, for the first time, that a vice presidential vacancy be filled (Section 2). Congress thus approved the power of an appointed vice president, like that of an elected vice president, to serve as acting president or as a successor president (Section i). This gives added weight to the recommendation made earlier that a time limit be set for congressional action on an appointed vice presidential nomina¬ tion submitted by the president. In addition, the wisdom of not providing for the disability of a vice president or an acting president should be reconsidered. The Need to Accustom the Public to Disability Situations When considering what to do about presidential inability, the tradi¬ tional worry is how to avoid or contain an aggressively ambitious vice president in collusion with cabinet allies. This is a legitimate 360 Provisions for the Unexpected concern, but to emphasize it too strongly misdirects attention. Real¬ istically, the major problem is not the possible misuse of the disabil¬ ity procedures but rather the failure to use them when appropriate. The chief difficulty to be dealt with is a reluctance to act, not an eagerness to aggrandize. Sections 3 and 4 of the Twenty-fifth Amendment increase the likelihood of inaction because they assign the critical roles in dis¬ puted disability situations to officials who were selected by the pres¬ ident, who are close to him, and who would be the highest govern¬ ment officers during the takeover period. Anxious to protect the president and to avoid any appearance of usurpation, these officials would be intensely disinclined to push for a declaration of inability that the president was unwilling to make on his own. From this perspective, an outside body would be less disposed to inaction and, therefore, would be a more suitable mechanism. This external body also might be relied on, in place of Congress, to determine whether the president should be supported or opposed if his declaration end¬ ing the inability period was challenged. At bottom, however, the resolution of the disability problem depends less on devising apt mechanisms than on ridding the con¬ cept of presidential inability of its profoundly negative connotations. Unless that is accomplished, it is unlikely that either Section 3 or 4 will be used except when there is absolutely no way to escape invok¬ ing it. Consider, in support of that judgment, certain events in the Reagan presidency.^^ On March 20, 1981, President Reagan under¬ went lung surgery to remove a bullet fired by an assassin. Four days later, he had a high fever requiring an examination by bronchoscope, a procedure that necessitated heavy sedation or anesthesia. The lead¬ ers of the White FFouse staff—"the president's men"—considered whether the question of presidential inability should be raised for cabinet discussion and decided against it. They reasoned that disclo¬ sure of the cabinet's attention to that subject would heighten media and public concern about the president's capacities and health. They also feared that a review of the situation by the cabinet and the vice president might result in their urging the president to declare his temporary inability under Section 3 or, if he was unwilling to do that, in their having to consider whether they were obligated by Section 4 to make such a declaration themselves. In sum, no serious discussion by any officials other than the White House staff took place on the question of Reagan's temporary incapacity. Selection and Succession 3 G 1 Neither the thinking of President Reagan's staffers nor their "thwarting" of Sections 3 and 4 should surprise anyone. As long as an announcement of presidential inability is seen primarily as a threat to the stability and strength of the administration and the nation itself, it will be invoked only when such action literally can¬ not be avoided. It follows that if presidential inability is to be used for anything other than the most extreme situations, efforts to revise its present connotations must be undertaken. As part of such efforts, presidents should try to routinize the per¬ ception of inability by using Section 3 to declare their own disability for short periods of time when they are temporarily ill. To be sure, this strategy runs the risk of trivializing the concept of inability, and hence must be used advisedly. It would promote the understanding, however, that brief periods of presidential inability, in which the vice president serves as acting president, are normal occurrences that pose no threat to the stability of the government. As a side benefit, the stature of the vice president would be enhanced by his highly visible service as acting president. Admittedly, there is little reason to suppose that future presidents would be willing to follow the strategy here proposed. It seems clear, nonetheless, that the disability arrangements established by the Twenty-fifth Amendment will remain paper solutions for the most part until the idea of disability is defanged. Death of the Winning Presidential Candidate Since the presidential and vice presidential candidates who win the November election are not inaugurated until more than two months later, succession provisions are needed in the event either dies during that period. Congress was empowered by the Twentieth Amendment (1933) to set succession arrangements to cover that situation, but it has taken no action to date. As a consequence, some problems exist that deserve solution. Suppose, to illustrate one such problem, that the November presi¬ dential election victor died before the members of the electoral col¬ lege were able to cast their votes in December. Under the rules of the major parties, the national committee would select a replacement; the Republican rules also allow the committee to call a new conven¬ tion for that purpose.^'’ In making its choice, the party body would be under no legal obligation to make its vice presidential winner the 3G2 Provisions for the Unexpected successor; it would be free to choose whom it wants. Since the electors are constitutionally authorized to vote as they wish, no legal problem would be raised by their voting for the person named by the party's national committee. This arrangement does obvious violence to the norm of popular sovereignty. In theory, a new presidential election should be held, but this would require a lengthy period for the nominating and campaign stages that would extend well beyond the scheduled start of the four-year term in January. The most practical solution, therefore, is to mandate that the vice presidential winner be designated. After his inauguration as president he would fill the vacant vice presidency as directed by the Twenty-fifth Amendment. Congress could accom¬ plish this change by statute, implementing its authority under the Twentieth Amendment. Indeed, even if the present arrangement is left intact. Congress should give it the standing of a law rather than letting it remain merely a party rule. To take another category of special situations, suppose that the November presidential winner died during the period after the elec¬ toral college cast its vote and before Congress officially counted that vote. There are two positions on the question of whether Congress should count electoral votes for a dead candidate.These positions produce very different results and, paradoxically, it is the seemingly weaker one—that Congress should count such votes—that leads to the outcome that is greatly to be preferred. Consider what follows from the proposition that Congress should refuse or is forbidden to count the electoral votes cast for the deceased presidential winner. The presidential election is deadlocked because no live candidate can have a majority of electoral votes, and, under the Twelfth Amendment, it is then referred to the House for resolu¬ tion. The House's choice is confined to the three candidates with the most electoral votes. However, since it is almost inconceivable that someone from the deceased candidate's party would place within the ranks of the remaining three contestants, the House's selection could not help but contradict the voters' election decision and violate the standard of same-party control. It would be better, therefore, that the House not choose the president at all. This would allow the vice president-elect to become acting president on January 20 and presi¬ dent on March 4, after which he would submit his nominee for congressional confirmation as vice president. Selection and Succession 363 In contrast, the succession consequences of the alternative posi¬ tion are simple and direct, and they accomplish the desired objective without the risk of serious pitfalls along the way. If Congress counts the electoral votes cast for the dead victorious candidate, he would be declared president-elect and the provisions of the Twentieth Amendment would become immediately applicable. The vice president-elect would become president on January 20 and then, in accordance with the Twenty-fifth Amendment, would designate his vice president, subject to congressional review and confirmation. Congress, accordingly, should put an end to the possible confusion by embodying this position in appropriate legislation. The third category of special situations arises with the death of the president-elect after Congress has counted the electoral vote in early January but before inauguration on January 20. The succession arrangements that apply in this case are clear, straightforward, and present no problems. The Twentieth Amendment comes into play, and the vice president-elect becomes president on inauguration day. In the event that there is no vice president-elect, the line of succes¬ sion set by the 1947 act is activated. Once in office, the president would fulfill the requirement of the Twenty-fifth Amendment by nominating a successor vice president. Political Feasibility Securing revision of the modes of presidential selection that cover the various special situations will be no easy job. The issue's salience to Congress is low, and that body's attention to such matters gener¬ ally has been fitful and brief. Neither the public nor the media has exhibited much concern and even good-government groups that seek to improve the political process have not shown interest in the prob¬ lems in this area. Given the predisposition of the political system to produce reactive rather than preventive policy, the chances of mov¬ ing these matters to the front burner appear low. The relatively few changes that require amending the Constitu¬ tion are especially handicapped in the effort to gain adoption because of the difficulty of that process and the disinclination of legislators to go the amendment route unless the issue is of major importance and urgent to resolve. Thus, for example, even if Congress were to agree that the Twenty-fifth Amendment would be improved by set- 3B4 Provisions for the Unexpected ting a time limit for congressional confirmation of a successor vice president, the change would likely not be seen as significant or press¬ ing enough in its own right to warrant a constitutional amendment. This same constraint partially explains Congress's failure to adopt two changes in presidential election procedures that, taken by them¬ selves, do enjoy widespread backing. One change would end the possibility of electors voting for someone other than their party's candidates by legally obligating them to do so or by eliminating the post of elector (while retaining the electoral vote system). The other change would repeal the provision for state voting equality in the House when it must select a president because of a deadlocked elec¬ tion, and substitute a one-vote-per-legislator standard. Since few elec¬ tors have been "faithless" and no deadlocked election has occurred since 1824, neither problem has been considered sufficiently grave or compelling to merit a constitutional amendment. There is a deeper reason for congressional inaction on these two changes, aptly stated in the perceptive political maxim that lesser change is the enemy of greater change. Disagreement on the larger issue of what presidential election method is most appropriate has prevented Congress from cleaning up widely recognized deficiencies in the present system. In considering whether to correct those defects, legislators plausibly assume that no more than one constitutional amendment on the subject will be enacted and that its terms will fix the method of presidential election for the indefinite future. In such circumstances, to enact the two moderate changes under discussion would be an implicit rejection of major change, such as direct national election. These constitutional amendments will be ripe for congres¬ sional adoption, then, only when two-thirds of each chamber is satisfied that a more extensive revision or replacement of the elec¬ toral college system is not called for. Changes that can be accomplished by statute face, of course, less formidable barriers to enactment. Most of the recommendations advanced in this essay are adoptable by Congress as legislation. For example. Congress has the authority to reconfigure the line of con¬ tingent succession to make it fully consistent with the criterion of same-party control. Congress also can mandate that the victorious vice presidential candidate take the place of the presidential winner who dies before the electoral college meets. The difficulty in secur¬ ing these laws is, as earlier noted, the lack of interest that customar¬ ily characterizes this kind of issue. Selection and Succession 3G5 Recent history suggests how such indifference might, on occasion, be countered. It was Truman's status as a successor president that led him to recommend the alteration of contingent succession, to which Congress responded favorably in part. New interest in the old prob¬ lem of presidential disability was initially provoked by Eisenhower's several periods of illness, and Senator Birch Bayh later provided the leadership that led to congressional adoption of the Twenty-fifth Amendment. Attention to electoral reform was rekindled by the close elections of i960, 1968, and 1976, and by the deliberate attempt of third-party candidate George Wallace to deadlock the 1968 election. Again supplying the requisite legislative leadership. Senator Bayh twice led an unsuccessful drive to adopt direct national election of the president, first in 1969-70 and later in 1977-79. These examples indicate that a triggering event, in combination with committed leaders who propose solutions to what has sud¬ denly become recognized as a genuine and important problem, can overcome inattention and bring about serious congressional consid¬ eration of proposals to improve the political process. The same com¬ bination could occur with respect to the problems discussed in this chapter. Notes 3 Changing International Stakes in Presidential Selection 1 The Economist 257, November i, 1980, 19. 2 Quoted in Time 60, November 10, 1952, 32-33. 3 New York Times, October 26, 1980, pt. 4, p. 5. 4 Ibid., October 31, 1984, A21. 5 Sanford I. Ungar, "The Presidency: Views from Abroad," TWA Ambassador 17 (October i984);7S-8i. Reporting recent surveys of Japanese public opinion, Wil¬ liam Watts comments on the large quantity of media coverage given to American affairs: "Television news programs give such material top billing almost as a matter of course. Radio does the same. The major dailies feature massive cover¬ age of the American scene." The United States and Japan. A Troubled Partner¬ ship (Cambridge, Mass.: Ballinger, 1984), 97. See, more generally, Barry Rubin, How Others Report Us, The Washington Papers, vol. 1, no. 8 (Beverly Hills, Calif.: Sage Publications, 1979). 6 James W Markham, "Foreign News in the United States and South American Press," Public Opinion Quarterly 25 (Summer 19611:249—62. 7 L. J. Martin, "Analysis of Newspaper Coverage of the United States in the Near East, North Africa and South Asia," United States Information Agency, Report R 2-76, January 22, 1976. 8 Wall Street Journal, October 31, 1984, 30. 9 Peter Temin, The Jacksonian Economy (New York: W W Norton, 1969). 10 I argue this point at considerable length in American Imperialism, A Speculative Essay (New York: Atheneum, 1968). See also Robert Kelley, The Transatlantic Persuasion (New York: Alfred A, Knopf, 1969). 11 See Durand Echeverria, Mirage in the West, A History of the French Image of American Society to 1815 (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1957); Horst Dippel, Germany and the American Revolution (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1977); and David Paul Crook, American Democracy in English Politics, 1815-1850 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1965). Notes 367 12 See Frederick Merk, The Oregon Question (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard Univer¬ sity Press, 1967); Wilbur D. Jones, The American Problem in British Diplomacy. r84r-i86r (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1974); Alan Dowry, The Limits of American Isolation: The United States and the Crimean War (New York: New York University Press, 1971); David Paul Crook, The North, the South, and the Powers, i86r-r86s (New York: John Wiley and Sons, 1974); Otto, Graf zu Stolberg- Wemigerode, Germany and the United States of America during the Era of Bismarck (Philadelphia: Henry Janssen Foundation, 1937); and Ernest R. May, Imperial Democracy, The Emergence of the United States as a Great Power (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1961). 13 See David Fewtrell, The Soviet Economic Crisis (London: International Institute for Strategic Studies, 1983). 14 James Bryce, The American Commonwealth, 3d ed., vol. i (New York: Macmil¬ lan, 1907), ch. 8; Aron in II Giornale, quoted in Christian Science Monitor, September 15, 1983, 23. 15 Christian Science Monitor, July ii, 1980, 3. 16 Ibid., January 31, 1984, 7. 17 Russell W Howe and Sarah H. Trott, The Power Peddlers: How Lobbyists Mold America's Foreign Policy (Garden City, N.Y: Doubleday, 1977), 6. 18 James N. Rosenau, National Leadership and Foreign Policy (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1963) is the basic analytic work. Joan S. Black, "Opin¬ ion Leaders: Is Anyone Following?," Public Opinion Quarterly (Summer 19821:169-76; and Robert W Oldeneck and Barbara Ann Bardes, "Mass and Elite Foreign Policy Opinion," Public Opinion Quarterly (Fall 19821:368-82, offer amendments and updated guidance to the literature. 19 Ungar, "The Presidency," 76. 20 Newsweek 40, November 17, 1952, 44-46. 21 When the government began tracking immigrants in 1908, it found that about one-third did not stay. The available data appear in House Committee on the Judiciary, Study of Population and Immigration Problems, 88th Cong., ist sess., pt. 1-17. 22 The Foreign Agents Registration Act of 1938 made illegal any contributions by or onbehalfof "foreign principals" if "the principal purpose . . . is aiding to influence legislation by direct communication with members of Congress." Its applicabil¬ ity to presidential campaign contributions was never raised or tested. On Septem¬ ber 30, 1974, in the second session of the 93d Congress, Representative Holtzman proposed HR 16946, forbidding US. citizens to contribute to foreign elections. On January 14, 1975, in the first session of the 94th Congress, the Judiciary Committee reported out the bill that ultimately passed. Meanwhile, the Foreign Agents Registration Act had been amended to substitute "foreign national" for "agents of foreign principals." In addition to the Congressional Record, see US. Department of Justice, The Foreign Agents Registration Act of ig f8 as Amended, and the Rules and Regulations prescribed by the attorney general. 368 Notes 4 Learning to Govern or Learning to Campaign? 1 See Paul Taylor, "Kemp and Gephardt: Image-Building m Iowa," Washington Post, March 17, 1986, National Weekly Edition, 6. 2 For convenience, the political head of government in a European parliamen¬ tary system is described as the prime minister, although constitutional as well as linguistic differences inevitably produce a variety of titles. For differences between different national political leaders m Europe, see Richard Rose and Ezra Suleiman, eds.. Presidents and Prime Ministers (Washington, D.C.: Ameri¬ can Enterprise Institute, 1980) and Richard Rose, The Presidency in Compar¬ ative Perspective, University of Strathclyde, Studies in Public Policy, no. 130 (Glasgow, 1984). 3 Richard E. Neustadt, Presidential Power (New York; John Wiley, 1960); George C. Edwards III, Presidential Influence in Congress (San Francisco: W H. Freeman, 1980). 4 lean-Claude Colliard, Les Regimes Parlementaires Contemporains (Paris: Presses de la Fondation Nationale des Sciences Politiques, 1978). 5 Richard Rose, "British Government: The lob at the Top," in Rose and Suleiman, Presidents and Prime Ministers, table 1.2. 6 See, for example, Martin P. Wattenberg, The Decline of American Political Par¬ ties 19^2-1980 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1984). 7 Cesare Merlini, ed.. Economic Summits and Western Decision-Making (New York: St. Martin's Press, 1984); Robert D. Putnam and Nicholas Bayne, Hanging Together: The Seven-Power Summits (London: Heinemann, 1984). 8 See Richard Rose, "Can the President Steer the American Economy?" Journal of Public Policy 5 no. 2 (i985);267—80, and the books reviewed therein, such as lames Pfiffner, ed.. The President and Economic Policy (Philadelphia: Institute for the Study of Human Issues, 1986). 9 Richard Rose, "The Making of Cabinet Ministers," British Journal of Political Science 1 no. 4 (i97i):393-4i4. Experience of ministries does not depoliticize politicians; they continue to practice the arts of political management; see Rich¬ ard Rose, Ministers and Ministries: A Functional Analysis (Oxford, Clarendon Press, forthcoming). 10 Nevil lohnson. Government in the Federal Republic of Germany: The Executive at Work (Oxford: Pergamon Press, 1973); Renate Mayntz and Fritz Scharpf, Policymaking in the German Federal Bureaucracy {Amsterdam: Elsevier, 1975)- 11 Ezra Suleiman, Politics, Power and Bureaucracy in France (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1974); I -L. Bodiguel and f.-L. Quermonne, La Haute Fonction Publique sous la Ve Republique (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1983). 12 For an attempt to link popular support with policymaking, see Dermis Simon and Charles Ostrom, "The President and Public Support: A Strategic Perspec¬ tive," in G. C. Edwards III, S. A. Shull, and N. C. Thomas, eds.. The Presidency and Public Policy Making (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1985), 50-70. 13 George P. Shultz and Kenneth W Dam, Economic Policy Beyond the Headlines (New York: W W Norton, 1978), 2. Notes 389 14 Kristen R. Monroe, Presidential Popularity and the Economy (New York: Praeger, 1984). 15 Cf. Nelson Polsby, Consequences of Party Reform (New York: Oxford University Press, 1983), and Austin Ranney "The President and his Party," in A. S. King, ed., Both Ends of the Avenue (Washington, D.C.: American Enterprise Institute), i48ff. 16 Carl Baar and Ellen Baar, "Party and Convention Organization and Leadership Selection in Canada and the United States," In D. R. Matthews, ed.. Perspectives on Presidential Selection (Washington, D.C.: Brookings Institution, 1973), 49-84. 17 Cf. Richard Rose and T. T. Mackie, "Do Parties Persist or Disappear? The Big Trade-off Facing Organizations," in Kay Lawson and Peter Merkl, eds., When Parties Fail (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, forthcoming). 18 That reform was concerned more with the social representativeness of delegates (that is, by race or gender) rather than with the electoral representativeness of the electorate; Austin Ranney, Curing the Cause of Faction: Party Reform in America (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1975). 5 The Linkage of Policy to Participation 1 Seymour Martin Lipset cites increased participation in Germany during the 1930s as an example of high voter turnout signaling a breakdown of democratic proce¬ dures,- Lipset, Political Man: The Social Bases of Politics (Garden City, N.Y: Doubleday, i960), 32. Similarly, Samuel Huntington views the "democratic surge" that occurred in the United States during the 1960s and 1970s—mass-based, non¬ voting activities in particular—as a symptom of social conflict that created prob¬ lems of governance, in "The Democratic Distemper," in Nathan Glazer and Irving Kristol, eds., The American Commonwealth rg76 (New York: Basic Books, 1976), especially pp. 15 and 37. Others who have argued that political apathy contributes to the political stability of a democratic system include Bernard Berelson, Paul Lazarsfeld, and William McPhee, Voting (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1954), ch. 14; Henry B. Mayo, An Introduction to Democratic Theory (New York: Oxford University Press, i960), 124; and Gabriel A. Almond and Sidney Verba, The Civic Culture: Political Attitudes and Democracy in Five Nations (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1963), 343. 2 Austin Ranney speaks most eloquently for this point of view. See "Nonvoting Is Not a Social Disease," Public Opinion 6 (October/November 19831:16-19. 3 Election surveys reveal that the participation of nonvoters would not have reversed final election results because nonvoters, being most susceptible to immediate tides of opinion, favor winning candidates even more than actual voters do. If they were to vote, they would exaggerate the choices of the regular electorate, increasing the winning candidates' majority. This pattern holds for every presi¬ dential election since 1952 except 1980. See [ohn R. Petroeik, "Voter Turnout and Electoral Preference: The Anomalous Reagan Elections" (Paper presented at the Thomas P. O'Neill, In, Symposium in American Politics, Boston College, Chest¬ nut Hill, Mass., October 3-5, 1985)- The size of the active electorate probably exerts a more powerful effect on the final outcomes of sub-presidential elections and presidential primaries. 370 Notes 4 Benjamin Barber, Strong Democracy: Participatory Politics for a New Age (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984). 5 "Agenda for Action" (Summary report of the Harvard-ABc Symposium on Ameri¬ can Voter Participation, Washington, D.C., October i, 1983), i. 6 George Will, "In Defense of Nonvoting," Newsweek, October 10, 1983, 96. 7 Lipset, Political Man, iki. 8 One study argues that the views of politically active and inactive citizens are quite different; another questions that conclusion. See Sidney Verba and Norman H. Nie, Participation in America (New York: Harper and Row, 1972), ch. 15; Raymond E. Wolfinger and Stephen J. Rosenstone, Who Votesl (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1980), 108-14. However murky the evidence, there is less inconsistency between these seemingly contradictory conclusions than may first appear. Neither voters nor nonvoters are homogeneous groups. Because each group contains a diverse collection of individuals, it is difficult to discover a distinctive set of policy views for either group as a whole. Further, since the greatest difference between voters and nonvoters is their social status, the two groups tend to hold different views on policy questions most closely related to social status, and more similar views on other kinds of issues. 9 Verba and Nie, Participation in America, ch. 17 — 19. 10 The material presented here on voter turnout is a revised version of Gary R. Orren and Sidney Verba, "American Voter Participation: The Shape of the Problem" (Paper delivered at the Harvard-ABC Symposium on American Voter Participa¬ tion, Washington, D.C., September 10—October 2, 1983). 11 Determining the proportion of Americans who vote is not as straightforward as one may expect. Voter turnout estimates differ from source to source depending on whether aliens, overseas military personnel, and institutionalized persons are included in the voting age population. The turnout estimates reported in figure 5.1 were calculated by Walter Dean Burnham. Unlike conventional estimates, which divide by the total voting age population (since 1972, those age eighteen and over), these estimates are based on the voting age citizen population, which excludes aliens and the institutionalized population. Such adjustments yield slightly higher turnout rates. For example, as a percentage of the total voting age population, voter turnout was 52.6 in 1980 and 53.3 in 1984, an increase of 0.7 percent. By comparison, the turnout for the citizen voting age population was 54.3 m 1980 and 55.2 in 1984, a rise of 0.9 percent. I am grateful to Professor Burnham for generously providing his estimates. 12 See Paul Kleppner, Who Votedl The Dynamics of Voter Turnout, 1870-1980 (New York: Praeger, 1982), 17-19. 13 This decline m voter turnout in presidential elections was mirrored in nonpresi- dential contests. With the exception of the 1942 wartime vote, turnout in mid¬ term congressional elections steadily increased from 1926 to 1962. It declined from 1966 until 1982, which showed the first increase in sixteen years. Turnout in gubernatorial elections also has declined in these years, as has turnout in municipal elections. 14 According to Burnham's calculations, the lowest turnout in non-Southern states was recorded m 1980 (56.6 percent). The next lowest turnouts came in the two Notes 371 elections that followed the enfranchisement of women, 1920 (57.3 percent) and 1924 (57.5), and then in the 1984 election (57.8). 15 Most of the data reported in the following pages for population subgroups (blacks, whites, women, etc.) were compiled from the Census Bureau's Current Popula¬ tion Surveys. Like all surveys, these report an inflated turnout rate. The inflation is fairly uniform from year to year: 6.1 percentage points in 1964, 5.5 in 1968, 7.0 in 1972, 4.2 in 1976, 6.6 in 1980, and 6.6 in 1984. Despite this discrepancy between reported and actual votes cast, the census data yield useful comparisons among subgroups of the population. 16 The racial gap in voter registration also narrowed in 1984. According to the Census Bureau, white registration increased only one percentage point between 1980 and 1984, while the rate for blacks climbed 6 percent. For young blacks (between eighteen and thirty-four) there was a 10 percent increase in registration. 17 Verba and Nie, Participation in America, 157; Wolfinger and Rosenstone, Who Votes!, 90. 18 If persons identified as noncitizens are excluded, the Hispanic turnout rate is 48 percent, according to the Census Bureau. 19 In fact, except for Alaska, the only states to show an increase in turnout between i960 and 1984 were Southern states. This contrast between the South and the rest of the nation also is seen in midterm congressional elections since 1962. 20 Harold W. Stanley, "The Political Impact of Electoral Mobilization: The South and Universal Suffrage, 1952-1980" (Paper delivered at the annual meeting of the American Political Science Association, New York, 1981), 3. 21 The internal dynamics of this shift are interesting. While women age fifty-five and over continue to vote at a rate lower than men of that age, women below age fifty-five have a higher turnout rate than their male counterparts. Older women are typically less educated than women in younger cohorts and were politically socialized at a time when politics was considered the province of men. Wolfinger and Rosenstone have concluded that "nearly all the difference in turnout between older men and women is due to other demographic variables" and "generational differences in political socialization." Presumably, as this older cohort of women moves out of the population, turnout differences between men and women over fifty-five will diminish if not disappear altogether. See Wolfinger and Rosenstone, Who Votes!, 42-43. 22 Richard W Boyd, "Decline of US. Voter Turnout: Structural Explanations," Amer¬ ican Politics Quarterly 9 (April I98i):i33; and Stephen D. Schaffer, "A Multivari¬ ate Explanation of Decreasing Turnout in Presidential Elections, 1960-76," Amer¬ ican lournal of Political Science 25 (February i 98 i): 79 - 23 David Glass, Peverill Squire, and Raymond Wolfinger, "Voter Turnout: An Inter¬ national Comparison," Public Opinion 6 (December/January 19841:49-55. 24 Sidney Verba, Norman Nie and fae-on Kim, Participation and Political Equality: A Seven-Nation Comparison (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978), 7 5 - A recent study based on survey data from twenty democracies adds support to this conclusion. It reports that socioeconomic status has far greater predictive value. G. Bingham Powell, fr., "American Voter Turnout in Comparative Per¬ spective" (Paper presented at a conference on "Where Have All the Voters Gone?," 372 Notes University of Chicago, April 26-28, 1984), 25 Verba and Nie, Participation in America, 79-80. The remaining 7 percent were unclassifiable according to their typology. 26 Angus Campbell, Philip Converse, Warren Miller, and Donald Stokes, The Amer¬ ican Voter (New York: John Wiley and Sons, 1964), 50. 27 Samuel Barnes, et al.. Political Action (Beverly Hills, Calif.: Sage Publications, 1979); Verba, Nie, and Kim, Participation and Political Equality, 58-59; and Powell, "American Voter Turnout," 4—5. 28 See Richard Brody, "The Puzzle of Political Participation in America," in Anthony King, ed.. The New Political System (Washington, D.C.: American Enterprise Institute, 1978), 318. 29 Rosita Maria Thomas, "Public Funding Through the Federal Income Tax Check- Off Option," in Campaign Finance Study Group, Financing Presidential Cam¬ paigns: An Examination of the Ongoing Effects of the Federal Campaign Laws Upon the Conduct of Presidential Campaigns (Institute of Politics, Kennedy School of Government, Harvard University, January 1982); Internal Revenue Ser¬ vice, Department of the Treasury, Annual Report of the Commissioner and Chief Counsel, September 30, 1984. 30 The number of adults writing letters to public officials increased from 17 percent (1964), to 20 percent (1968), to 27 percent (1972), to 28 percent (1976). Warren E. Miller, Arthur H. Miller, and Edward J. Schneider, American National Election Studies Data Sourcebook, 1952-/97^ (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1980), 305. 31 Figures from committee reports of the House of Representatives quoted in Michael J. Robinson and Margaret A. Sheehan, Over the Wire and on TV: CBS and UPI in Campaign ’80 (New York: Russell Sage Foundation, 1983), 267. 32 Alexis de Tocqueville, Democracy in America, vol. i (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1945), 198. 33 Allan J. Cigler and Burdett A. Loomis, "The Changing Nature of Interest Group Politics," in Allan J. Cigler and Burdett A. Loomis, eds.. Interest Group Politics (Washington, D.C.: Congressional Quarterly Press, 1983), ii. 34 Most groups report having used grass roots lobbying efforts and letter writing campaigns—methods that involve the direct participation of individual citizens — more than in previous years. See Ronald J. Hrebenar and Ruth K. Scott, Interest Group Politics in America (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1982), 9; Jack L. Walker, "The Origins and Maintenance of Interest Groups in America," Ameri¬ can Political Science Review ti (June 19831:390-406; Kay Schlozman and John Tierney "More of the Same: Washington Pressure Group Activity in a Decade of Change," Journal of Politics 45 (May 19831:351-77; Michael Hays, "Interest Groups: Pluralism or Mass Society?," in Cigler and Loomis, Interest Group Poli¬ tics, 113; Public Affairs Research Group, Public Affairs Offices and Their Functions (Boston University School of Management, 1981I; "pacs: Vital Force m Politics," in Dollar Politics, 3d ed. (Washington, D.C.: Congressional Quarterly Press, 1982I, 43; 1985 data on pacs from the Federal Election Commission. 35 Verba and Nie, Participation in America, 132; Verba, Nie, and Kim, Political Equality, ch. 7. Qne mode of political activity, individual contacting, is not corre- Notes 373 lated with social status. Higher-status citizens are not more inclined to write letters to public officials than lower-status citizens. 36 Kay L. Schlozman, "What Accent the Heavenly Chorus? Political Equality and the American Pressure System," fournal of Politics 46 (November 19841:1006-32. 37 James Q. Wilson, Political Organizations (New York: Basic Books, r973); and David Truman, The Governmental Process (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1971). 38 Cigler and Loomis, Interest Group Politics, 11 —20; Schlozman and Tierney, "More of the Same," 368-71; and Walker, "Interest Groups in America," 29-31. 39 A book-length review of the political science literature on the determinants of voter turnout is Lester W Milbrath and M. L. Goel, Political Participation: How and Why People Get Involved in Politics (Chicago: Rand McNally, 1977). A brief summary of that literature appears in Orren and Verba, "American Voter Partici¬ pation," 13-16. 40 Turnout actually "bottomed out" in 1924, but reached a "normal" level of 60 percent in 1936. 41 Walter Dean Burnham attributes the turnout decline to changes in the party system, in particular to the political realignment of 1894-96, which diffused partisan competition and eroded the links between political parties and social groups. Philip Converse and Jerrold Rusk trace the decline to changes in the way elections were conducted—the introduction of the Australian (secret) ballot, rigid new registration requirements, and deliberately discriminatory barriers such as literacy tests imposed in the South. While it is difficult to say which set of factors was more important, it is clear that both contributed to the decline. Walter Dean Burnham, "The Changing Shape of the American Political Uni¬ verse," American Political Science Review 59 (March 19651:7-28; Philip E. Con¬ verse, "Change in the American Electorate," in Angus Campbell and Philip Con¬ verse, eds.. The Human Meaning of Social Change (New York: Russell Sage, 1972); Jerrold G. Rusk, "The Effect of the Australian Ballot on Split-Ticket Voting: 1876-1908," American Political Science Review 64 (December 19701:1220-38; and Jerrold G. Rusk, "Comment: The American Electoral Universe: Speculation and Evidence," American Political Science Review 68 (September 1974): 1028-49. 42 On age see Wolfingerand Rosenstone, Who Votesl, 37-60; Richard Boyd, "Decline of Voter Turnout," 133; Schaffer, "Decreasing Turnout," 68-95, especially pp. 79, 90, 92. On civic attitudes see Almond and Verba, Civic Culture; Paul R. Abramson and John H. Aldrich, "The Decline of Electoral Participation in Amer¬ ica," American Political Science Review 76 (September 19821:502-21. On parti¬ sanship see Campbell, Converse, Miller, and Stokes, American Voter, 5-55; Verba and Nie, Participation in America, ch. 12; Abramson and Aldrich; and Verba, Nie, and Kim, Political Equality, ch. 8. 43 Compared with other democracies, the American attitudinal environment is quite favorable to citizen participation. It should facilitate, not impair voting. Powell, "American Voter Turnout," 4-5. Glass, Squire, and Wolfinger cite such comparative evidence to show that attitudes cannot be a major explanation for Americans' lower turnout. Glass et al., "Voter Turnout," 49-51- 44 For example, Powell finds in his cross-national study that although American political attitudes and demogi iphic characteristics (with the exception of the age 374 Notes structure) lead one to expect higher levels of voting in the United States com¬ pared to other democracies, institutional factors—the legal context, partisan¬ ship, and party organization—inhibit voting here. Powell, "American Voter Turn¬ out," 2-15. 45 There are signs that the nearly two decade decline in public confidence may be turning up. Arthur Miller, "Is Confidence Rebounding?," Public Opinion 6 (June/ July 1983): 16-20. 46 See Nelson W Polsby, Consequences of Party Reform (New York: Oxford Univer¬ sity Press, 1983). 47 Wolfinger and Rosenstone, Who Votes?, 103. 48 Harvard-ABC "White Paper," 51. 49 Richard Smolka, "Can Sunday Voting Make a Difference?" (Paper presented at the Harvard-ABC Symposium on American Voter Participation, Washington, D.C., September 30-October 2, 1983), i. 50 "King Holiday Cost Estimated at $7.5b," Boston Globe. 51 Two other changes have been proposed to make it easier to vote on election day. The sheer frequency of elections doubtless depresses turnout. Increasingly, elec¬ tions for different offices are held on different election days. Therefore, some have suggested that elections be consolidated on fewer days. Such a reform would require state-by-state action, and adoption would be difficult. In most states elections for different offices have been deliberately separated for political rea¬ sons, and an effort to reverse this trend would meet stiff resistance. The second change is voting by mail. A few states, particularly Oregon, have experimented with this technique in local elections, mostly for school bond issues. Again, such a reform must be adopted state by state. At least for now, this is not an answer to the problem of nonvoting m presidential elections. 52 See Paul Weaver, "Captives of Melodrama," New York Times Sunday Magazine, August 29, 1976, 98, 107— II; and Robinson and Sheehan, Over the Wire. 53 Michael J. Robinson, "Improving Election Information in the Media" (Presented at the Harvard-ABC Symposium on American Voter Participation, Washington, D.C., September 30-October 2, 1983), 1-3. Also see his "Television and American Politics: 1956-1976," The Public Interest (Summer i977):3-39, which develops the argument that television has fostered public cynicism and alienation. 54 After the i960 election, Barry Goldwater introduced legislation to prohibit the broadcast of presidential returns until midnight. Ironically, four years later one network declared Lyndon Johnson the victor over Goldwater long before the California polls closed. In 1972, West Coast polls were open several hours after two networks projected Nixon the winner. Again legislation was introduced to curb the early forecasting but none was enacted. 5 5 Paul Wilson, "Election Night 1980 and the Controversy Over Early Projection," m William C. Adams, ed.. Television Coverage of the 1980 Presidential Campaign (Norwood, N.J.: Ablex Publishing, 1983), 148-57; Jonathan Friendly, "Exit Polls of Voters Pose Question of News vs. Effect on Elections," New York Times, December 20, 1983, A22. 56 For example, on the nbc seven o'clock news on Tuesday, April 3: "In New York, where the polls are still open. Mondale appears to be winning by a decisive Notes 375 margin. Interviews with voters leaving the polling places indicate that Mondale is the first choice of most groups." Quoted in "Democracy Enlarged; Also Pol¬ luted," New York Times, April 5, 1984, A22. 57 John E. Jackson, "Election Night Reporting and Voter Turnout," American Jour¬ nal of Political Science 27 (November i983):6i5 —35. Other studies have found evidence of declines in turnout attributable to network television broadcasts, including: Phillip L. Dubois, "Election Night Projections and Voter Turnout in the West: A Note on the Hazards of Aggregate Data Analysis," American Politics Quarterly ii (July 19831:349-63; Raymond Wolfinger and Peter Linquiti, "Tun¬ ing In and Turning Out," Public Opinion 4 (February/March 19811:56-60; and Michael X. Delli Carpini, "Scooping the Voters? The Consequences of the Net¬ works' Early Call of the 1980 Presidential Race," Journal of Politics 46 (August 19841:866-85. The three latter studies estimate smaller effects than Jackson does, generally in the 2 to 3 percent range. 58 Wilson, "Election Night 1980," 152. Those who have argued that an association between early projections and voter turnout has not yet been clearly established include Laurily Epstein and Gerald Strom, "Election Night Projections and West Coast Turnout," American Politics Quarterly 9 (April 19811:479-91, and "Survey Research and Election Night Projections," Public Opinion 7 (February/March 19841:48-50; and Percy H. Tannenbaum and Leslie J. Kostrich, Turned-On TV/Turned-Off Voters (Beverly Hills, Calif.: Sage Publications, 1983I, especially pp. 82-84. 59 The chance that an individual's single vote will affect the final results is minis¬ cule, yet individual citizens receive the benefits of an electoral verdict whether or not they vote. See Anthony Downs, An Economic Theory of Democracy (New York: Harper and Row, 1957I. 60 Quoted in Albert Cantril, "Election Projections: The Unanswered Question," letter to editor. New York Times, December 28, 1983, A22. 61 Federal District Judge Jack Tanner found the Washington state law unconstitu¬ tional since exit polling "is not disruptive to peace, order, and decorum and therefore is not subject to regulation" {Daily Herald v. Munroe). The state of Washington appealed the ruling to the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals. 62 There is no evidence yet that early projections have affected the outcomes of presidential elections, although that would be possible, of course, in a close contest. There are signs, however, that turnout depressed by television projec¬ tions has altered the outcomes of several lower level races, especially in the West. See Delli Carpini, "Scooping the Voters?," 879-80. 63 The material presented here on voter registration is a revised version of Garry R. Orren, "Registration Reform" (Paper delivered at the Harvard-ABC Symposium on American Voter Participation, Washington, D.C., September 30-October 2, 1983). 64 See Qrren, "Registration Reform," p. 2 for a categorization of the fifty states according to the length of time between registration deadlines and election day, the availability of absentee registration, and the convenience of registration office hours. Beyond statutory differences, local officials exercise considerable discre¬ tion in administering rules, as people who move from one part of a state to another often discover. A study of 251 communities conducted by the League of 376 Notes Women Voters in 1972 found, for example, that only 29 percent of the communi¬ ties that could legally employ deputy registrars actually did so. William ]. Crotty, “The Franchise: Registration Changes and Voter Registration," in William J. Crotty, ed.. Paths to Political Reform (Lexington, Mass.: Lexington Books, 1980), 91. 65 In countries with “compulsory" voting systems citizens are bound by law to vote, although m fact, the penalties for shirking on election day are often rather mild. Australia levies a two dollar fine on nonvoters without sound excuses, while Belgium assesses one to three francs for a first offense. In countries with “auto¬ matic" systems, the government takes the initiative in compiling voter lists, generally based on existing official records. The West Germans, for example, use police files of names and addresses, and in Sweden voting lists are generated from computerized files the government maintains for other purposes. The “canvass¬ ing" systems are less centralized and call for some kind of interaction between voters and officials. Town clerks m the United Kingdom deliver registration forms— by mail and in person—to every household while government-paid “enu¬ merators" in Canada go door-to-door registering eligible voters. 66 See, for example, David Osborne, "Registration Boomerang," New Republic, Feb¬ ruary 25, 1985, 14-16. 67 Campbell, Converse, Miller, and Stokes, American Voter, no-15; Angus Camp¬ bell, "Surge and Decline: A Study of Electoral Change," in Angus Campbell, Philip E. Converse, Warren E. Miller, and Donald E. Stokes, eds.. Elections and The Political Order (New York: lohn Wiley and Sons, 1966); and Petrocik, "Voter Turnout and Electoral Preference," 6-8. 68 Stanley Kelley, Richard E. Ayres, and William G. Bowen, "Registration and Voting: Putting First Things First," American Political Science Review 61 (June 19671:359-79; lae-On Kim, John R. Petrocik, and Stephen N. Enokson, "Voter Turnout Among the American States: Systemic and Individual Components," American Political Science Review69 (March 19751:107-31; Steven L Rosenstone and Raymond E. Wolfinger, "The Effects of Registration Laws on Voter Turnout," American Political Science Review 72 (March 19781:22-45; lohn P. Katosh and Michael W Traugott, “Costs and Values in the Calculus of Voting," American Journal of Political Science 26 (May 19821:361-76; and Powell, “American Voter Turnout," 38-43. 69 Richard G. Smolka, Registering Voters By Mail: The Maryland and New Jersey Experience (Washington, D.C.: American Enterprise Institute, 1975 1 84. Safe¬ guards against fraud exist m each state that permits voters to register by mail, but in practice they are not always scrupulously enforced. 70 Collectively, the eighteen states that adopted mail registration prior to 1976 experienced downturns in voting in the first two presidential elections under the plan. In 1976, these states suffered a 2.1 percentage point decline while the national dropoff was only 1.2 points. In 1980, the figures were 1.4 and 0.4, respec¬ tively. Individually, six of the states had increases of more than a percentage point in 1976 while only four did m 1980. Moreover, average turnout from 1972 through 1980 for states with mail registration was only two points higher than states without a mail provision. See Election Administration Reports, vol. 7, no. i, [anuary 5, 1977. Notes 377 71 After reviewing the available evidence, Robert Erikson concluded that easing registration rules does increase turnout, but that holding registration on election day provides little additional boost to turnout. Robert S. Erikson, "Why Do Peo¬ ple Vote? Because They Are Registered," American Politics Quarterly 9 (July i98r):259-76. 72 In Canada enrollment costs were about seventy cents per voter for parliamentary elections in the early 1970s. This works out to more than $100 million for the American electorate. See Crotty, Paths to Political Reform, 104. On the other hand, the costs of our current registration system are rarely considered in the debate over the cost of changing to universal enrollment. The expense of operat¬ ing the more than 6,500 current registration offices across the United States obviously must be incorporated into any appraisal of the cost of adopting the new reform. 73 An important question is whether Congress can pass such reforms by statute, or whether a constitutional amendment is required. The Constitution grants to the states the authority to determine who can vote (Article I, Section 2). Conse¬ quently, extending the franchise to blacks, women, and youths has required amend¬ ments to the Constitution. Authority to determine how voting will be conducted — the "times, places, and manner of holding elections"—is also delegated to the states. However, the Constitution is quite explicit that "Congress may at any time by law make or alter such regulations" (Article I, Section 4). Therefore, Congress has the authority to change registration procedures for federal elections by statute, rather than through the more arduous process of constitutional amend¬ ment. This greatly simplifies the adoption of nationwide registration reforms, like those included in the "hybrid" plan. 74 Wolfinger and Rosenstone, Who Votes!, 78. 75 Glass, Squire, and Wolfinger, "Voter Turnout," 54. 76 The idea of transferring registration in this way was first suggested by Raymond Wolfinger. For a more detailed discussion of this procedure, see Peverill Squire, Raymond E. Wolfinger, and David P. Glass, "Residential Mobility and Voter Turn¬ out" (Paper presented at the Annual Meeting of the Ameriean Political Science Association, New Orleans, August 28-September i, t985). 6 Who Vies for President? 1 James Bryce, The American Commonwealth, vol. i (New York; Macmillan, 1924), 77. (Originally published in 1888.) 2 Alexis de Tocqueville, Democracy in America, vol. i (New York: Vintage, 1945), 183. (Originally published in 1835.) 3 Steven V. Roberts, "Is It Too Late for a Man of Honesty, High Purpose, and Intelli¬ gence to Be Elected President of the United States?" Esquire (October 1967), 89ff. 4 Joseph E. Kallenbach, The American Chief Executive (New York: Harper and Row, 1966), T56-58. 5 James Madison, Notes of Debates in the Federal Convention of 17R7 (Athens: Ohio University Press, 1966), 425-27. 6 Ibid., 561. 378 Notes 7 This IS the version that appears in the Constitution, after "copy editing" by the Committee of Style. The motion of the Committee on Postponed Matters actu¬ ally read: "No person except a natural born citizen or a citizen of the U.S. at the time of the adoption of this Constitution shall be eligible to the office of Presi¬ dent; nor shall any person be elected to that office, who shall be under the age of thirty five years, and who has not been in the whole, at least fourteen years a resident within the U.S." Ibid., 575. 8 Quoted in Charles C. Thach, fr.. The Creation of the Presidency (Baltimore: lohns Hopkins University Press, 1969), 137. 9 Ibid. 10 Cyril C. Means, Ir., "Is Presidency Barred to Americans Born Abroad?" U.S. News and World Report, December 23, 1955, 28. 11 Ibid. 12 Edward S. Corwin, The President: Office and Powers, 4th ed. (New York: New York University Press, 1957), 32. 13 Max Farrand, The Framing of the Constitution of the United States (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1913), 78. 14 lohn P. Roche, "The Electoral College: A Note on American Political Mythol¬ ogy," Dissent (Spring 19611:198. 15 For a fuller discussion of the creation of the electoral college and vice presidency, see Erwin C. Hargrove and Michael Nelson, Presidents, Politics and Policy (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1984), ch. 2. 16 Clinton Rossiter, ed.. The Federalist Papers (New York: New American Library, 1961), 391. 17 Quoted in Means, "Is Presidency Barred?," 28. 18 Ibid. The three were Hamilton, McHenry of Maryland, and Butler of South Carolina. 19 Rossiter, Federalist, 396, 437-38. 20 The amendment states that "no person constitutionally ineligible to the office of President shall be eligible to that of Vice President of the United States." 21 Corwin, President, 32. 22 Ibid., 330. 23 Charles Gordon, "Who Can Be President of the United States: The Unresolved Enigma," Maryland Law Review (Winter 19681:1-32. 24 Corwin, President, 33. 25 Means, "Is Presidency Barred?," 30. 26 For a discussion of the politics of the Twenty-second Amendment, see Clinton Rossiter, The American Presidency, rev. ed. (New York: New American Library, i960), 221-27. 27 "Who May Run for President: A Proposed Change," New York Times, June 30, 1983, 10. 28 Calculated from data in the U.S. Department of Commerce, Bureau of the Cen¬ sus, Detailed Population Characteristics, Part 1 : United States Summary, 1-7. 29 William R. Keech and Donald R. Matthews, The Party’s Choice (Washington, D.C.: Brookings Institution, 1976), 2. 30 Thomas E. Cronin, The State of the Presidency, 2d ed. (Boston: Little, Brown, 1980), 28. Notes 379 31 Keech and Matthews, Party’s Choice, ch. i. My reading of the Gallup records for 1944, 1956, and 1964 led me to revise their figures upward. Polls have been compiled in George H. Gallup, The Gallup Poll, 1935-1971, 3 vols. (New York: Random House, 1972); The Gallup Poll, 1972-1977, 2 vols. (Wilmington, Del.: Scholarly Resources, 1978); and The Gallup Poll annuals (Wilmington, Del.: Scholarly Resources, 1979-1986). 32 Compiled from Vanderbilt Television News Archive, Television News Index and Abstracts, a monthly publication of the Vanderbilt University Library (November 1968-August 1980). 33 Of the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century presidents, only fames Buchanan, a bachelor, was an exception. All twentieth-century major party nominees were white male Christians. All but Adlai Stevenson were married, and his divorce seems to have hurt him at the polls. 34 Benjamin I. Page and Mark P. Petracca, The American Presidency (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1983), 90; Richard Watson and Norman Thomas, The Politics of the Presidency (New York: John Wiley, 1983), 115-16. Another possibility for such a list is a small-state residence. Three of the biggest electoral losers of the century were small-staters—Alfred Landon (1936), Barry Goldwater (1964), and George McGovern (1972). Still, no known prejudice against small-state politi¬ cians exists (certainly none that is not outweighed by the favored place of Vermonters, Kansans, and the like in popular culture), and the recent nationaliza¬ tion of American politics and media makes the need for a large-state electoral base less compelling than it used to be. Unitarians are included as Christians. 35 Governor Jerry Brown and singer Linda Ronstadt earned the cover of Newsweek. See “Ballad of Jerry and Linda" (April 23, 1979), 26. A 1978 Gallup poll discovered that by a margin of 66 percent to 26 percent, Americans would not consider voting for a homosexual for president. (Gallup, Gallup Poll, 1978.) Voter tolerance registered 29 percent in 1983—not a statistically significant increase. William G. Blair, "Voters Found Growing More Tolerant in US.," New York Times, September 1, 1983, II. 36 Rossiter, American Presidency, 193-94. 37 Watson and Thomas, Politics of Presidency, no. 38 Robert L. Peabody, Norman J. Omstein, and David W Rohde, "The United States as a Presidential Incubator," Political Science Quarterly (Summer 19761:242-43. They define a "contender" as one who receives 10 percent or more of the votes on any national nominating convention ballot. 39 A fuller discussion of these issues can be found in Keech and Matthews, Party’s Choice, ch. i. 40 Eve Lubalin and Robert Peabody, "The Making of Presidential Candidates," in Charles W Dunn, The Future of the American Presidency (Morristown, N.J.: General Learning Press, 1975), 27. 41 Ibid., 46-47. 42 Quoted in James Doyle, "Is There a Better Way?," Newsweek, June 16, 1980, 24. 43 Joel K. Goldstein, The Modern American Vice Presidency (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1982); Paul C. Light, Vice Presidential Power (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1983). 44 Gallup data in this paragraph and the next arc reported in Blair, "Voters Found 380 Notes Growing More Tolerant." 45 A confidential random survey of eighty representatives and senators found that 95 percent believed in God (however defined) and 71 percent believed in the divinity of Jesus Christ. Peter L. Benson, "Religion on Capitol Hill," Psychology Today (December 19811:47-57. 46 Quoted m Theodore H. White, The Making of a President ig6o (New York; Pocket Books, 1961), 128-29. 47 White, Making of a President i960, 65. 48 Public opinion surveys on candidate preference also aid in this process, according to Keech and Matthews, Party’s Choice, 7-9. 49 The federal election law of 1974 limited an individual's contributions to any candidate to $1,000. In the 1976 case of Buckley v. Valeo the Supreme Court removed the limit on contributions to one's own campaign. 50 Watson and Thomas, Politics of Presidency, 103. 51 Joseph A. Schlesinger, Ambition and Politics (Chicago: Rand McNally, 1966), 178. 52 William C. Mitchell, "The Ambivalent Social Status of the American Politician," Western Political Quarterly {September 19591:683-98. 53 John H. Aldrich, Before the Convention (Chicago; University of Chicago Press, 1980), 43-48. 54 Woodrow Wilson, Constitutional Government in the United States (New York: Columbia University Press, 1908), 79-80. 55 Aldrich, Before the Convention, ch. 2. Aldrich acknowledges that his definition and operationalization of "risk taker" are borrowed from David W Rohde, "Risk Taking and Progressive Ambition," American fournal of Political Science (Febru¬ ary I979 ):i-26. 56 Harold P. Lasswell, Power and Personality (New York: W W. Norton, 1948); James David Barber, The Presidential Character (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.; Prentice-Hall, 1972, 1977), ch. I. 57 Cronin, State of Presidency, 28. 58 Steve Neal, "Our Best and Worst Presidents," Chicago Tribune Magazine, January 10, 1982, 9-18. 59 Jeffrey Tubs, "The Two Constitutional Presidencies," in Michael Nelson, ed.. The Presidency and the Political System (Washington, D.C.: Congressional Quar¬ terly Press, 1984), 59-86. 60 Quoted in John Charles Daly, ed.. Choosing Presidential Candidates: How Good Is the New Way! (Washington, D.C.: American Enterprise Institute, 1980), 2-3. 61 Quoted m Allen J. Mayer, "Is This Any Way to Pick a President?," Newsweek, October 15, 1979, 69. 62 Austin Ranney, The Federalization of Presidential Primaries (Washington, D.C.: American Enterprise Institute, 1978], 34. 63 Quoted in "Primaries '80: Once Again the System Worked—Sort of," New York Times, June 6, 1980. 64 Bryce, American Commonwealth, 79. 65 Michael Nelson, "The Presidential Nominating System: Problems and Prescrip¬ tions," in Richard Zeckhauser and Derek Leebaert, eds.. What Role for Govern- Notes 381 menU (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1983), 34—51. 66 Hargrove and Nelson, Presidents, Politics, and Policy, ch. 4. 7 Methods and Actors 1 Nelson Polsby, Consequences of Party Reform (New York: Oxford University Press, 1983). 2 Mark J. Wattier, "The Simple Act of Voting in 1980 Democratic Presidential Primaries," American Politics Quarterly ii (July 19831:267-92. The original citation is Stanley Kelley, Jr. and Thad W Mirer, "The Simple Act of Voting," American Political Science Review 68 (June 19741:572-91. 3 Scott Keeter and Cliff Zukin, Uninformed Choice: The Failure of the New Presi¬ dential Nominating System (New York: Praeger, 1983I. 4 J. David Gopoian, "Issue Preferences and Candidate Choice in Presidential Pri¬ maries," American Journal of Political Science 26 (August 19821:523-46; Keeter and Zukin, Uninformed Choice. But, see Paul R. Abramson, John H. Aldrich, and David W Rohde, Change and Continuity in the rpSq Elections (Washington, D.C.: Congressional Quarterly Press, 1986I. 5 Walter J. Stone and Alan I. Abramowitz, "Winning May Not Be Everything, But It's More Than We Thought," American Political Science Review 77 (December 19831:945-56. 6 John H. Aldrich, Before the Convention: Strategies and Choices in Presidential Nomination Campaigns (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980I. "Momen¬ tum" is taken to mean the "spiral" of success (or of failure!. That is, it captures the dynamic of electoral success leading to increased media attention and mone¬ tary and related contributions, leading to greater popular support and, in turn, greater electoral success (or its opposite counterparti. 7 Stone and Abramowitz, "Winning May Not Be Everything." 8 Aldrich, Before the Convention. 9 Paul T. David, Ralph M. Goldman, and Richard C. Bain, The Politics of National Party Conventions (Washington, D.C.: Brookings Institution, 1960I. 10 Ibid., 137. 11 Joseph Schlesinger, Ambition and Politics: Political Careers in the United States (Chicago: Rand McNally, 1966I. 12 Ibid. 13 See for instance, Robert L. Peabody, Norman J. Ornstein, and David W. Rohde, "The United States Senate as a Presidential Incubator: Many Are Called but Few Are Chosen," Political Science Quarterly 91 (Summer 19761:237-58; Robert L. Peabody and Eve Lubalin, "The Making of Presidential Candidates," reprinted in Lengle and Shafer, eds.. Presidential Politics (New York: St. Martin's Press, 1980I; Aldrich, Before the Convention-, Abramson, Aldrich, and Rohde, Change and Continuity. 14 Schlesinger, Ambition and Politics. 15 Gordon Black, "A Theory of Political Ambition: Career Choices and the Role of Structural Incentives," American Political Science Review 66 (March 1972I: 144-59; David W. Rohde, "Risk-Bearing and Progressive Ambition: The Case of 382 Notes Members of the United States House of Representatives," American lournal of Political Science 23 (February i979):t-26; Abramson, Aldrich, and Rohde, Change and Continuity. 16 See, m particular, Peabody, Omstein, and Rohde, "The Senate as Presidential Incubator." See also Barbara Hinckley, Richard Hofstetter, and John Kessel, "Infor¬ mation and the Vote: A Comparative Election Study," American Politics Quarterly 2 (April 19741:131-58. 17 Aldrich, Before the Convention-, James W Davis, National Conventions in an Age of Party Reform (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1983); Abramson, Aldrich, and Rohde, Change and Continuity. r8 James Beniger, "Winning the Presidential Nomination: National Polls and State PnmaryElections, 1936-1972,"Pu blic Opinion Q uarterly 40 (Spring 19 7 6): 2 2 - 3 8. 19 David, National Conventions. 20 Donald S. Collar, Stanley Kelly, Jr., and Ronald Rogowski, "The End Game in Presidential Nominations," American Political Science Review 75 (June 1981): 427 - 35 - 21 These arguments are made more generally in Gerald Pomper, Nominating the President (Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern University Press, 1963); William G. Carle- ton, "The Revolution in the Presidential Nominating Convention," Political Sci¬ ence Quarterly 72 (June 19571:224-40. 22 See Aldrich, Before the Convention. 23 Theodore H. White, America in Search of Itself: The Making of the President, igyS-rySo (New York: Harper and Row, 1982). 24 John Rhodes, for example, would pass the David, et al. test for inclusion in the 1968 Republican list. David, Goldman, and Bam, The Politics of National Party Conventions. 25 These data come from Mark J. Wattier, "The Simple Act of Voting in 1980 Democratic Presidential Primaries," American Political Quarterly 11 (July 19831:267-92. 26 These involved some judgments based on the short biographies in Dictionary of American Biography (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1972, 1980I, various issues; Current Biography Yearbook (New York: H. W Wilsonl, various years, 1940-present. 27 See, for example, David, Goldman, and Bain, The Politics of National Party Conventions. 28 The terminology comes from Peabody, Omstein, and Rohde, "The Senate as Presidential Incubator." 29 Walter Dean Burnham, Critical Elections and the Mainsprings of American Politics (New York: W W Norton, 1970I. 30 This table is adapted from David, National Conventions. 31 Robert E. DiClerico and Eric M. Uslaner. Few are Chosen: Problems in Presiden¬ tial Selection (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1984I, 179-84. 32 Polsby, Consequences of Party Reform. Notes 383 8 Public Opinion Polling 1 David Burnham, "Reagan's Campaign Adds Strategy Role to Use of Computer," New York Times, April 23, 1984, By. 2 Larry J. Sabato, The Rise of Political Consultants: New Ways of Winning Elections (New York; Basic Books, 1981), 81. 3 Charles W Roll, fr. and Albert H. Cantril, Polls: Their Use and Misuse in Politics (New York; Basic Books, 1972), 10. 4 Ibid., II. 5 Sabato, The Rise of Political Consultants, 112-13. 6 Stanley Kelley, Jr., Professional Public Relations and Political Power (Baltimore; Johns Hopkins University Press, 1956), 160-69, 189-201. 7 Louis Harris, "Polls and Politics in the United States," Public Opinion Quarterly 27, no. I (Spring i 963 ): 3 - 8 Theodore H. White, The Making of the President rg6o (New York; Atheneum, 1961), lOI. 9 Ibid., 51. 10 Thomas W Benham, "Polling for a Presidential Candidate; Some Observations on the 1964 Campaign," Public Opinion Quarterly 29, no. 2 (Summer I965);i89. 11 Bruce E. Altschuler, Keeping a Finger on the Public Pulse: Private Polling and Presidential Elections (Westport, Conn.; Greenwood, 1982), 30. 12 Joe McGinniss, The Selling of the President 1968 (New York; Trident, 1969). 13 Ibid., 76-78. 14 Gary Hart, Right from the Start: A Chronicle of the McGovern Campaign (New York; Quadrangle, 1973), 91. 15 Altschuler, Keeping a Finger on the Public Pulse, 119-20. 16 Sabato, The Rise of Political Consultants, 91. 17 Everett C. Ladd and G. Donald Ferree, "Were the Pollsters Really Wrong?" Public Opinion 3, no. 6 (December/January i98i);i3. 18 Richard Wirthlin, Vincent Breglio, and Richard Beal, "Campaign Chronicle," Public Opinion 4, no. i (February/March i98i);43-44. 19 David Rosenbaum, "Mondale is Using New Polling Method," New York Times, April 4, 1984, By. 20 Robert J. Giuffra, Jr., The Best Campaign Money Could Buy: The 1982 New York Governor's Race (Unpublished undergraduate thesis, Woodrow Wilson School, Princeton University, 1983), pp. 263-67. 21 Burnham, "Reagan's Campaign Adds Strategy Role to Use of Computer," By. 22 Ibid. 23 Sabato, The Rise of Political Consultants, 91. 24 Ibid., 77. 25 Ibid., 83. 26 William J. Vanden Heuvel and Milton Gwirtzman, On His Own: Robert F. Kennedy, 2964-1968 (Garden City, N.Y; Doubleday, 1970), 291. 27 Altschuler, Keeping a Finger on the Public Pulse, 91. 28 Eugene McCarthy, The Year of the People (Garden City, N.Y; Doubleday, 1969), 63- 29 David Chagall, The New Kingmakers (New York; Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 384 Notes 1981), 135, 142. 30 Robert Lindsey, “Dark Horse from California," New York Times Magazine, Decem¬ ber 4, 1983, 3. 31 Roll and Cantril, Roffs, 23. 32 Altschuler, Keeping a Finger on the Public Pulse, 44. 33 Sabato, The Rise of Political Consultants, 83. 34 Roll and Cantril, Poifs, 23-24. 35 Harris, "Polls and Politics in the United States," 5. 36 Robert Agranoff, The Management of Election Campaigns (Boston; Holbrook, 1976), 34- 37 Ibid. 38 Benham, "Polling for a Presidential Candidate," 189-91. 39 Sabato, The Rise of Political Consultants, 89. 40 Jeff Greenfield, Playing to Win: An Insider’s Guide to Politics (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1980), 103. 41 Ibid. 42 Elmer E. Schattschneider, The Semisovereign People: A Realist's View of Democ¬ racy in America (Hinsdale, Ill.: Dryden, 1975), 66. 43 Altschuler, Keeping a Finger on the Public Pulse, 171. 44 Harris, "Polls and Politics in the United States," 5. 45 Altschuler, Keeping a Finger on the Public Pulse, 95. 46 Ibid., 127. 47 Sabato, The Rise of Political Consultants, 91. 48 Altschuler, Keeping a Finger on the Public Pulse, 174. 49 Ibid., 172. 50 Sabato, The Rise of Political Consultants, 92. 51 Roll and Cantril, Polls, 61. 52 Sabato, The Rise of Political Consultants, 173. 53 Ibid. 54 Kelley, Professional Public Relations and Political Power, 188. 5 5 Chagall, The New Kingmakers, 171- 56 Ibid., 217. 57 Harris, "Polls and Politics in the United States," 3. 58 Hart, Right from the Start, 169-70. 59 Theodore H. White, The Making of the President 1972 (New York: Atheneum, 1973), 146. 60 Altschuler, Keeping a Finger on the Public Pulse, 175. 61 Chagall, The New Kingmakers, 183-84. 62 Wirthlin, Breglio, and Beal, "Campaign Chronicle," 44-45. 63 Ibid., 47. 64 Stephen J. Wayne, The Road to the White House: The Politics of Presidential Elections, id ed. (New York: St. Martin's Press, 1983), no. 65 Altschuler, Keeping a Finger on the Public Pulse, 73 - 74 - 66 Kurt Andersen, "A Wild Ride to the End," Time, May 28, 1984, 35. 67 Altschuler, Keeping a Finger on the Public Pulse, 128. 68 Chagall, The New Kingmakers, 192. Notes 385 69 Ibid., 171-71. 70 Altschuler, Keeping a Finger on the Public Pulse, 178. 71 Chagall, The New Kingmakers, 90. 72 Ibid., loi. 73 Wirthlin, Breglio, and Beal, "Campaign Chronicle," 48. 74 Chagall, The New Kingmakers, 244. 75 Ibid., 244-45. 76 Roll and Cantril, Polls, xxv. 77 White, The Making of the President i960, 51. 78 Altschuler, Keeping a Finger on the Public Pulse-, Chagall, The New Kingmakers-, Sabato, The Rise of Political Consultants. 79 Sabato, The Rise of Political Consultants, 320. 80 Roll and Cantril, Polls, 152-53. 81 Sabato, The Rise of Political Consultants, 321. 82 Roll and Cantril, Polls, 136. 9 The Three Campaigns for President 1 Martin Schram, "A Memo to Someone Who Isn't Running Helped Hart Take Off," Washington Post, March 19, 1984, National Weekly edition, lo-ii. 2 Brian Usher, "The Undoing of Glenn," Akron Beacon fournal, March 25, 1984, Ai, A8. 3 Schram, "A Memo to Someone," 10-11. 4 FEC Record (March 1985), 6. 5 Nelson W Polsby, Consequences of Party Reform (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983). 6 James Lengle, Representation and Presidential Primaries (Westport, Conn.: Green¬ wood Press, 1981). Austin Ranney, Curing the Mischief of Faction (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1975). Commission on Presidential Nomination and Party Structure (Morley Winograd, chair). Openness, Participation, and Party Building: Reforms for a Stronger Democratic Party (Washington, D.C.: Demo¬ cratic National Committee, January 25, 1978). 7 Herbert B. Asher, Presidential Elections and American Politics, 3d ed. (Home- wood, Ill.: Dorsey Press, 1984), 233-53. 8 Maxwell Glen, "The fec Celebrates Its loth Birthday Quietly," National fournal, March 16, 1985, 582. 9 Asher, Presidential Elections, 190. 10 Herbert E. Alexander, Financing the 1980 Election (Lexington, Mass.: D. C. Heath, 1983). 11 Ibid., 329-30. 12 Ibid., 305-6. 13 Herbert E. Alexander, Financing Politics, 3d cd. (Washington, D.C.: Congres¬ sional Quarterly Press, 1984), 117-18. 14 Alexander, Financing the 1980 Election, 146-47. 15 Ibid., 446. 16 Alexander, Financing Politics, 118. 386 Notes 17 Maxwell Glen, "Starting a pac May be Candidates' First Step Down Long Road to igS 8 ” National Journal, February 16, 1985, 374-77. 18 Ibid., 375 - 19 Elizabeth Drew, Politics and Money (New York; Macmillan, 1983), 126. 20 Angelia Herrin, "Presidential Candidates Stretch Spending Ethics," Akron Bea¬ con lournal, March 30, 1986, Di, D4. 21 Thomas B. Edsall, "fec Staff Challenges Bush pac Plans in Michigan," Washing¬ ton Post, March 5, 1986, Aj. 22 FEC Record (May 1983), 6. 23 Alexander, Financing the rgSo Election, 308. 24 Ibid., 304. 25 Ibid., 310. 26 Ibid., 125-26. 27 FEC Record (February 1984), ii. 28 Thomas B. Edsall, "Closing the Money Gap," Washington Post, May 20, 1985, National Weekly edition, 14. 29 Thomas B. Edsall, "Democrats Will Use the Hard Sell to Pull m the Soft Money," Washington Post, July 23, 1984, National Weekly edition, 13. 30 Herbert E. Alexander, "Making Sense About Dollars m the 1980 Presidential Campaigns," in Michael Malbin, ed.. Money and Politics in the United States (Chatham, N.J.; Chatham House, 1984), 22. 31 Drew, Politics and Money, 126. 32 Ibid., 16. 33 Ibid., 104. 34 Ibid., 104. 35 Ibid., 107. 36 John F. Noble, "pac Counsel: Soft Money," Campaigns and Elections 5 (Summer 19841:44-45. 37 Ibid., 44. 38 Federal Election Commission, Campaign Guide for Political Party Committees, 15 - 39 Thomas B. Edsall, "A Hard Run at Soft Money," Washington Post, December 5, 1983a, National Weekly edition, 13; Thomas B. Edsall, "The Quest for 'Soft Money,'" Washington Post, September 10, 1984, National Weekly edition, 15. 40 Edsall, "The Quest for 'Soft Money'," 15. 41 Edsall, "A Hard Run at Soft Money," 13. 42 Edsall, "The Quest for 'Soft Money'," 15. 43 Russ Hodge (Qhio Republican Finance Committee), interview by Herbert B. Asher, 1984. 44 Ronald Brownstein and Maxwell Glen, "Money in the Shadows," National Jour¬ nal, March 15, 1986, 632-37. 45 Federal Election Commission, "The fec and the Federal Campaign Finance Law," (Washington, D.C.: US. Government Printing Qffice). 46 Ibid., p. 4. 47 Jo Freeman, "Political Party Expenditures Under the Federal Election Campaign Act; Anomalies and Unfinished Business" (Paper presented at the Annual Meet- Notes 387 ing of The American Political Science Association, Chicago, September 1-4, 1983). 48 Drew, Politics and Money. 49 Ibid. 50 Ibid., 186. 51 Ibid., 138. 52 Alexander, Financing the 1980 Election, 145. 53 Ibid., 144 - 45 - 54 Ibid., 168. 55 Ibid., r68. 5 6 David Hoffman, "Mondale Slow to Realize Political Danger Delegate Panels Posed," Washington Post, May i, 1984, A6. 57 George Lardner, fr. and David Hoffman, "Mondale Groups Show Pattern of Coor¬ dination," Washington Post, April 25, 1984, Ai. 58 Ibid., Ai. 59 Thomas B. Edsall, "'Delegate Committees' Boost Mondale Funds," Washington Post, March 29, 1985, Ai. 60 Robert Pear, "Delegate Groups Continue Despite Mondale's Pledge," New York Times, May 28, 1984, i. 61 Herbert E. Alexander, "fec Update: When Should the Watchdog Bite?" Cam¬ paigns eP Elections 5 (Winter 19851:33. 62 Ibid., 34. 63 Alexander, Financing Politics, 129. 10 Regulating Campaign Finances 1 In 1907 the Tillman Act prohibited corporate contributions following the 1904 election of Theodore Roosevelt when the Republican party raised millions of dollars by systematically assessing corporations around the country. In 1910, Congress passed a "Publicity Bill" that required public disclosure of contributions in reports filed by campaign treasurers to the clerk of the House of Repre¬ sentatives. In 1911 both senators and representatives were required to file reports, although a major loophole in the law required the reports only of campaign committees, thereby allowing any number of separate committees to spring up and spend without filing. The 1911 legislation also set limits on contributions and expenditures, and extended the period of coverage to preelection publicity, primaries and conventions. George Thayer, Who Shakes the Money Tree! (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1973), 54. 2 Herbert Alexander, Financing Politics 2d ed. (Washington, D.C.: Congressional Quarterly Press, 1980), 28. 3 Ibid. 4 Ibid., 29-30. 5 Michael [. Malbin, Parties, Interests Groups and Campaign Finance Laws (Wash¬ ington, D.C.: American Enterprise Institute, 1980), 4. 6 Alexander, Financing Politics, 31. 7 Ibid., 35; See also Gary C. Jacobson, Money in Congressional Elections (New 388 Notes Haven: Yale University Press, 1980) for a comprehensive analysis of the benefit a financial floor from public financing would give to challengers compared to the marginally less effective role of money for incumbents. 8 Ibid., 35-36. 9 Ibid. 10 Richard Smolka, “The Campaign Law and the Courts," in Michael |. Malbin, ed., Money and Politics in the United States: Financing Elections in the igSos (Chatham, N.I.: Chatham House, 1984), 214-15. 11 Ibid. 12 Drawn from Malbin, Parties, Interest Groups and Campaign Finance Law, 5, and Edwin M. Epstein, "Business and Labor Under the Federal Election Campaign Act of 1971," in Malbin, Money and Politics, 1 14. 13 The most controversial decision made by the fec, known as the SunPac decision, concerned the Sun Oil Company and its right to solicit employees. Against labor's wishes, the fec allowed a solicitation twice a year through the mails, lerald S. Howe, Ir., "The Federal Election Commission: The Regulation of Politics and the Politics of Regulation" (unpublished thesis, Woodrow Wilson School of Public and International Affairs, Princeton University, April 12, 1978), 46. 14 Milton Shapp's presidential campaign was found to have received $300,000 in matching funds under fraudulent circumstances. He repaid the fec out of per¬ sonal funds after the election. Howe, "The fec," 56. 15 Federal Election Commission, Annual Report, 1982, 47. 16 Susan B. King, Campaign Finance Study Group Report, 1982, 5—22; Gary Orren, "The Nomination Process: Vicissitudes of Candidate Selection," in Michael Nel¬ son, ed.. The Elections of t984 (Washington, D.C.: Congressional Quarterly Press, 1985), 46-49- 17 FECA, Sec. 441 (b) (A) and (C), Amendments of 1979, Pub. L. No. 96-187. 18 "Financing Presidential Campaigns: An Examination of the Ongoing Effects of the Federal Election Campaign Laws upon the Conduct of Presidential Cam¬ paigns" (Research report by the Campaign Finance Study Group to the Commit¬ tee on Rules and Administration of the United States Senate) (The Institute of Politics, John F. Kennedy School of Government, Harvard University, 1982), F. Christopher Arterton, 3-10. 19 Ibid., 3-16. 20 FECA, 9033 (c) (i) (B). 21 Arterton, Campaign Finance Study Group Report, 1982, pp. 3-14. 22 Susan B. King, "Living with the Act: The View from the Campaigns," Campaign Finance Study Group Report, 1982, 5-17. 23 Kayden, "Report on Campaign Finance: Based on the Experience of the 1976 Presidential Election," 40-41. 24 "fec Index of Independent Expenditures, 1979-80," November 1981. 25 Kayden, Campaign Finance Study Group Report, 1982, 7-5; "Independent Expen¬ diture Index by Committee/Person Expending," Federal Election Commission, March 1985. 26 "Independent Expenditure Index." 27 "Excerpts From Ruling on Political Spending Curb," New York Times, March 19, 1985, A18. Notes 389 28 Ibid. 29 There is an argument to be made that the rules changes have helped the Demo¬ crats in party building by increasing participation, but it is not germaine to this chapter. 30 The lists are drawn from reports filed by the national committees with the Federal Election Commission. 31 Elizabeth Drew's book, Politics and Money: The New Road to Corruption (New York: Macmillan, 1983), is the most often cited and broadest statement of the position that things are bad and getting worse, a view the media is quite consis¬ tent in repeating according to Michael Malbin, who cites major stories in Time, Newsweek, U.S. News and World Report, the New Republic, Business Week, the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, thcWall Street Journal, and the New Yorker. According to Malbin, "It takes a large set of blinders to miss the fact that the emergence of pacs represents an improvement over what went on before." "Look¬ ing Back at the Future of Campaign Finance Reform: Interest Groups and Ameri¬ can Elections," in Malbin, Money and Politics, 247. 32 Report from The Television Bureau of Advertising, April 1985. 33 Drew, Politics and Money, 4-5. 34 "FEC-Releases 18-Month pac Study," Federal Election Commission, October 26, 1984. 3 5 Margaret Lawton, Paul Risley, Lorri Staal and Lisa Peterson, "pac Contributions to 1984 House and Senate Candidates: January i, 1983 through November 22, 1984," Congress Watch, January 3, 1985, xerox. 36 "House Incumbents Get 44 Cents of Every Campaign Dollar from pacs in 1984 Election," Common Cause Report, April 12, 1985. 37 Ralph K. Winter, Campaign Financing and Political Freedom (Washington, D.C.: American Enterprise Institute, 1973)- 38 Alexander, "Making Sense About Dollars," in Malbin, ed.. Money and Politics, 31-32. 39 Campaign Finance Study Group Report, 1982. 40 Ibid., 11-14. 41 "fec Approves Matching Funds for 1984 Presidential Candidates," Press Release, Federal Election Commission, March 21, 1985. 42 Marver Bernstein, Regulating Business by Independent Commission (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1955), 153. 43 "fec 1983-84 Independent Expenditure Index." 44 Alexander Heard, The Costs of Democracy (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, i960), 471. 45 Carole Pateman, Participation and Democratic Theory (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1970), i. 11 Presidential Politics and the Myth of Conciliation 1 lames D. Barber, The Pulse of Politics: Electing Presidents in the Media Age (New York: W. W Norton, 1980). 2 Kathleen A. Frankovic, "Public Opinion Trends," in Gerald Pumper ct al.. The Election of 1980: Reports and Interpretations (Chatham, N.J.: Chatham House, 390 Notes 1981), 113, 115. 3 See James D. Barber, The Presidential Character: Predicting Performance in the White House, 3d ed. (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.; Prentice-Hall, 1985). 4 Cf. The Presidential Character, ch. 16. 5 See Gerald Pomper et al.. The Election of rg84: Reports and Interpretations (Chatham, N.J.; Chatham House, 1985). 12 Television and Presidential Politics 1 The imperatives are suggested by the study of the British system by Jay G. Blumler, Michael Gurevitch, and Julian Ives, "The Challenge of Election Broadcasting" (unpublished paper, July 25, 1977). 2 Gerald Pomper, Elections in America (New York: Dodd, Mead, 1968), 194. 3 Letter to Citizens for Reagan (wcky-tv), 58 fcc 2d 925, 927 (1976]. 4 FCC, The Law of Political Broadcasting and Cablecasting, p. 38. 5 Socialist Labor Party, 7 fcc 2d 857 (1967). 6 FCC Letter to Theodore Pearson, December 8, 1976, which cited as precedents: Martin Dworkis, 40 fcc 361 (1962); Honorable Terry Sanford, 35 fcc 2d 938 (1972); Honorable Sam Yorty, 35 fcc 2d 572 (1972)- 7 Richard B. Kay, 26 fcc 2d 235 (1970). 8 DeBerry-Shaw Campaign Committee, 40 fcc 394 (1964); Letter to Lester Gold, Esq., August 12, 1976. 9 Aspen Institute, 55 fcc 2d 697 (i975)- 10 Chisholm v. FCC, 538 F. 2d 349 (D.C. Cir., 1976). 11 American Independent Party and Eugene McCarthy, 62 fcc 2d 4 (1976). 12 Station KFDX-TV, 40 fcc 374 (1962). 13 There is a modest amendment to section 315 that would give broadcasters greater flexibility in fulfilling their trustee role. This amendment would increase the number of states in which a presidential candidate would have to be ballot qualified m order to be eligible for "equal opportunities" on national television. At present a candidate must qualify in ten or more states to be considered ballot- qualified m all states. If the minimum was raised to two-thirds of the states, the number of qualified candidates would be lower and, within a party, even smaller. The networks could then arrange programs without much worry about having to include "insignificant" candidates. 14 Federal Register 39, no. 139 (July 18, 1974), P- 26387. I s fcc. The Law of Political Broadcasting and Cablecasting, 87-88. 16 Ibid., 8. 17 In the Matter of Amendment of Part 73 of the Rules, 8 fcc 2d 721 (1967). 18 Allen C. Phelps, 21 fcc 2d 12 (1969). 19 Information on application of Fairness Doctrine was provided the author by an FCC staff attorney, April 1986. 20 Carl Leubsdorf, "The Reporter and the Presidential Candidate," Annals (Septem¬ ber i 976):6. 21 Timothy Crouse, The Boys on the Bus (New York: Ballantine, 1973), 323-24. 22 Walter Lippmann, Public Opinion (New York: Free Press, 1965), 221, 226. (First published in 1922.) Notes 391 23 Paul Weaver, "Is Television News Biased?" Public Interest 26 (Winter i976):69. 24 Paul Lazarsfeld, Bernard Berelson, and Hazel Gaudet, The People’s Choice (New York: Columbia University Press, 1968), rr5-i9. (Published originally by Duell, Sloan, and Pearce in r944.) 25 Thomas Patterson, Mass Media Election (New York: Praeger, r98o), 24; for data on r972 and 1980, respectively, see Thomas E. Patterson and Robert D. McClure, The Unseeing Eye (New York: Putnam, r976), and Michael Robinson and Marga¬ ret Sheehan, Over the Wire and On TV (New York: Russell Sage Foundation, 1983). 26 Weaver, "Is Television News Biased?," 67-68. 27 Robinson and Sheehan, Over the Wire and On TV, 7. 28 Blumler, Gurevitch, and Ives, "The Challenge," r 3; Patterson and McClure, Unsee¬ ing Eye, ch. 8. 29 Pomper, Elections in America, 194. 30 Michael Rohinson, "The Media in Campaign '84, Part I," in Michael Robinson and Austin Ranney, eds.. The Mass Media in Campaign '84 (Washington, D.C.: American Enterprise Institute, 1985), 17. 31 Benjamin I. Page, Choices and Echoes in Presidential Elections (Chicago: Univer¬ sity of Chicago Press, 1978), ch. 6. 32 Patterson, Mass Media Election, 35. 33 Lippmann, Public Opinion, 220. 34 Robinson and Sheehan, Over the Wire and On TV, 302. 35 Michael Robinson, "Improving Election Information in the Media" (Paper pre¬ sented at Voting for Democracy Forum, Washington, D.C., September 1983), 2. 36 Ibid., 3, 7. 37 Patterson, Mass Media Election, ch. 8-13. 38 Robinson and Sheehan, Over the Wire and On TV, 302. 39 Patterson, Mass Media Election, ch. r2; Patterson and McClure, Unseeing Eye, ch. 2. 40 There is only one "news" situation for which a change seems warranted, and this requires the action of the fcc or Congress rather than broadcasters. Section 315 does not apply to bona fide news programs, including live and complete coverage of press conferences that deal with significant public issues. The press confer¬ ences of presidential candidates seldom deal with significant controversies and consequently do not qualify for the exemption. An exception is a press confer¬ ence called hy an incumbent president running for reelection in order to discuss an important national development. Since these forums often are discretionary, a president could use a press conference primarily to advance his campaign. The exact motives of the president would be impossible to determine and, to discour¬ age abuses, it may be useful in the sixty-day period before the general election to provide the nominee of the other major party with equal time for a response. This policy would he unlikely to discourage a president from calling a press conference when it seemed in the national interest. The situations that call for such broad¬ casts usually boost a president's standing and would do so even if the major opposing candidate had the right of response. 41 Larry Sabato, The Rise of Political Consultants, (New York: Basic Books, 1981), 241. 392 Notes 42 Patterson and McClure, Unseeing Eye, 103. 43 Patterson, Mass Media Election, 35. 44 Ibid. 45 Other critics have proposed not that televised advertising be banned, but that candidates be provided equal access to it. One proposal is to apply the Fairness Doctrine to provide free time to candidates who could not afford to buy as much time as an opponent. This idea, however, would be difficult to apply in practice because mechanisms for determining whether a candidate could afford to buy time would have to be established. Another proposed solution to equalizing candidates' access to televised political advertising is to make it free. Each of the major party candidates would receive free advertising time, just as they now receive federal funds. However, if it is felt that presidential nominees do not have sufficient resources for their campaigns, the idea of giving them free time seems inherently inferior to a policy of giving them more federal funds. This would allow each candidate to decide whether additional televised advertising or other communication would be the best way to reach voters. Candidates already are assured "reasonable access" and "the lowest unit rate" for their time buys. Within the framework established by these favorable conditions, candidates should be left to decide for themselves what proportion of their campaign resources will be allocated for televised advertising. 46 Patterson and McClure, Unseeing Eye, chs. 4, 5. 47 Blumler, Gurevitch, and Ives, "The Challenge of Election Broadcasting," 10. 48 Patterson, Mass Media Election, 39-41, 123-24. 49 This principle is suggested by Blumler, Gurevitch, and Ives, "Challenge of Elec¬ tion Broadcasting." 50 A related issue that should be addressed in this process is the matter of participa¬ tion by candidates other than the two major party nominees. In Europe, broadcast participation is determined by either a party's showing in the previous election or its representation m the national legislature. This criterion is not useful in the United States. Most major independent or third-party candidates in the United States have strength in one election only. A suitable method of determining whether such a candidate would be allowed to participate is a scientific survey of the presidential preferences of a large sample (perhaps ten thousand] of America's potential voters. The survey could be conducted by the Census Bureau in the late summer, after the nominating conventions had concluded. Any candidate with substantial public support (say, 5 percent or more of the sample) would be eligible to join the major party nominees in the broadcasts. Such candidates would receive time proportionate to their public support, except that no participating candidate would receive less than half the broadcasting time given to a major party nominee. On all broadcasts the major party nominees would appear first. These arrangements largely parallel those in Europe. Only Italy and the Netherlands provide equal time to all qualifying parties; West Germany, Great Britain, France, and Belgium are among those having propor¬ tional allocations based on electoral strength. Notes 393 13 Presidential Selection and Succession in Special Situations 1 For a vigorous exposition of the argument of special presidential elections (and of the abolition of the vice presidency), see Arthur M. Schlesinger, Jr., "On the Presidential Succession," Political Science Quaiteily 89, no. 3 (Fall r974). 2 If the device of special presidential elections was adopted, some difficult practical problems would have to be resolved. One problem is how soon to hold the elec¬ tion after the presidential vacancy occurs: a short period reduces the time of public uncertainty and of governance by a transitory caretaker, but a lengthier period is fairer to the political parties and potential candidates. Another severe problem relates to the role of provisional successor. Who should it be? Should he have full authority as acting president? Should he be allowed to run in the special election? If so, how might that affect the conduct of his provisional presidency and the unity of his party? Should the elected successor president serve only for the balance of the vacated term or for a new four-year term? Should the vice president be the provisional successor? If not, should that post be retained, abol¬ ished or altered? 3 See, for example, E. S. Corwin, The President: Office and Powers 1787-1937, 4th rev. ed. (New York: New York University Press, 1957); Ruth Silva, Presidential Succession (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, r95r); and Schlesinger, "On the Presidential Succession." 4 John D. Feerick, The Twenty-fifth Amendment (New York: Fordham University Press, r976), 225, accurately notes that constitutional scholars and members of Congress have disagreed on whether the Constitution empowers Congress to enact a statute that calls for a special presidential election to fill a vacancy. If Congress does have such authority, repeal of parts of the Twenty-fifth Amend¬ ment would be required. 5 By the same reasoning, the Twelfth Amendment's formal transformation of the vice presidency should have led to a reconsideration of whether to provide succes- sorship to a vacated vice presidency. It was not until the Twenty-fifth Amend¬ ment, however, that such a basic reexamination took place, which resulted in a strongly affirmative decision. 6 The Twelfth Amendment also changed some of the procedures for House selec¬ tion of the president in the event that no presidential candidate secured an electoral vote majority. The number of leading candidates from whom the House could choose was reduced from five to three, and provision was made for the new vice president to become president if the House had not selected the president by March 4. (The Twentieth Amendment added the earlier deadline of January 20, at which date the vice president would become acting president if the House had not chosen a president.) 7 For a full analysis of the inhospitability of the American political system to "president-like" vice presidents, see my Unchosen Presidents: The Vice Presi¬ dent and Other Frustrations of Presidential Succession (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976). 8 David Harris, "Understanding Mondale," New York Times Magazine, June 19, 1983, 32. 394 Notes 9 As indicated earlier, Congress turned down President Truman's recommendation for provisional successorship and a special presidential election. 10 It is arguable, however, that Nixon might not have chosen to resign had his successor actually been the House Speaker, rather than the appointed vice presi¬ dent, fellow Republican Gerald Ford. Had he not resigned, Nixon's ability to complete his presidential term would have turned on the willingness of the House to impeach him and of the Senate to convict him of the impeachment charges. 11 The vice presidency will still be unoccupied for the period from the date of vacancy until the postconfirmation date of the appointee's assumption of office. 12 Consideration also should be given to fixing a time limit (perhaps thirty days) for the president to submit a nominee, and to establish comparable procedures to cover the situation of congressional rejection of a nominee and the need for the president to submit another nomination. 13 A technical question would arise if a nomination were submitted close to the midterm elections and both houses of Congress were unable to complete the confirmation process by early January, when the newly elected Congress began its session. Would a nomination approved by the previous House or Senate hold for the new House or Senate? 14 The Whigs m 1840 and the Republicans in 1864 named a Democrat as vice presidential nominee in an effort to increase their voting strength. In the latter instance the Republicans even abandoned their name temporarily—during the Civil War—and became the Union party. In both cases the party won but the president died and the vice president, a member of the opposition party, suc¬ ceeded to the office. Since then, parties have avoided such strategic risks and have kept their vice presidential nominations within the party. 15 In the only two instances to date of a vice presidential nomination-and- confirmation process (1973 and 1974), neither presidential nor congressional behavior provided grounds for such concerns. One can reasonably expect that a president will nominate a member of his party and that Congress, even when controlled by the opposition party, will honor his right to do so. 16 For a fuller analysis of the proposal for an appointive vice presidency, from which the discussion here has been adapted, see my Unchosen Presidents, 90-110. 17 The present essay is not the appropriate place to consider alternative modes of presidential election. For analysis of that subject, see my "Basic Change Aborted: The Failure to Secure Direct Popular Election of the President, 1969-70," in A. P. Sindler, ed., Policy and Politics in America (Boston: Little, Brown, 1973)/ 31-80; and my "Should Direct National Election Replace the Electoral College System?" m A. P. Sindler ed., American Politics and Public Policy (Washington, D.C.: Congressional Quarterly Press, 1982), 3-41. 18 The original Constitution provided for House selection of the president (and the vice president) from the five candidates with the most electoral votes. The Twelfth Amendment confined the House to choosing the president from the leading three candidates and the Senate to designating the vice president from the leading two candidates. 19 A quorum requires two-thirds of the state delegations (thirty-four of fifty), but the Notes 395 presence in the House of just one member of a state's delegation is sufficient to qualify that delegation. 20 Two-thirds of the total number of senators (sixty-seven of one hundred) consti¬ tutes a quorum. 21 Feerick, The Twenty-fifth Amendment, 26, strongly urges this change. 22 This account is drawn from William Safire, "Ignoring Section 4," New York Times, June 6 , 1983; Safire's source, acknowledged in his column, is Laurence Barrett, Gambling with History: Ronald Reagan in the White House (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1983). 23 Each major party would also name a replacement if its presidential nominee died before the November election. 24 The unsettled constitutional question runs in the opposite direction, namely, can electors be bound by statutes, like those adopted in almost half the states, to vote for the national candidates of their party. 25 I am indebted to the following two sources for calling attention to this problem and the opposing arguments: Stephen Fuzesi, Jr., "A Gap in the Succession Laws," Wall Street Journal, November 16, 1976; and Walter Bems et ah, "After the People Vote: Steps in Choosing the President," American Enterprise Institute, Wash¬ ington, D.C., 1980, 18-21. Index Achia, Grayling, 195 Adams, John, 43, 120, 150, 337 Adenauer, Konrad (German chancel¬ lor), 65 Afghanistan, 32, 287 Africa, 57 Agnew, Spiro, 139, 204, 342, 347 Agriculture, Department of, 61 Alaska, 103, 105 Albert, Carl, 347 Aldrich, John, 6, 12, 149 Alexander, Herbert, 229, 232, 234, 236, 238, 239, 240, 254, 278 Alien and Sedition Acts, 36 Allende, Salvador (Chilean president), 50 Allison, Graham, 77 American Coalition for Traditional Values, 107 The American Commonwealth, 43, 120, 152 American Enterprise Institute, 46 American Medical Association pac (ampac), 275 American Revolution, 36, 40, 120, 125 Anderson, John, 45, 228, 278, 289, 290, 291 Arizona, 204 Arkansas, 197 Aron, Raymond, 43 Arthur, Chester A., 346 Ashbrook, John, 148 Asher, Herb, 8, 12 Ashmorc-Goodell bill, 249-50 Asia, 47, 57 Askew, Reubin, 149, 199 Aspen Institute Ruling, 307-8 al-Assad, Hafez (Syrian president), 27 Assembly of the Fourth Republic, 66 Australia, 90 Australian ballot, 269, 373 n.41 Bain, Richard, 162 Baker, Howard, 137, 146, 230, 244 Baker, James, 145 Barber, Benjamin, 76 Barber, James David, 9, 10, 149 Barkley, Alben, 342 Barre, Raymond (French prime minister), 66-67 Batten, Barton, Durstine and Osborn (bbd&o), 191, 205 Bavaria, 65 Bay of Pigs, 48 Bayh, Birch, 365 Beal, Richard, 195 Beckel, Robert, 199 Beijing, 202 Benham, Thomas, 201 Beniger, James, 7, 8, 164 Berelson, Bernard, 312 Berlin, 21, 65 Bernstein, Marver, 280 Beverly Hills, 34 Bismarck, Otto von (German chancel¬ lor), 36 Black, Charles, 266 Blaine, lames G., 43 Blumenthal, W Michael, 128 Bogota, 34 Bonn, 38, 39, 64-65 398 Index Boschwitz, Rudy, 128 Boston, 192 Bourne, Peter, 217 Bradley, Bill, 146 Bradley, Tom, 145 Brandt, Willy (German chancellor), 20, 65 Bricker, John, 342 British civil service, 66 Broder, David, 152, 299 Brookings Institution, 46 Brown, Jerry, 131, 146 Bryan, William Jennings, 36, 42, 159 Bryce, James, 43, 120, 152 Brzezinski, Zbigniew, 128 Buchanan, James, 379 n.31 Buckley, James L., 254 Buckley V. Valeo, 225, 226, 238, 241, 243, 251, 253, 254-56, 263, 38on.49 Budget deficit, 20 Buenos Aires, 34 Bumpers, Dale, 146, 197 Bundesrat, 65 Bundestag, 64 Burger, Warren (chief justice), 255 Burnham, Walter Dean, 174, 370 n.ii, 370 n.14, 373 n.41 Burr, Aaron, 43, 337 Bush, George: candidate pac, 229, 230, 231; debates, 289, 300; news coverage of, 317; nomination campaign, 175, 193, 197; and public financing, 278; as soft money raiser, 235; as vice presi¬ dential candidate, 209, 339, 341; as vice president, 341, 343; vice president as presidential candidate, 139, 148, 341, 343 Caddell, Patrick, 296; and focus group surveys, 196; and the Hart campaign, 192, 217-18; influence in 1976 cam¬ paign, 212; and issues in 1976 cam¬ paign, 203, 207; and the 1980 media campaign, 204, 229; as presidential pollster, 8; and tracking polls, 210 Calhoun, John C., 35, 344 California, 81, loi, 103, 173, 197, 203, 237, 299, 315 Callaghan, James (British prime min¬ ister), 62, 63 Campaign finance: campaign costs, 72, 276-77; and candidate-centered cam¬ paigns, 226-31, 242; candidate pacs, 229-30; and Congress, 233, 243; con¬ tributions from foreigners, 50-51, 367 n.22; delegate committees, 238-40; Democratic party, 233, 270-71, 272; direct mail fund-raising, 248, 272, 275, 276, 278, 279; draft committees, 267-68; and groups, 273-76; indepen¬ dent expenditures, 225, 226, 228-42, 248, 254, 263-67, 275, 277, 281; party spending, 231, 233, 234, 270-73; and party strengthening, 270-71; and party weakening, 174, 224-25, 269-70; public financing, 9, 199, 222, 224, 226-29, 242, 250-51, 253-54, ^56, 258, 272, 278-79; reforms of, 5, 8-9, 13, 32, 146, 157, 158, 224-42; Repub¬ lican party, 232-33, 241, 243, 272-73; small donors, 158, 277; soft money, 233-34, 235, 237, 271; state and local parties, 225, 234-35, 257-58; and the Supreme Court, 225, 226, 241, 242, 247, 250, 252, 254-55, ^65. See also Federal Election Campaign Act; Fed¬ eral Election Commission Campaign Finance Study Group, 250, 261, 276, 278 Campaign for Prosperity, 230 Campaigns, candidate-centered, 158,174, 191, 200-201, 226, 242; campaign organization, 70; consultants, 9, 198-200, 216-18, 280; and PACS, 221; and party reform, 222. See also Cam¬ paign finance; Nomination process; Polling Campaigns, party, 231-37. See also Democratic party; Political parties. Republican party Camp David Domestic Summit, 287 Canada, 47, 71, 112 Candidates, presidential: career patterns of, 4, 6, 53-55, 132.-40, 141-46, 163-64, 168-70, 172, 173-78; con¬ stitutional requirements for, 6, 53, 121-28; eleven-year citizenship amend¬ ment, 128, 151, 378 n.7; social back¬ grounds of, 129-32, 162-63, 167-68, 169, 380 n.41; voter dissatisfaction with, 80. See also individual candidates Canton, 34 Cantril, Albert H., 383 Cantril, Hadley, 190 Index 399 Caracas, 34 Carter, limmy: administration of, ii, 183, 218; campaign spending, 229; candidacy announced, 148; candidate- centered campaign of, 216-17; career pattern of, 59, 134, 136, 146, 178; choice of vice presidential candidate, 2.09, 339; conscience themes in 1976 campaign of, 287, 290; debates, 308; difficulties with Congress, 217, 246, 287; effects on Mondale of association with, 343; efforts to appear well informed, 48; fec complaint, 238; for¬ eign policy of, 3, 25, 26, 41; general election campaign of, 203, 207, 217, 304; hostage crisis, 288; independent expenditures for, 241; Israeli efforts to defeat, 45; leader of the free world, 32; negative campaign against Reagan, 292, 294-96; nomination acceptance speech, 291; primary campaign of, 164, 207; and public financing, 278; public view of, 8, 43; Puritanism of, 291; ranking as president, 150; Rose Garden strategy, 54; showing in polls, 197, 198; social characteristics of, 131, 132; spots ads against Kennedy, 204-5; use of polls, 192-93, 210-n, 212; use of vice president, 341, 343 Castro, Fidel, 34 Catholic Church, 36 Caucuses. See Primaries and caucuses CBS, 315, 318, 319 Center for Political Studies, 220 Center for Public Financing of Elec¬ tions, 254 Chaban-Delmas, [acques (French prime minister), 66 Chad, 38 Chagall, David, 211 Chancellor of the Exchequer, 62, 63 Chicago, 209 Chile, so Chirac, [acques (French prime minister), 66-67 Chisholm, Shirley, 131 Chisholm v. Federal Communications Commission (fcc), 307 Christian Democratic Union (cdu), 71 Christian Science Monitor, 45 Christian Social Union (csu), 65 Churchill, Winston, 62, 63, 215 Citizens for the Republic, 229 Citizens Research Foundation, 250 Civic education, 6, 78 Clay, Henry, 40, 42, 43 Cleveland, 101 Coll, Ed, 131 Collar, Donald, 164 Cologne, 65 Colorado, 109 Commitment '80, 232 Committee for the Future of America, 230 Committee of Detail, 123 Committee on Postponed Matters, 122, 123, 124, 125 Committee to Re-elect the President (creep), 216 Common Cause, 250, 254 Communications Act, 306; Section 315 (equal time provision), 102, 306-9, 315 / 3 ^ 7 / 390 n.13, 391 n.40. See also Fairness Doctrine Communism, 283, 284 Communist party, 39 Congress, 137, 142; and business inter¬ ests, 274; ^ud campaign finance regu¬ lation, 249, 250, 255-56, 262, 267-68; congressional reforms, 96; and labor interests, 275; and the New Right, 275; and the presidential selection process, 127; and Reagan, 183; the Second Congress, 334-35. See also House of Representatives; Senate Congressional Government, 35 Connally, [ohn, i8, 227, 229, 289 Connecticut, 197, 250 Conservative party (British), 62 Constitution, U.S., 6, 10, 123, 124, 143, 150, 253, 332; Article I, ii, 346; Article II, 10, ii, 122-23, ^26, 151, 333-34, 345; framers of, 11; and presi¬ dential eligibility, 121-29; and presi¬ dential selection, ii, 332, 333-35, 336. See also Individual amendments Conventions, political party. See Nomi¬ nation process Converse, Philip, 373 n.41 Coolidge, Calvin, 70, 138 Corwin, Edward, 123 Council of Economic Advisers, 58, 61 Council on Foreign Relations, 24 Cox, [ames M., 285 Crane, Philip, 289 400 Index Cranston, Alan, 138, 148, 199 Crimean War, 36 Cronin, Thomas, 129, 150 Crouse, Timothy, 312 Cuba, 34 Cuomo, Mario, 194 Cyprus, 46 Dahrendorf, Rail, 2, 3, 4, 13 Dailey, Peter, 206 Daley, Richard, 158, 209 Dam, Kenneth, 70 Daudet, Hazel, 312 David, Paul, 162 Davis, lames, 164 Deaver, Michael, 296 Debates, nomination, 193, 284, 289, 309 Debates, presidential, 26-27, 102, 303, 307, 322-24; coverage of, 323; exempt¬ ed from the equal time rule, 308; format of, 325-26; in 1976, 294-95, 308; in 1980, 300; and polls, 324; postdebate analyses, 324 Debre, Michel (French prime minister), 67, 68 Debs, Eugene, 43 Declaration of Independence, 77 Defense, Department of, 29 Demociacy in America, 1 20 Democratic party, 3, 6, 59, 108, in, 174-75, 179, 183, 217, 270; campaign spending, 270-71, 272-73; conven¬ tions, 53, 158, 159, 183, 223; Demo¬ cratic National Committee (dnc), 217, 223, 232, 236; Fairness Commission, 223; fund-raising, 232-33, 277; inde¬ pendent expenditures for, 241; and interest groups, 266, 275; McGovern- Fraser Commission, 156, 157, 165; platform committee, 203; rules changes, 223, 269, 369 n,i8; super¬ delegates, 223; two-thirds rule, 166. See also Nomination process; Political parties Dependencia, 38 Depression, 40, 166 Detente, U.S.-Soviet, 203 Detroit, 292, 293 Deukmejian, George, loi Dewey, Thomas E., 59, 190, 191 Dietrich, Paul, 238 District of Columbia, 43, no Dodd, Thomas, 250 Dole, Elizabeth, 145 Dole, Robert, 209, 229, 230, 342 Douglas, Stephen, 36 Douglas-Home, Sir Alec (British prime minister), 62 Drew, Elizabeth, 230, 235, 236, 238, 276, 292, 295, 389 n.31 Eagleton, Thomas, 128, 151, 342 Eastern Europe, 44 Ecole Nationale d'Administration (ena), 66 Economist, 32 Eden, Sir Anthony (British prime min¬ ister), 62 Edsall, Thomas, 233, 236, 239 EEC (European Economic Community), 38, 58 Eisenhower, Dwight: administration of, 41, 199, 296; campaign image of, 201; and campaign polls, 191, 205; career pattern of, 7, 59, 61, 68, 134; con¬ science theme in 1952 campaign of, 284; disability agreement with Nixon, 358; periods of illness, 358, 365; presi¬ dential ranking, 150; Republican nom¬ ination, 49; social background of, 132; and TV advertising, 205; and the two- term limit, 128; two-term presidency of, 344; voter approval of, 43 Elections, 2, 3; functions of, 75-78; recurring themes in, 9—10, 284—96 Electoral college, 10, ii, 33, 124, 151, 195; deadlocked elections, 354—57; faithless electors, 13, 395 n.24; and political parties, 337; and the vice presidency, 336-37; and the 1796 elec¬ tion, 337; and the 1800 election, 337—38; and the 1804 election, 338 Entebbe, 38 Equal time rule. See Communications Act Erhard, Ludwig (German chancellor), 64 Europe, 4, 5, 7, 12, 21, 33, 36, 57, 90-92 Fabias, Laurent (French prime minister), 66—67 "Face the Nation" (a news interview program), 306 Fairness Commission. See Democratic party Index 401 Fairness Doctrine, 306, 309-11 Falklands, 38 Falwell, Rev. Jerry, 291 Farrakhan, Louis, 317 Farrand, Max, 124 Federal Communications Commission (fcc), 102, 307, 308, 310, 327 Federal Convention, 1787, 122—28 Federal Election Campaign Act (feca), 224, 247, 249; and campaign costs, 276—79; and the centralization of cam¬ paigns, 259-60, 270, 282; and compli¬ ance procedures, 262-63; contribution limits, 252-53, 259-60, 270-71, 277; effects on candidates and parties, 247, 251, 252-53, 268-73, 282; effects on Congress, 247; effects on the presiden¬ tial selection process, 247, 258-68; expenditure limits, 260-62, 272—73; history of, 248 — 52; intent of, 260; and length of campaign, 259; matching provisions of, 259; 1974 amendments, ^56-57; 1976 amendments, 256-57; 1979 amendments, 257-58; objectives of, 279-80; and the primary season, 260-62; provisions of, 251-52. See also Campaign finance Federal Election Commission, 227, 231, 236, 237, 238, 240, 242; creation of, 250, 253-54; duties of, 253 — 54; and Mondale draft committees, 268; 1979 FECA amendments, 257, 258; 1983-84 election report, 276-77; and public finance, 251, 255; and the quarterly election report, 252. See also Cam¬ paign finance Federal Election Commission Record, 220, 231, 233 Federal Election Commission v. National Conservative Political Action Commit¬ tee (ncpac) et ah, 226, 243 Federalist, no. 64, 125, 126 Federalist, no. 72, 126 Federalist party, 120, 337-38, 345-46 Federal Republic of Germany. See West Germany Federal Reserve Board, 58, 61 Feerick, John D., 393 11.4 Feinstein, Diane, 45 Ferraro, Geraldine, 34, 144, 201, 300, Fifth Republic, 66 Fillmore, Millard, 349 Finchem, Tim, 239 First Amendment, 5, 104, 106, 241, ^54-55, 306, 309 Florida, 192-93, 207 Ford, Gerald; appointed vice president, 347; and campaign finance legislation, 254; career pattern of, 59, 134, 178; challenged by Reagan, 203-4; choice of vice presidential candidate, 209, 342; conscience themes in campaign of, 287, 290; debates, 308; Eastern Europe remarks, 317; issues in cam¬ paign, 304; political advertising, 320; presidential ranking, 150; social back¬ ground of, 132; unelected president, 55, 138; as vice presidential nominee, 292; voter view of, 201 Foreign policy. See Policy: foreign Foreign Service, 46 Foreigners, interests of, 1—4; accommo¬ dation of in presidential selection pro¬ cess, 41-52; and campaign contribu¬ tions, 50-52; contemporary, 37; for¬ eign news coverage of U.S. elections, 32-35, 366 n.5; historical, 35-36; in presidential election, 32-35; and pres¬ idential primaries, 48-50 Foot, Michael, 71 Fourteenth Amendment, 127, 255 France, 4, 20, 21, 33, 37, 38, 47 , 54 - 55 , 56-68 Frankfurt, 38 Franklin, Benjamin, 150 Frederick Augustus (English prince), 123, 125 Ereeman, Jo, 237 French civil service, 66, 68 French presidents and prime ministers, 66 — 68, 69 Fund for America's Future, 230 Fund for a Gonservative Majority, 238, 239, 241, 265 Gaitskcll, Hugh, 62, 63 Galbraith, John Kenneth, 128 Gallup, George, 189, 190, 191, 205 Gallup poll. See Polls Garfield, lames, 346 Gaulle, Charles dc (French president), 66, 67, 68 General Accounting Office, 249 402 Index George II (English king), 42 George III (English king), 123 Georgetown Center for Strategic and International Studies, 24 Georgetown University, 288 Gephardt, Richard, 145 German chancellors, 64-66, 71 German Democratic Republic, 20, 21 German Foreign Ministry, 33 Giscard d'Estaing, Valery (French presi¬ dent), 66, 67 Giuffra, Robert, 7, 8 Glen, Maxwell, 230 Glenn, John, 146, 149, 199, 218, 300 Goldman, Ralph, 162 Goldwater, Barry, 42, 47, 136, 158, 165, 199, 201, 204, 293, 318, 374 n.54 Gordon, Charles, 127 Grandy, Fred, 146 Grant, Ulysses, 42, 120, 125 Gray, Homer, 127 Great Britain, 4, 20, 21, 27, 32-38, 42, 47, 54-56, 58, 62-64, 125, 321, 322 Greater Houston Ministerial Associa¬ tion, 143 Greece, 35 Greeley, Horace, 42 Greenfield, Jeff, 201 Greider, William, 290, 293 Gromyko, Andrei, 45, 317 Haig, Alexander, 145 Hall, Leonard, 199 Hamburg, 33, 38 Hamilton, Alexander, 123, 126, 338, 345 Hanna, Mark, 43 Harding, Warren, 43-44, 284-86, 292, 296, 298, 344 Harriman, Averell, 27 Harris, Louis, 189, 191, 200, 202, 206, 210, 211, 212 Harris poll. See Polls Harrison, William Henry, 335 Hart, Gary; antiparty campaign, 217; campaign funds, 199, 259; candidacy announced, 149; career pattern of, 146; challenge of Mondale, 239, 300; com¬ plaint to FEC, 240; Iowa caucus, 33; issues in nomination campaign, 318; as McGovern campaign manager, 192,- and the Mondale draft committee, 268; resignation from Senate, 137; strong nomination showing, 197; strong poll showing and its influence on delegates, 197 Harvard University, 192 Hatch Act, 249 Hawaii, 103, 105 Hays, Wayne, 253 Heard, Alexander, 281 Heath, Edward (British prime minister), 62 Helms, lesse, 146, 275 Hendricks, Thomas, 346 Henkel, Oliver, 199 Heritage Foundation, 24 Herter, Christian, 127 Hoffman, David, 239 Hollings, Ernest, 149, 230 Holtzman, Elizabeth, 50 Hoover, Herbert, 127, 134 House Administration Committee, 253, 257 House Judiciary Committee, 50 House of Commons, 62 House of Representatives, US., 105, 106, 163, 164; and campaign finance reform, 254; and electoral college deadlock, 337-38, 346, 354-57; and foreign policy, 24 Howe, Russell, 46 Human serve, 107 Humphrey, Hubert H.: career pattern of, 60, 136, 139; labor support of, 207; multiple candidacies, 167; and party reforms, 158; m preconvention polls, 199-200; primary campaigning, 165; use of polling, 192, 204; vice presiden¬ tial candidacy of, 339; a vice president as presidential candidate, 341, 343 Huntington, Samuel, 369 n.i lacocca, Lee, 145 Idaho, 109, 113 Illinois, 158, 289 Independent expenditures. See Cam¬ paign finance India, 44 Indiana, 173, 197 Indiana primary, 202 Interest groups, 2, 7, 9, 28, 220-21, 233; business, 9, 274, 280-81; and cam¬ paign finance, 234, 235; and the Dem¬ ocratic party, 266; and the electoral process, 77, 95-98; and the Federal Index 403 Election Campaign Act, 247-48; and foreign policy, 24, 28-29, 46; and get- out-the-vote drives, 272, 273-74; inde¬ pendent expenditures, 264; labor, 266; New Right, 265, 266-67, 274, 275; and political parties, 272; and the 1984 pre¬ nomination campaign, 273-74; and the presidency, 273-76; and the Repub¬ lican party, 266; shifts in power among, 280-81. See also Political Action Committees International political system, 16, 19, 23, ^5 Iowa, 71, 193, 197, 260 Iowa caucuses. See Primaries and caucuses Iran, 198, 210, 286, 294 Iranian arms sale, 301 Ireland, 36, 46, 47 Israel, 3, 36, 37, 38, 45, 46, 49 Jackson, Andrew, 35, 42, 118, 134, 150 Jackson, Lady Barbara Ward, 37 Jackson, Henry, 160 Jackson, Rev. Jesse: antiparty campaign, 217; and black church leaders, 273; and black voter registration, 107, 148; campaign funds, 199; candidacy announced, 149; career pattern of, 146; challenge of Mondale, 300; and in¬ creased black voter turnout, 223; refer¬ ence to Jews, 317; trip to Syria, 27 Japan, 37, 38, 44 Javits, Jacob, 275 Jay, John, 123, 125, 126 Jefferson, Thomas, 120, 150, 154, 337, 345 Jerusalem, 49 Johnson, Andrew, 346 Johnson, Haynes, 291 Johnson, Lyndon B.: and campaign finance reform, 249; career pattern of, 55, 60, 136; and civil rights, 144; and the "Daisy Spot" ad, 204; disability agreements with Kennedy and McCor¬ mack, 358; as leader of the free world, 32; and the New Hampshire primary, 197; nomination challenges to, 198, 202; opposed by George Wallace, 147; reelected, 43; social background of, 131, 132; use of polls, 191; vice presi¬ dential candidacy of, 143, 339/ 34i Joint Economic Committee of Con¬ gress, 61 Jordan, Hamilton, 217, 292 Jus sanguinis clause, 127 Kavanagh, Dennis, 7 Kayden, Xandra, 8, 9 Keech, William, 129 Keeter, Scott, 160 Kefauver, Estes, 165 Kelley, Peter, 209 Kelly-Mirer rule, 160 Kemp, Jack, 145, 146, 230 Kennedy, Edward, 156, 159, 198, 209, 230, 238-39, 267, 287, 288-89, 342 Kennedy, John E: appeal as candidate, 27; appointment of a campaign finance commission, 249; as a candidate chosen by the public, 160-61; career pattern of, 136, 146; choice of vice presidential candidate, 209, 339; disability agree¬ ment with Johnson, 358; efforts to appear knowledgeable, 48; incomplete term of, 144, 344; Kennedy-Nixon debate, 323; public campaign of, 158, 165; social background of, 131, 132, 141, 142, 143; use of polls, 189, 191, 196, 201, 210, 2II-I2; West Virginia primary, 207 Kennedy, Robert E, 158, 197, 202, 207 Kiesinger, K. G., 65 Kinnock, Neil, 63, 64 Kirkpatrick, Jeane, 145, 152 Kissinger, Henry, 6, 21, 128, 129, 292 Kohl, Helmut (German chancellor), 27, 28, 65 Korea, 41, 201, 205, 284 Labour party (British), 62, 63 Laender, 65 LaFollette, Robert, 166 Lardner, George, 239 Lasswell, Harold, 149 Latin America, 34, 57 Law of the Seas Conference, 17-18, 22, 25 Lazarsfcld, Paul, 312 Leadership, 5, 43, 70, 283; in a democ¬ racy, 5 3; executive, 55 League of Nations, 40, 285, 286 League of Women Voters, 50, 103, 254/ 307 404 Index Lehrman, Lew, 194 Leubsdorf, Carl, 312 Lewis, Flora, 33 Liberal party (Canada), 71 Libya, 39 Lima, 34 Lincoln, Abraham, 120 Lippman, Walter, 214, 312, 318 Lipset, Seymour Martin, 77, 369 n.i Lodge, Henry Cabot, 27, 40, 341 Long, Russell, 250 Louisiana, 250 Lubalm, Eve, 136 Macmillan, Harold (British prime min¬ ister), 62, 63 McCarthy, Eugene, 147, 158, 197, 198, 209, 254 McCloskey, Paul, 148 McCormack, Ellen, 148 McCormack, lohn, 358 McGarry John, 227 McGovern, George: and campaign issues, 203, 318; career pattern of, 136, 178; choice of a vice presidential candidate, 342; defeat of, 42, 271; and excessive nationalism, 47; and the Fairness Doc¬ trine, 310; and the new isolationism, 41; nominated independent of party leaders, 158; nomination campaign of, 148, 199; poll showings, 197; presiden¬ tial campaign of, 192, 193; primary campaign of, 164 McGovem-Fraser Gommission. See Democratic party McIntyre, Tom, 198 McKinley, William, 132, 344 Madison, lames, 120, 122, 124 Maine, in, 192 Malbm, Michael, 264, 389 n.31 Manhattan, 34 Mankiewicz, Frank, 203 Markham, James, 34 Marshall, Thomas, 358 Marshall, Thurgood (justice), 265 Martin, Terence, 296 Massachusetts, 227, 261 Le Matin, 34 Matthews, Donald, 129 Mauroy, Pierre (French prime minister), 66 May, Ernest, 2, 3,4, 13 Means, Cyril, 123 Mecca, 38 Media, i, 2, 5, 7, 9-10, 12, 55, 145, 146, 162, 166, 174, 392. n.50; broadcasters as voters' trustees, 304, 305, 311, 314, 329; and campaign coverage, 311-14; and candidate advocacy broadcasts, 324-28; and candidate agendas, 316-20; and candidate-centered campaigns, 219, 302; and citizen information, 283-84; and democratic discourse, 283 — 84; desirable improve¬ ments in political broadcasts, 314-15; and early election projections, 103-6; election news, 306-9; and extent of tv set ownership, 190-91; journalists and issues, 318-19; and the national con¬ ventions, 303, 307, 328; and negative attitudes toward politics, i02; non¬ commercial television, 328; postdebate analyses, 324; proposals for new-style TV broadcasts, 324-29; and Reagan gaffes, 299, 301; and voter turnout, 102-6, 375 n.57; and the weakening of political parties, 178, 219, 243, 302. See also Political advertising Media consultants, 204, 206 "Meet the Press" (a news interview program), 306, 317 Mexico, 42, 47, 288 Miami, 192 Michigan, 207 Michigan caucuses, 231 Middle East, 34, 57 Miller, William, 342 Milwaukee, 101 Minnesota, 108, iii, 112, 198 Missouri, 235 Mitterrand, Eran^ois (French presi¬ dent), 66 Mondale, Walter: candidate-centered campaign, 217; candidate pac, 230; career pattern of, 60, 139; choice of vice presidential candidate, 201; con¬ sulted by Gromyko, 45, 317; delegate committees, 239, 24O; as early front¬ runner and fund-raising, 198-99; for¬ eign support for, 33, 34; independent expenditures for, 239, 264; nomination challengers of, 300; and organized labor, 273; as out-of-office candidate, 137; primary campaign of, 194, 228; in trial-heat poll with Bumpers, 197; as Index 405 vice president, 341, 343; vice presiden¬ tial candidacy of, 150 Montevideo, 34 Moral Majority, 272, 273, 291 Morris, Robert, 123 Moscow, 202 Mott, Stewart, 254 Munich, 65 Murville, Couve de (French prime min¬ ister), 66, 67 Muskie, Edmund, 192, 200, 341 National Assembly (French), 68 National Committee for an Effective Congress, 250 National Conservative Political Action Committee (ncpac), 241, 265, 279 National primary, 12, 71, 72 National security adviser, 29 National Security Council, 25, 29 NATO, 38, 61 Naturalization Act, 127 Navy, Department of the, 61 Nazism, 283 NBC, 104 Nebraska, 197 Nelson, Michael, 6, 13 Neustadt, Richard, 287 New Deal, 173, 175, 269, 288 New Hampshire, 33, 71, 131, 143, 192, 193, 197/ 198, 200, 206, 289 New Hampshire primary. See Primaries and caucuses New Jersey, 103 Newsweek, 290, 293 New York, 81, 194 New York Times, 133 New Zealand, 90 Nie, Norman, 93 Nixon, Richard: candidate-centered cam¬ paign, 216-17; career pattern of, 4, 60, 61, 136, 139, 178, 342; choice of a vice presidential candidate, 209, 342; com¬ pared to Reagan, 301; cynical geopoli¬ tics of, 3, 2S; debate with Kennedy, 323; disability agreement with Eisen¬ hower, 358; dollars-to-gold policy, 18, 22; foreign policy accomplishments of, 44-45; incomplete term of, 344, 347; McCloskcy's challenge of, 148; mul¬ tiple candidacies of, 167; nomination campaign, 168, 197, 200, 208; presi¬ dential ranking, 150; public reaction to, 214; reelected, 43,- resignation of, 55 / 333 / 344 n iO; and the Smithsonian Agreement, 19; social background of, 132; and trade policy, 18, 22; and the two-term limit, 129; use of polls, 192, 202, 210; and Watergate, 286, 287, 290; and weak partisanship in presidential campaign, 299—300 Noble, John, 235 Nomination process, 7, 12, 13, 43, 71, 137, 150, 166; and campaign finance regulations, 259, 260-62, 267-68, 269—70; democratization of, 153 — 54; effects of rules on, 155-57, 158-59, 161, 162, 178, 182-84; length of, 71-72, 259; and party conventions, 2, 12, 50, 71-73, 180, 202, 208-9, a72, 278, 279, 328; as preparation for gov¬ erning, 53-55, 73; and television, 166, 309, 327-28. See also Primaries and caucuses Nomination systems, historical: 1876-96, 158, 166, 171, 172, 176, 178, 180; 1912-32, 166, 171, 172 / 174/ 176, 178, 180, 181; 1952-68, 165, 171, 172, 174 / 175 / 176, 178, 180; 1972-84, 165, 171, 172, 174, 175, 176, 178, 180, 181 North Africa, 34 North Dakota, 113 Nuclear Test Ban Treaty, 204 O'Connor, Archbishop John, 317 O'Connor, Sandra Day (justice), 145 Office of Management and Budget, 58 Ohio, 173, 207, 237 Operation Big Vote, 107 Opinion Research Corporation (orc), 192 Oregon, 111 Orlando, 192 Orrcn, Gary, 5, 12 Ostpolitik. See West Germany Owen, David, 64 Page, Benjamin, 130, 154, 317 Palm Beach, 192 Panama Canal Treaty, 203, 212 Paris, 34, 68 Paris Peace Conference, 40 Parliament, British, 62, 63, 64, 321 Parliament, Canadian, 71 Parliament, German, 64 406 Index Parliamentary democracies, 26, 27, 29, 53 - 55 , 56, 58 Party government, 56 Patterson, Thomas, 9, ro, 12 Paulsen, Pat, 131 Peabody, Robert, 133, 136 Pennsylvania, 39, 207 Pennsylvania Gazette, 125 Pennsylvania primary, 194 People's Republic of China, 34, 37, 38, 44 , 46 Percy, Charles, 146 Persia, 35 Petracca, Mark, 130 Pinckney, Charles, 122, 337 Pitt, William (earl of Chatham), 42 Plante, Bill, 318-19 Playboy, 317 Poland, 20 Policy: domestic, 4, 15, 16, 22, 27; eco¬ nomic, 55, 58-59, 61, 70; foreign, 2-4, 15 — 16, 18, 19—20, 21, 22-29, 34, 40-41, 44-46, 57-58, 61, 68, 70, 95, 136-37, 203; trade, 38-39 Politburo, 39 Political Action Committees (pacs), 51, 98, 233, 246, 372 n.34; business, 281; contributions to congressional candi¬ dates, 277; and contribution limits, 256; direct contributions to primary candidates, 273; growth of, 220; labor's concern over corporate pacs, 257- See also Interest groups Political advertising, 7, 191, 192, 194, 201, 202, 205, 206, 302, 303, 392 n.45; and campaign costs, 224, 229, 249, 252, 276, 303; credibility of, 321; and the Democratic party, 232; as a plat¬ form for candidates, 320-21; and polls, 191; proposals to ban, 321; and the Republican party, 232; and voter infor¬ mation, 276. See also Media Political Information Systems (pins), 195 Political parties, 2, 7, 8, 9, 10, ii, 71, 103, 166, 246, 283; activists, i, 2, 77, 96-98, 217, 266, 267; and campaigns, 7, 8, 10, 217, 218, 224, 225, 231-37, 268-69, 270-71, 272; coalitions, 158, 184, 246, 274, 275, 282; development of, 337-38; in government, 245-46, 282; and nominations, 133, 135, 138—40, 145, 152, 242; in parliamen¬ tary systems, 54, 69, 71, 73, 332; party leaders, 7, 8, 9, 158, 168, 170-71, 173-74, 209, 223-24, 229, 244, 250; party strengthening measures, 234-35, 243; rules changes by, 157, 158, 161-62, 221-24, 389 n.29; state and local, 162, 217, 221-22, 224, 225, 229, 733, 2.37, 257-58, 260, 271-72; weakening of, 8, 96-99, 155, 162, 174, 178, 218-25, 242-44. See also Demo¬ cratic party; Nomination process; Republican party Polk, lames K., 36, 42 Polls: and computers, 194; consumer polls, 190; and democracy, 214-15; and fund-raising, 198-99; Gallup polls, 56, 129, 131, 133, 141, 164, 198, 199, 200, 201, 208, 214—15, 287; Harris polls, 197, 208; and House candidates, 191; lohn Kraft poll, 203; Literary Digest poll, 190; new applications of, 194; New York Times poll, 33; nomina¬ tions and, 208; polls, television, and candidate image, 200; primary cam¬ paigns and, 189, 193; private polls, 194, 200; public opinion polling, 78, 162, 189; Senate candidates and, 191; types of, 8, 195, 196, 197, 206, 208, 209, 210-11; uses of, 189, 190-95, 196, 199, 200, 202-4, 205-9, 211-15. See also Public opinion Pollsters, 7, 8, 9; as presidential advisers, 8, 212-13. See also Polls Polsby Nelson, 182-83, 221 Pomper, Gerald, 295, 304, 316 Pompidou, Georges, 67, 68 Postal service, 115 Powell, G. Bingham, 373 n.43, 373 n.44 Powell, Jody, 217 Presidential Campaign Fund, 94 Presidential disability, ii, 357; the acting president, 357-58; and cabinet heads, 359; and Congress, 357 - 59 ; and the public, 359-61; role of the vice presi¬ dent, 358-59. See also Presidential succession Presidential mandate, 11 Presidential succession, 6, 10-11; advan¬ tages of U.S. procedures, 333; and cab¬ inet heads, 345-47, 356; and Chief Justice of Supreme Court, 340; dead¬ lock in the electoral college, ii; death Index 407 of the winning candidate, 361-63; with a double vacancy, 331-32; evalu¬ ation of current procedures, 347-54; presidential control of, 351-54; same- party control of, 348-51, 394 n.14, 394 n.i5; and special election, ii, 331-36, 393 n.i, 393 n.2. See also Presidential disability Presidential term, 10, 13, 128, 129, 151 Presidents: compared to prime ministers, 54-55; and foreign policy, 1-4, 23-26, 29-31, 69-70; and legislative leader¬ ship, 57; as party leader, 55, 56-57; performance rankings of, 150; presi¬ dential popularity, 55; and vice presi¬ dential appointments, 335-36, 349, 352, 394 n.ii, 394 n.i2, 394 n.13 Primaries and caucuses, i, 2, 12, 30, 36, 54, 71, 72, 133, 137, 158,160, 171, 249; delegates, 157, 159, 208, 223; and enhanced media influence, 223—24; and foreign policy issues, 48-52; interest group bias in caucuses, 223; Iowa caucuses, 34, 103, 222, 244, 288; and momentum, 161, 197, 381 n.6; New Hampshire primary, 197, 198, 222, 227, 243-44, 289; and party reforms, 221-23; primaries and polls, 191, 206; proliferation of primaries, 172, 174, 260-61; and public funding, 226, 242; Super Tuesday, 217; unrepre¬ sentative electorate in primaries, 223. See also Nomination process Prime ministers, 4, 368 n.5; career patterns of, 59, 62-68; compared to American presidents, 54-55; and eco¬ nomic policy, 58-59; as legislative leaders, S7i and national security policy, 58; as party leaders, 56, 62; and public opinion, 56; selection of, 70-71 Princeton University, 134, 190 Procter & Gamble, 276 Progressive Era, 35, 249, 250, 269 Project Democracy, 41 Proportional representation, 12 Public opinion, 8, 137; foreign influence on, 45-46; and presidential leadership, 212-15; and presidential popularity, 55, 56; and voter interest in foreign affairs, 47. See also Polls Puerto Rico, 288 The Pulse of Politics, 9, 284 Quadriad, 58 Rafshoon, Gerald, 217, 229 Rainbow Coalition, 272 Ranney, Austin, 152 Reagan, Ronald: and arms control, i, 26, 45; attacked by Carter, 292-93; cam¬ paign spending, 229; candidate pac, 229; career pattern of, 59, 134, 136, 146, 163, 168, 178, 298; choice of vice presidential candidate, 339, 342; con¬ ciliation themes in 1980 election, 286, 292-93, 294, 296; foreign policy posi¬ tions and voters, 42-43; foreign sup¬ port for, 33; independent expenditures for, 239, 240, 263-64; Iowa caucuses, 1980, 289; issue consistency, 8; issue strategy, 203; and the Law of the Seas Conference, 25; media advertising, 264; media coverage of, 318-19; multiple candidacies of, 175; and national strength, 41; new patriotism foreign policy of, 3; nomination unopposed, 82; out-of-office candidacy of, 175; presidency of, 301; presidential cam¬ paign of, 107, 108; primary campaign, 204, 228; primary debates, 289; social background of, 131, 132, 143; and soft money raising, 234, 235; temporary incapacity of, 360-61; tour of Britain, France, and Ireland, 47-48; unrealistic vision of America, lO; use of polls, 189, 193, 194, 210-11; use of vice president, 341, 343 Reagan-Bush Committee, 232 Regional primaries, 71, 244 Rehnquist, William (justice), 265 Representation, 6; British theory of vir¬ tual representation, 42 Republican National Committee (rnc). See Republican party Republican party, 7, 59, 128, 168, 174, 179, 201; campaign innovations, 194, 195; campaign spending, 270-71, 272; fund-raising advantage of, 232-33, 243, 277, 279; independent expendi¬ tures for, 241; and interest groups, 108, 226, 275; 195^ election, 40-41, 49; 1968 convention, 208; Republican National Committee (rnc), 199, 232, 235, 257, 266, 269-70, 272 Revenue Act, 250 408 Index Rhineland, 38 Richardson, Elliott, 27 Riesman, David, 298 Roberts, Steven V, 120 Robertson, Pat, 145, 230 Robinson, Michael, 317, 319 Rockefeller, Nelson, 165, 204, 208, 209, 342, 349-50 Rohatyn, Felix, 129 Roll, Charles W, ]r., 211 Romney, George, 127, 149, 197 Roosevelt, Franklin D., 43, 127, 128, 132, 150, 190, 211, 269, 294, 344 Roosevelt, Theodore, 42, 43, 148, 159, 166, 292 Rose, Richard, 4, 12 Rossiter, Clinton, 131 Rusk, lerrold, 373 n.41 Russell, Richard, 165 Saboto, Larry, 213, 320 SALT I Treaty, 44 SALT II Treaty, 25 San Francisco, 288 Santiago, 34 Sao Paulo, 34 Saudi Arabia, 38 Schapp, Milton, 388 n.14 Schattschneider, E. E., 202 Scheel (German foreign minister), 21 Schlesinger, Joseph, 146, 163 Schmidt, Helmut, 52 Schmitt, Harrison, 146 Schram, Martin, 218 Schroeder, Pat, 145 Schurz, Carl, 128 Schwartz, Tony, 204 Schweiker, Richard, 342 Screen Actors Guild, 315 Secretary of State, 6, 24, 345 The Selling of the President 1968, 192 Senate, U.S., 164, 174; and campaign committees, 256; and campaign finance reform, 254; and foreign policy, 23, 29, 30; president pro tempore of, 335, 340, 345, 346, 348-49; and vice presiden¬ tial electoral deadlock, 339, 356 Senate Finance Committee, 250 Senior Political Action Committee, 264 Seventeenth Amendment, 174 Shah of Iran, 288 Shays's Rebellion, 123 Sheehan, Margaret, 319 Shriver, Sargent, 342 Shultz, George, 70 Sindler, Allan, 11, 12 Single-member district, 12 Smithsonian Agreement, 19 Smolka, Richard, 255 Social Democratic party (British), 64 Social Science Index, 33 Social Security Act, 269 Sorenson, Theodore, 144 South Africa, 46 South America, 34, 57 South Asia, 34 South Carolina, 108, 112, 122, 289 South Korea, 37 Soviet Union, 20, 26, 37, 39, 44, 45, 301 Spanish-American War, 283 Sparkman, John, 342 Speaker of the House, 335, 340, 345, 347, 348, 356-57 Spectator, 32-33 Spencer, Stuart, 294, 299 Der Spiegel, 33 Stassen, Harold, 131 State, Department of, 19, 24, 29, 61 Steuben, Friedrich von (baron), 123 Stevenson, Adlai, 4, 61, 129, 164, 201, 301, 379 n.33 Strategic Defense Initiative (sDi), 22 Strauss, Franz Josef (German chancellor), 65, 66, 71 Stuttgarter Zeitung, 33 SunPac Decision, 256, 388 n. 13 Sweden, 44, 92 Switzerland, 90 Taft, Robert A., 40, 47, 165 Taft, William Howard, 159, 298 Taft-Hartley Act, 249 Taiwan, 37 Teeter, Robert, 201 Teheran, 287 Tel Aviv, 49 Television. See Media Television and Politics (a documen¬ tary), 307 Temin, Peter, 35 Tet offensive, 197 Texas, 81, 209, 235 Thach, Charles, 123 Thatcher, Margaret (British prime min- Index 409 ister), 27, 28, 58, 62, 64 Third Reich, 64 Third World, 37 Thomas, Norman, 130, 146 Thompson, Frank, 257 Thurmond, Strom, 289 Tillman Act, 249, 387 n.r Time, 291 Tocqueville, Alexis de, 95, r20 Treasury Department, 58, 61 Trippi, Joe, 194 Troika, 58 Trott, Sarah, 46 Trudeau, Pierre, 71 Tmman, Harry S: career pattern of, 55, 59-60, 138; conflict theme in 1948 campaign, 284; the Korean War, 40-41; presidential ranking of, 150; and public opinion polls, 190; reelected, 43; as Roosevelt's successor, 349; social back¬ ground of, 132; on special elections, 335, 346, 394, 394 n.9; as vice presi¬ dential candidate, 342 TWA, 39 Twelfth Amendment, 10, ii, 126, 334, 338-39, 348, 355 , 362, 393 n.5, 393 n.6, 394 n.i8 Twentieth Amendment, ii, 355, 361, 362, 363, 393 n.6 Twentieth Century Fund, 250 Twenty-fifth Amendment, ir, 331-32, 335-36, 340, 344, 345, 347, 349, 351-53, 357-59, 360, 362, 363, 36s Twenty-second Amendment, ro, 13, 128, 129, 151 Twenty-sixth Amendment, 87 Tyler, John, 358 Udall, Morris, 230 UNESCO, i7-r8, 25 Ungar, Sanford, 47 Uninformed Choice, 160 United Nations, 258 United States v. Kim Ark, 127 US. Chamber of Commerce, 40 U.S. Information Agency (usia), 34 US.-Soviet detente, 203 Utah, 109 Valeo, Francis, 254 Van Buren, Martin, 139 Verba, Sidney, 93 Vermont, 227 Vice president, 6, ii, 124, 133, 134, 135, r38—40, 143, 174, 204; appointed, 335-36, 349, 352, 394 n.ii, 394 n.i2, 394 n.i3; constraints on, 343,- criteria of selection for, 339-40, 342,- debates, 300; enlarging role of, 340-44; framers' intent toward, 336; Mondale, 199; Nixon, 61, 208; nomination of, 148, 201; and political party activities, 341; and polls, 209; as presidential candidate, 59, 341; presidential quality of, 336-38, 393 n.7; renomination of, 341. See also Presidential succession Vietnam, 23, 38, 39, 80, 137, 147, i 97 , 202, 212, 214, 269, 280, 290, 343 Viguerie, Richard, 275 Vogel, H. J., 65 Volker, Paul, 19 Volkswagen, 39 Voter registration, 5, r2, 79-81, 99; and Congress, 377 n.73; effects of laws, 108-9, 375 n.64, 377 n.7r; and elec¬ toral fraud, no. III, 3760.69; and lit¬ eracy tests, 82; mail registration, 110-11, 376 n.70; in other democra¬ cies, 92; and poll taxes, 82,- proposals for reform of, 109-16; and race, 371 n.i6; registration drives, 107, 148; and residency requirements, 82 Voters, I, 3, 5—6, 7, 10, 125; American voters as surrogates for humankind, 48-52; and choice of more prudent- seeming candidate, 42-44; education levels of, 47, 88-89, 92; and electoral volatility, 7, 16, 28; non voters, 6, 75-79, 370 n.8, 371 n.21, 371 n.24; political attitudes of, 99-100; repre¬ sentativeness of, 77, 92-93, 223; social characteristics of, 6, 79, 83-89, 98 Voting: absentee, loi; compulsory, 12, 92, 112, 376 n.65; holiday, 101-2; in other nations, 6, 89-93; Sunday, loi; turnout rates, 6, 79-84, 97, 100, 108, 121, 282, 361 n.i, 370 n. 11, 370 n. 13, 371 n.i8; twenty-four hour, loi Voting Rights Act, 86 Wallace, George, 40, 147, 192-93, 207, 36s Wall Street lournal, 34 Walters, Barbara, 292 410 Index Washington, George, 35, 43, 123, 150, 154; as exemplar of ideal president, 44 Washington Post, 236, 239, 289, 290, 293 Watergate, 43, 44, 137, 212, 214, 252, 253, 266, 280, 290 Watson, Richard, 130, 146 Weaver, Paul, 312, 313, 320 Weicker, Lowell, 127, 197 West Germany, 4, 6, 20-21, 22, 27, 33, 36, 37 , 38, 39 , 54 - 55 , 56, 71 West Virginia, 143 West Virginia primary, 158 Western Alliance, 39 Whig party, 168, 170 White, Byron (justice), 265 White, Clifton, 293 White, Theodore, 191, 207, 212 White House staff, 47, 56, 360 Whitehall, 63, 68 Will, George, 77 Willkie, Wendell, 133 Wilson, Harold (British prime minister), 62, 63 Wilson, lames, 123 Wilson, James Q., 98 Wilson, Woodrow, 35, 40, 43, 134, 148, 285, 344, 358 Winter, Ralph K., 278, 279 Wirthlin, Richard, 189, 193, 194, 195, 203, 206, 207, 210-11, 212, 229 Wisconsin, 111, 112 Wisconsin primary, 158, 207 Women's Vote Project, 107 Woodruff, Judy, 316 World War I, 40, 42, 47, 282, 285 World War II, 40, 47, 61, 68, 173, 178, 190, 282 WTVH (Syracuse), 311 Wyoming, 109 Year of Europe Declaration, 21 Young American Movement, 40 Zukin, Cliff, 160 Editors and Contributors Alexander Heard served as chancellor of Vanderbilt University from 1963 until 1982 and as professor of political science until 1985. He was chairman of President Kenne¬ dy's Commission on Campaign Costs in 1961-62 and held several appointments under Presidents Johnson and Nixon. He has been a member of the board of trustees of the Ford Foundation since 1967 and its chairman since 1972, and was a director of TIME Incorporated from 1968 to 1987. He assisted V O. Key in the writing of Southern Politics in State and Nation (Alfred A. Knopf, 1949) and is the author of The Costs of Democracy {CniveTsity of North Carolina Press, i960), A Two-Party South! (University of North Carolina Press, 1952), and other writings. Michael Nelson is associate professor of political science at Vanderbilt University. A former editor of The Washington Monthly, his articles have appeared in the fournal of Politics, The Public Interest, Saturday Review, The Virginia Quarterly Review, Har¬ vard Business Review, Newsweek, and Congress and the Presidency, among others, and he has won writing awards for his articles on classical music and baseball, includ¬ ing the ASCAP-Deems Taylor Award. He is the author of The Culture of Bureaucracy (with Charles Peters, Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1979), Presidents, Politics, and Policy (with Erwin C. Hargrove, Johns Hopkins University Press and Alfred A. Knopf, 1984), The Presidency and the Political System (Congressional Quarterly Press, 1984), and The Elections of tg84 (Congressional Quarterly Press, 1985). John H. Aldrich is professor of political science at Duke University and the author of Before the Convention: Strategies and Choices in Presidential Nomination Campaigns (University of Chicago Press, 1982) and Change and Continuity in the 1980 Elections (with Paul R. Abramson and David W Rohde, Congressional Quarterly Press, 1982). Herbert Asher is professor of political science at The Ohio State University. He is the author of Presidential Elections and American Politics: Voters, Candidates, and Cam¬ paigns Since 1952 (Dorsey Press, 1976), Freshman Representatives and the Learning 412 Editors and Contributors of Voting Cues (Sage Publications, 1973), and Theory-Building and Data Analysis in the Social Sciences (University of Tennessee Press, 1984), among others. James David Barber is James B. Duke Professor of Political Science at Duke University. He is the author of several books, including The Lawmakers: Recruitment and Adap¬ tation to Legislative Life (Yale University Press, 1965), The Presidential Character: Predicting Performance in the White House (Prentice-Hall, 1972), and The Pulse of Politics: Electing Presidents in the Media Age (W W Norton, 1980). James R. Beniger, assistant professor of sociology at Princeton University, is the author of Trafficking in Drug Users: Professional Exchange Networks in the Control of Deviance (Cambridge University Press, 1983) and of several dozen articles in aca¬ demic books and journals, including the American Sociological Review, the Journal of Social Issues, and the Public Opinion Quarterly. Robert J. Giuffra, Jr., also of Princeton University, shared in the research and writing of this chapter. Ralf Dahrendorf, formerly director of the London School of Economics and Political Science, is professor at Universitat Konstanz. Among his many books are Class and Class Conflict in Industrial Society (Stanford University Press, 1959), Essays in the Theory of Society (Stanford University Press, 1968), Life Chances: Approaches to Social and Political Theory (University of Chicago Press, 1979), and On Britain (Uni¬ versity of Chicago Press, 1982). Xandra Kayden, a writer whose doctorate is in political science, is a member of the Campaign Finance Study Group at Harvard University's Kennedy School of Govern¬ ment. She is the author of The Party Goes On (with Eddie Mahe, Jr., Basic Books, 1985). Ernest May is professor of history at Harvard University and the former dean of Harvard College. He is the author of numerous books, including Ultimate Reason: The President as Commander-in-Chief (Brazilier, i960). From Imperialism to Isolationism (Macmillan, 1963), Lessons of the Past: Use and Misuse of History in American Foreign Policy (Oxford University Press, 1973), and The Making of the Monroe Doctrine (Harvard University Press, 1976). Gary Orren is associate professor in Harvard University's Kennedy School of Govern¬ ment and a member of its Institute of Politics. Widely experienced in presidential election politics and a contributor to numerous academic books and journals, he is the author of Democrats vs. Democrats: Party Factions in the rgji Presidential Primaries (with William Schneider, Kennedy School, 1977), Economic and Political Equality: The Attitudes of American Leaders (Kennedy School, 1983), and Equality in America: The View From the Tbp (with Sidney Verba, Harvard University Press, 1985). Thomas E. Patterson is professor and chair of political science at the Maxwell School of Citizenship and Public Affairs of Syracuse University. His books include The Unsee¬ ing Eye: The Myth of Television Power in National Politics (with Robert D. McClure, Putnam, 1976) and The Mass Media Election: How Americans Choose Their President (Praeger, 1980). Richard Rose is director of the Center for the Study of Public Policy at the University of Strathclyde. Among his many books are Managing Presidential Objectives (Free Editors and Contributors 413 Press, 1976), Presidents and Prime Ministers (with Ezra Suleiman, American Enter¬ prise Institute, 1980), Politics in England: An Interpretation for the rp8os (Little, Brown, 1980), Understanding Big Government (Sage Publications, 1984), and Public Employment in Western Nations (Cambridge University Press, forthcoming). Allan P. Sindler is professor and dean of the Graduate School of Public Policy at the University of California at Berkeley. His books include American Politics and Public Policy (Congressional Quarterly Press, 1982) and Unchosen Presidents: The Vice President and Other Frustrations of Presidential Succession (University of California Press, 1976), among others. o