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  AFTER WORLD WAR II, THE JEWISH COMMUNITY IN LOS ANGELES gravitated to the city’s west side. The strip along Fairfax Avenue was soon bustling with delicatessens, Jewish stores, and kosher food outlets, serving, among many others, most of my family, along with many of our friends and neighbors. Hot to follow the action, Uncle Al sold the East Side Journal and established another newspaper, the LA Reporter, which was commonly referred to in the new neighborhood as “The Waxman Reporter.” After growing up in South Central Los Angeles, where we lived above my father’s grocery store, I moved west, too, enrolling at the University of California–Los Angeles, where I decided to study political science.

  Besides satisfying my growing interest in politics, my choice of major had the convenience of not requiring a heavy regimen of classes, leaving plenty of time for extracurricular activities. One of the first things I did at UCLA was to join the university’s vibrant Young Democrats Club, where I soon developed a close circle of friends. Many of those I knew and worked with at that time—people like Phil and John Burton, Howard and Michael Berman, Phil Isenberg, Willie Brown, and Dave Roberti—would go on to remarkable political careers.

  In those days, there was a lot of excitement among Democrats, particularly on college campuses in California. The activist spirit that would explode in the 1960s was just beginning to stir. For committed liberals like my friends and myself, the most important issues included a nuclear test ban treaty, abolishing the notorious House Un-American Activities Committee, establishing diplomatic relations with Red China, and championing civil rights legislation. Soon enough, opposition to the escalating war in Vietnam became a central cause as well. These positions were so outside the mainstream Democratic Party that, at one point, reporters asked John F. Kennedy himself about the California Young Democrats. “I don’t worry much about those Young Democrats,” he replied. “Time is on our side.” I suppose he meant that as we grew older, we would come to see things his way. In fact, over time, people started to see things our way.

  The period around 1960 is remembered today for being the time when John F. Kennedy captivated the nation. People I meet still tell me that his example inspired them to get into politics. His nomination at the 1960 Democratic convention, held in Los Angeles, was indeed significant. But at the time, we thought that if you considered yourself a true liberal, as we emphatically did, you had to be an Adlai Stevenson man. So my friends and I did what we could for the Stevenson cause.

  As a newspaper publisher, Uncle Al commanded a pair of prized floor passes to the convention, which Howard Berman and I put to enterprising use. As soon as we entered the gallery, one of us would sneak back out with the passes. In this way we were eventually able to infiltrate all our friends to root for the “Draft Stevenson” movement—an effort that did not wind up succeeding, alas, although we did manage to make a lot of noise.

  In the early 1960s, the California Democratic Party was divided into two factions. Atop one group, the traditional and somewhat more conservative Democrats, sat Jesse Unruh, the powerful speaker of the State Assembly. Atop the other, more liberal, group to which I belonged sat California’s governor, Pat Brown. Unruh and Brown had a serious rivalry that also came to define the Young Democrats. There were Unruh people and Brown people, and for us liberals, wresting power from the Unruh faction that controlled the California Federation of Young Democrats was the constant struggle.

  When I became the head of the federation’s liberal caucus during my junior year in college, the task of outmaneuvering the Unruh crowd and taking control of the Young Democrats fell largely to me. The only way to do this, I recognized, was to out-organize the opposition. Organization is the bedrock of everything that happens in politics, the necessary precursor to any real change. So I began traveling around the state in the battered, two-tone, green-and-white Buick with large fins that was my primary means of transportation. I’d visit high schools and college campuses, to talk to Young Democrat clubs, appeal to their idealism, and try to make common cause with them and expand our numbers.

  Control of the statewide federation of clubs was determined at an annual convention by whose candidate won the presidency. The first push to topple the Unruh folks that I participated in came in 1960, and though I spent a good deal of the academic year crisscrossing the state, our candidate came up short. Afterward, John Burton, Willie Brown, Howard Berman, and I sat despondent in a San Diego hotel room talking about what we’d do next. Phil Burton, several years older and by that time a California assemblyman, urged us to persevere. “You learn more by losing than you do by winning,” he told us. Indeed, we had just learned that we much preferred winning.

  Burton was already emerging as a force in national politics and would go on to exercise a tremendous influence on my career and on that of many others. He was very liberal, very smart, and very pragmatic. When serving in Congress in the 1970s, he came within a single vote of being elected House majority leader. His constant invocation was to perform the difficult work of organizing. He dismissed exalted types who only wanted to give speeches as “Manhattan Democratic liberals”—a real put-down in California. They always sounded great when they spoke, he complained, but they never managed to get anything done. This rang true to me. Burton believed that it was far more important to accomplish your political objectives than simply to say the right thing and draw cheers from the crowd. Only through the hard work of organization can you accomplish the toughest goals.

  The following year all of us redoubled our efforts and I was back on the road. The federation’s 1961 gathering buzzed with intrigue. We had worked furiously throughout the year to establish new clubs and add liberal members to those that already existed. It was clear to both sides that we were almost evenly matched. Every vote would count. Fights broke out before the credentials committee, delegates on both sides lobbied furiously, and still we were unsure of whether our candidate for president, Phil Isenberg, had the strength to prevail.

  The vote came down to a single delegate, a fellow by the name of Richard Harmetz, the head of the Beverly Hills Young Democrats, who had arrived at the convention an Unruh supporter. An important lesson in politics is that you never know who your allies may turn out to be. Even adversaries can sometimes be persuaded to support your cause. When we suggested that Harmetz join our team and become a statewide officer, he shifted his loyalties and Isenberg prevailed. At long last the liberals took control of the Young Democrats.

  MY FATHER NEVER LEFT ANY DOUBT THAT HE EXPECTED ME TO join the professional class. I had no mind for business and couldn’t stand the sight of blood, which put medical school out of the question. So after college, I enrolled at the UCLA law school, convinced that a degree would be practical. But my primary interest continued to be the Young Democrats. With my faction now in control, we began pressing for the “far-out” issues we cared about. Looking back now, it’s a little amusing to me that the ideas we championed were considered so radical. Everything from our support for civil rights and relations with China to our opposition to the Un-American Activities Committee and the Vietnam War had entered the mainstream of American politics or soon would. But back then we were still something of a spectacle.

  In 1965, I won a two-year term as president of the California Federation of Young Democrats, a position of some visibility. Television talk shows were just beginning to take off, and as a leading Young Democrat I was often invited to appear as a guest. I suspect this had as much to do with what were considered to be my unorthodox views as my position in Democratic politics. I vividly recall one Los Angeles talk show where I found myself seated on a panel with a Kennedy-assassination conspiracy theorist and a woman who claimed to have been abducted by a UFO. Such was the novelty of my opposition to the Vietnam War and my criticism of Lyndon Johnson’s prosecution of it—a president of my own party!—that the show’s producers considered this an apt lineup.

  But not everyone regarded my liberal cohorts and me as simply curiosities. The national Democratic Party�
�s main power broker in California, a consigliere to both the Kennedy family and President Johnson, was a Los Angeles lawyer by the name of Eugene Wyman, who, much to my surprise, summoned me to a meeting shortly after I became president of CFYD. Wyman congratulated me on my new role, but was agitated about my opposition to the war, and he sought to impress upon me the need to tone down my criticism of the president. “You’re in a position of authority when you speak for the Democratic Party,” he complained. “You can’t be a leader of the Democratic Party and be against this war and the president.” I explained that I didn’t think Johnson’s policy in Vietnam was the right one. Wyman insisted that I couldn’t say that. I was dumbfounded. “Well, how about civil rights?” I asked him. “Is it okay to talk about that?” “Oh, that would be fine,” he replied. When our meeting ended, I left amused rather than intimidated that such an important man cared so much about what I had to say.

  FOR ALL THAT I LOVED POLITICS, I NEVER ENVISIONED MYSELF RUNning for office. But in 1968, an opportunity arose that changed my mind. The longtime state assemblyman from our area, Lester McMillan, a local fixture at age seventy, was expected to retire. During his twenty-eight years in the assembly McMillan had compiled a solid liberal record, especially on civil rights.

  Every year, he would offer a bill to eliminate the death penalty, which was a popular idea within his heavily liberal district. But on economic issues, McMillan had a reputation in Sacramento for being close to many of the “special interests.” In 1965, he was indicted for bribery in a scandal connected to the construction of the Los Angeles Marina. He had stood trial, been acquitted, and afterward announced that he would run once more for reelection, in 1966, to clear his name. Then he would retire. At least, that was my assumption.

  If McMillan quit, the seat would be wide open, and because the district was reliably liberal, winning the Democratic primary was tantamount to winning the general election. I figured there would be heavy competition, so the vote would likely be spread across many candidates. With my organizational skills and the support of the Waxman family newspaper, I thought my chances looked pretty good.

  But there was one factor I hadn’t reckoned on: Lester McMillan decided not to quit. When I went to see him, in the hopes of changing his mind, he did not seem particularly troubled by my challenge. “I have some advice for you,” he told me. “Don’t put your own money into the campaign.”

  As a close ally of Jesse Unruh’s, McMillan had always won without much difficulty, and this year looked to be no different. In fact, there was reason to believe he might do better than ever. In 1968, Bobby Kennedy was running for president in the California primary, Unruh was heading the Kennedy campaign in California and McMillan was a Kennedy delegate—a truly significant factor in a district like McMillan’s that was about one-third black, one-third Jewish, and one-third mixed ethnic. Kennedy was beloved in the black community, whose strong support McMillan had every right to expect.

  I decided to run anyway, and rounded up my Young Democrat friends to help organize my campaign. Howard Berman’s brother, Michael, a nineteen-year-old computer whiz at UC Berkeley, agreed to drop out and come down to Los Angeles to manage the campaign. Howard Elinson, a UCLA classmate who had become a professor of sociology, helped develop the message. The intersection of politics and technology barely existed in those days. But Michael Berman had an idea about how computers could help win an election. My cousin’s husband, who worked in the computer industry, figured out with Michael that by punching in the information from local voter files they could write a program to generate individualized letters with messages targeted to different voter blocs and mail them to everyone in the district. Howard Elinson came up with distinct messages to appeal to the district’s various ethnic and racial groups. And I spent months pounding the pavement, walking precincts, knocking on every door in every neighborhood to introduce myself to voters.

  This exercise taught me that Lester McMillan might indeed be a renowned figure, but also that voters respond to personal contact. They appreciated that I was working to earn their votes and willing to listen to their concerns. After a while, I could tell that I was beginning to get through because people began to recognize me, even if not everyone was as well informed about the race as I would have liked. One morning, a woman came to the door with a broad smile of recognition. “There are only two people I’m voting for,” she announced brightly. “You and Lester McMillan.” I didn’t have the heart to explain that we were opponents.

  Another facet of the campaign did not proceed quite as smoothly. Family can be a big asset when you’re running for office. Both my parents and my sister, Miriam, put in long hours at campaign headquarters. I was counting on the Waxman name to attract the Jewish vote and appeal to readers of the family newspaper, still informally called “The Waxman Reporter” even after Uncle Al died and my Aunt Ruth took over. The paper published influential front-page endorsements right before Election Day. So shortly after launching my campaign, I invited Aunt Ruth to lunch to discuss my candidacy and what I assumed would be her eager support. Instead, looking somewhat pained, she delivered some unexpected news. “I’m endorsing Lester McMillan,” she told me. The LA Reporter had supported McMillan for years, and he’d been a friend of my uncle’s: Despite family ties, Aunt Ruth did not think it proper to abandon him. As a consolation, she offered me a weekly column to make the case for my candidacy to her readers. Figuring that guilt would get the better of her long before Election Day, I accepted the offer and made a breakfast date for the following week to try again. This became a weekly ritual—and, in the end, not a successful one. Aunt Ruth remained true to her word and endorsed Lester McMillan on Election Day (though I’m pleased to report that we remained very close, and that she has endorsed me ever since).

  Oddly enough, my most helpful endorsement was entirely unsolicited. One day, a long, black, chauffeur-driven limousine pulled up to the curb in front of my campaign headquarters, and an elegantly dressed older African-American man stepped out, gazed up at the “WAXMAN FOR STATE ASSEMBLY” billboard above the door, and, though he was frail and used a cane, pushed his way inside. “I saw the name Waxman and I wasn’t sure who it was,” he said to me. When I introduced myself and explained that my family had lived in the community for years, he smiled and nodded. His name was Colonel Leon Washington and he turned out to be the publisher of the local black newspaper, the Los Angeles Sentinel. He remembered Uncle Al because the Sentinel and the East Side Journal had been the only two liberal newspapers in town. After we’d chatted for a while, he said, “I’m going to support you.” I’m ashamed to admit that I waited for him to ask something in return, imagining that he’d want me to buy advertising in the Sentinel. But all that he asked was that, if elected, would I please see to it that a post office opened in the black neighborhood, which didn’t have one.

  Lester McMillan never took me seriously, so he didn’t put on much of a campaign. In the black neighborhoods, where his status as a Bobby Kennedy delegate should have earned him huge margins, he did nothing at all. Meanwhile, I had spent months knocking on doors and developed a slate piece—a voter guide—with Berman and Elinson urging people to vote for “Waxman and Kennedy.” As the June primary neared, we received word that Kennedy himself would appear at a political rally along Fairfax Avenue. On the day of the rally, the street was closed off. One of my campaign workers got hold of a loudspeaker. “Come to Fairfax to hear Senator Kennedy and meet Assembly candidate Henry Waxman!” blared the message. When Kennedy finally arrived, he waved for only a few moments before driving off.

  It hardly mattered. On Election Day, I wound up beating McMillan by a margin of two to one. To my surprise, I performed even better in the black neighborhoods than in the Jewish ones. (Today, the Colonel Leon H. Washington Jr. Post Office sits at 43rd Street and Central Avenue in Los Angeles.)

  But the celebration of my first great political victory was short-lived. As friends and family gathered to cheer at campaign h
eadquarters, stunning news was broadcast on the television set: Bobby Kennedy had been shot across town.

  The Art of Making Laws

  CHAPTER 2

  California State Assembly to Congressional Subcommittee Chairman

  POLITICAL PARTIES IN CALIFORNIA HAVE TRADITIONALLY been weak, a consequence of the early twentieth-century Progressives, like the state’s formidable governor and senator Hiram Johnson, who were suspicious of them and worked to limit their influence. The absence of a strong party organization meant that there was no “machine” to dole out desirable appointments and committee assignments or to handpick candidates and mediate their disputes. In 1960s Sacramento the consequence of these conditions was to concentrate power in the legendary speaker of the State Assembly, Jesse Unruh.

  Unruh’s political views were often quite liberal. In 1959, Unruh, a lapsed Mennonite, authored California’s Civil Rights Act, which outlawed racial discrimination in housing and employment and became a model for later reforms. But more than any policy, his overriding obsession was wielding power, and during his career he created a top-down system in which most of what happened in the Assembly flowed directly from the speaker.

  Emblematic of Unruh’s command over the legislature was a famous story that involved an Oakland assemblyman named Bob Crown, who had been an ally of the speaker’s, but had broken with him by the time I arrived. Crown was universally regarded as a shrewd operator and a felicitous speaker, so during the time when they were aligned, he often carried Unruh’s bills in the Assembly. One day in a committee hearing, Crown was wrapping up a speech that carefully laid out the arguments against the pending measure when one of Unruh’s lackeys appeared in the back of the room and began frantically signaling to him that the speaker in fact wished for the bill to pass. Without missing a beat, Crown declared “And that’s what opponents of this legislation would claim about this bill” before proceeding to deliver an equally impassioned statement of support. When I got to Sacramento, Crown befriended me and helped illuminate the Assembly’s many strange byways of power. To this eager novice, he explained how the world worked.