by David Clarke
2
Political Shakedown: Give Me Your $29 or Else
IN JANUARY 2002, Milwaukee County Sheriff Leverett F. Baldwin resigned midway through his term, so I decided to apply. Ultimately Republican Governor Scott McCallum would select from the ten people who threw their hat in the ring.
On the application for the appointment, one question gave me pause: “If selected, what party will you run under during the next election?” After being appointed, the replacement would be facing a political campaign in another five months. I wasn’t terribly interested in politics.
Republican? Democrat? I placed my pen in the “Republican” box and checked it. I wasn’t incredibly wedded to that designation, but it felt like a better fit than the Democratic Party. I was a “law and order” police officer, of course, which seemed more naturally attuned to the GOP. The next portion was an interview with a panel of six people, which I felt I’d handled pretty well. The only thing to do was wait. But there was one slight problem. Every year, I go on vacation with my wife, Julie, her sister, and her husband to celebrate our anniversary, and I worried I’d miss the call.
“I just wanted you to know I’m going out of the country,” I told the governor’s chief legal counsel. “So I wanted to leave you the number of the condo where we’ll be staying.”
I remember sitting poolside in the Cayman Islands when my brother-in-law called down, “Hey, David, the governor’s office is on the phone.”
“You’re lying!” I yelled up to him.
“No, it’s the governor’s office,” he said more urgently, his hand covering the phone receiver.
Reluctantly, I went up there and grabbed the phone. He wasn’t lying.
The first thing the governor’s representative said was, “Don’t read anything into this, but if you get the appointment, you need to consider running as a Democrat.”
He had barely finished the sentence before I blurted, “Absolutely not!”
“This is a Democratic county,” he said. “You can’t get elected as a Republican here.”
“Sure I can,” I explained. “I have a good message, and I know a thing or two about police work.” But I was naïve because I thought you could win an elected office based on principles alone. Though I’d lived in Milwaukee my whole life, I wasn’t involved in elected politics and had no idea what I was getting into.
“Look, if you get the appointment and have to run in the election,” he said, “you’ll need to be a Democrat.”
Still, I wasn’t happy.
“Just sleep on it,” he said. “Enjoy the rest of your vacation. We think you’ll be busy when you get back.”
That’s when I realized I’d probably get the appointment.
But me a Democrat?
The Rumor Mill
After we returned home, Julie and I met with Governor McCallum. I imagined the first topic of discussion would be my choice of a political party, so I was quite shocked when he said, “I have to ask a delicate question. Why does the Milwaukee Police union hate you?”
At the time, I was no longer in the union, even though I’d been in it fourteen years. I didn’t know what to say.
“I was told appointing you would be my biggest political mistake.”
Apparently, the union had been calling the governor’s office and encouraging him to choose a different replacement.
After a brief pause, he said, “Also, I have to ask, are you telling us absolutely everything?” He looked back and forth between us.
The governor was facing a reelection campaign in five months as well, so I understood his need to know exactly who he was dealing with. But I sensed he was fishing for something. “What are you talking about? I’ve been completely transparent.”
“We’re hearing something about a domestic violence incident.”
My blood ran cold. The same rumor had emerged when I was a captain in District One—the downtown district. One day when I had gone into work, my lieutenant entered my office and said, “I heard the police came to your house last night to investigate domestic violence.”
“What?” I had asked, incredulous. “There weren’t police at my house last night.”
A few more cops had approached me about it over the course of the next few days, and friends had also begun calling Julie.
“He doesn’t beat me,” she had told them, exasperated. The rumor had even reached her parents in northern Wisconsin, putting her in an awkward position. “No, everything’s fine,” she had reassured them.
At the time, I had gone to the office of the assistant chief, who would’ve been notified if one of his captains had been called for domestic violence.
“Hey, you guys have to help me kill this rumor,” I had told him. “It’s not true.”
“I know,” he had said, “but after consulting with the chief, he thinks it would add fuel to the fire if we put out an official statement. Just let it go.”
“I want my name cleared,” I had protested before ultimately submitting to their counsel.
I regretted that decision now as I was looking into the eyes of a very concerned governor.
“It’s a hoax,” I said immediately. “It’s not like a call was made and the cops said there was a misunderstanding. There was no call … ever.”
“Julie,” the governor asked, “what can you tell me about it?”
She began to cry. “I’ve never called the police,” she explained. “No police have ever been to my house about domestic violence. Ever.”
The media had poked around for gossip but found nothing. That’s when the rumor morphed. It hadn’t happened in Milwaukee, the new rumor suggested, but in northern Wisconsin. That had caused the media to call Green Bay’s police department looking for something—anything—that would have given them dirt on me. When nothing turned up, the rumor changed to suggest the chief had ordered the destruction of all the records of my domestic violence call.
Have you ever heard of the logical fallacy of a loaded question? The most classic example is this: “Have you stopped beating your wife?” Whether the person answers yes or no, he’s in a bad spot. Either answer presupposes that he has, in fact, beaten his wife at some time in the past.
I felt as if I was in that horrible position. How do you deny something that never happened? All you can do is go into denial mode, which makes you look guilty. The fact that you can’t be proven innocent leaves a shadow of uncertainty. Other than the fact that there were no records and Julie backed me up, I couldn’t prove it didn’t happen.
To make matters worse, I wasn’t sure who I’d offended. I had been an up-and-comer, so I have to assume the rumors had started because people knew I was going places. Perhaps some had believed I’d gotten the promotion they deserved. I finished number two on the lieutenant’s list, and although I had been slightly disappointed not to have received the top score, I knew I had done my best to prepare myself, using vacation time and every spare minute off duty to study. The only other time I had worked harder in my life was when I was finishing my bachelor’s and master’s degrees. But when the scores came out, immediately people claimed the test was fixed for minorities. I tried not to let it get to me, but it did.
Maybe the rumors were started because people thought I didn’t deserve what I was getting. Maybe it was because I was married to a nice-looking white woman. Who knows? I just knew someone had attempted to assassinate my character, and it had followed me for years.
After the governor talked to Julie, he turned to me and said, “The fact that the Milwaukee Police Association was working against you helps you. I’m mad they treated you that way.”
At the news conference announcing my appointment, I proudly stood before my parents, Julie’s parents, my colleagues, and my friends. Yes, it had been a tough road, but I had survived the slander, and my merit was obvious to all.
Guess the first question out of a reporter’s mouth.
“Do you want to talk about this domestic violence accusation?”
; I was stunned. Talk about someone raining on your parade. I looked at Julie and hoped she wouldn’t start crying. “No, that’s just a rumor,” I said, trying not to show my irritation. “It’s not true.”
Later, I talked to the reporter, who said her outlet had forced her to ask the question even though she knew it wasn’t true. I wish she’d had the integrity to resign instead of sully my reputation.
Many times, pundits in the media complain there are no good candidates for political office. But as soon as decent people put themselves out there to do something good, the pundits immediately attack them with lies and slander. It’s no wonder “good people” don’t want to put themselves through that kind of scrutiny and unfair treatment.
The next question from a reporter was, “So you’ll be running as a Republican?”
“No,” I said. “I’ll be running as a Democrat.”
Gasps were heard across the room. Some people applauded.
Remember, I had no political experience, and this seemingly rogue announcement made it look as though I was more liberal than I was. Though the governor’s office knew of my plans in advance—and, in fact, had been forced to convince me to run as a Democrat—I was suddenly a prominent Democrat in the city of Milwaukee. That was fine by me since I was up for election very shortly.
A Cover Charge for This Party
I attended my first Democratic fund-raiser, hoping that the Democratic Party would show me the ropes. I hoped to meet people from the party and get a feel for their beliefs. That’s not what happened.
While I was there, a woman walked up to me and shoved a 3 x 5 card in my face. “Fill this in,” she demanded. “And send in your twenty-nine dollars.”
“What is it?”
“You have to join the party,” she said, barely looking at me. “You’re running as a Democrat, so you have to join the party.”
“You have to tell me a little something about what I’m joining,” I said. I knew they had already endorsed my opponent—the hand-picked successor of the previous sheriff—so I wondered about the upside.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “You’re running as a Democrat.”
I knew right then and there that I wouldn’t join this party if it saved my life. I don’t need a party that presumes my allegiance without going to any trouble to court me or convince me. That’s where black Americans are right now in 2017 too. Blacks have been taken for granted far too long by the Democratic Party, and Republicans have historically failed to reach out to us effectively. We’re in a difficult position both ways, and it’s hard to break through society’s preconceived notions.
So as a political novice in a party hostile to me from the get-go, I reached out to Democratic fund-raiser Barb Candy, who told me she’d only help me in my reelection campaign if I got Bill Christofferson, the media maven who was also running Governor Jim Doyle’s campaign, to sign on as my strategist.
“I don’t know him,” I said.
“He’s the most cutthroat strategist in Wisconsin,” she said, sliding me a piece of paper. “And you need him on your side. Here’s his number.”
That was Mother’s Day, and I had no campaign manager even though the election was in November. Time was running out.
“I’ve never run a sheriff’s campaign,” Bill said when I called him. “Plus, I don’t know anything about you. What does a sheriff even run on?”
“Law and order,” I said. “What else?”
Bill was a huge leftist liberal, and I was an unknown commodity. However, he somehow decided I was worth the effort even though a kerfuffle emerged about my refusal to join the Democratic Party.
“Bill,” I explained, “the lady stuck a 3 x 5 card in my face. They’d endorsed my opponent! I didn’t want them to presume I’d join them just because they wanted me to.”
“Look, if you join, the newspaper will stop writing articles about it,” he said. “It’ll effectively take the issue off the table.” I kept listening. “If you don’t join, though, I don’t think it’ll make a difference.”
That settled it for me. I’d run as a Democrat, but I wouldn’t join the party. Bill, a strategy genius, told me that to win an election, we had to have the right candidate, a good message, and enough money. In that first campaign, thanks to Bill, we had all three. Well, I guess I can take credit for the “candidate” part. I was forty-five years old—more energetic than I am now—and people seemed to like me. Since I’m a natural recluse when not wearing my badge, Julie was shocked that I did so well campaigning.
“It was almost hard to explain,” Bill later reflected. “He was kind of a natural … He’s a fresh face, somebody who says what’s on his mind.”1
Barb signed on as my political fund-raiser. “David has a clearer sense of who he is than just about anybody I’ve worked for in twenty-some years,” she said.
Together, Barb and Bill advised me to make the news once a week to raise my name identification in Milwaukee, but I ended up in the paper nearly every day. Consequently, we raised more than $165,000—a record amount of money for the sheriff’s race (the previous sheriff had raised $45,000). I won my first election and was elated.
Later, I met with Bill to discuss a possible mayoral campaign. He said, “I can’t help you run if you won’t help me elect other Democrats once you’re elected.”
“Well, you’re right about that,” I said. “I can’t help you do that.”
“I can’t work for somebody who’s for George Bush,” he said. And so, we parted ways.
To this day, Bill regrets helping me. “The biggest mistake I ever made in politics is helping Clarke get elected,” he said on an urban radio station.
And he was right, I suppose.
When I won my first campaign, I knew I couldn’t have done it without his help. He was such a brilliant strategist, but I didn’t need him beside me every step of my political life because I learned so much from that first campaign that I was able to use his strategies in my next three races.
Outspent but Not Overmatched
With my newfound prominence in the city, R. J. Johnson—the equivalent of Bill on the conservative side—had reached out to me to help Scott Walker get elected. He asked me to sign a fund-raising letter on behalf of Walker, which I was happy to do. I’d tried to stay away from the Republican Party, but I knew Walker needed a boost. I was sure that the press would run me over the coals, and they did.
Of course, headlines emerged, “Clarke Helps Republican Scott Walker.” I knew helping Walker was the right thing to do although it would cause me political trouble. There comes a time when you have to stiffen your back and sign your name to help people who are the good guys.
As you can imagine, the Democrats quickly got sick of me, so they decided to do what Democrats do best—undercut the only black sheriff in the state of Wisconsin.
“He’s not a real Democrat,” they said at first. That didn’t work.
“He’s not one of us,” they said. That didn’t stick.
In my fourth campaign, they came up with a more stinging criticism. Clarke’s crazy, they said. He’s pro-gun, and he’s really a Republican.
I began to worry about that one. Especially since they were able to raise a massive amount of dark money—money that wasn’t reportable, money we didn’t know they had. Michael Bloomberg’s anti-gun PAC wrote a check for just over $150,0002 to a 501(c)(4) political organization called the Greater Wisconsin Committee (which ironically was started by Bill Christofferson many years ago to raise money to attack conservatives). The Milwaukee County Executive trust fund baby wrote a check for $263,000. At the end of the day, they raised about $800,000 in the effort to defeat me.
I had only $165,000. That was a pretty good amount, since this was not a congressional race or a mayoral contest. We knew the media was giving my opponent a lot of free air time to defeat me, but we had no idea that we were going to be outspent by such a wide margin. Because this money wasn’t reportable under campaign finance laws, we weren’t p
repared for the onslaught of television ads that would frame me as “crazy.”
I reached out to Walker’s people to ask him to help me. I was shocked when he told me that he wasn’t going to be able to publicly help.
“Why won’t Walker help me?” I asked R. J. “I got my butt kicked over helping him.”
“Well, he doesn’t want news articles indicating that he’s not a true conservative by helping a Democrat get elected.”
It was a hard lesson in politics. Partisanship trumps principle. I still like Walker today. We’re friends. I understand that you have to be politically smart, but I wish he’d been less focused on his future in politics and more focused on doing the right thing.
By the time the Left was finished peppering me with negative television ads, I was no longer a political novice. I did great in the black community, I was solid in the suburbs, and in all four campaigns my voters stuck by my side no matter how much dark money came against me.
You know the story of David and Goliath in the Bible?
I guess I’m not named David for nothing.
I have won my primary elections with more than 50 percent of the vote each time.
I’ve also faced opponents in all of my general elections (in 2014 it was a socialist party candidate), but I won—and won big each time—and I’m here on the national stage to stay.
3
I’m Color-Blind When It Comes to Crime and Punishment
“CAN I TAKE THIS ONE for a test drive?” a twenty-four-year-old wearing a dark fleece jacket asked as he approached the used-car salesman. The young man, Lamar Nash, was interested in a silver Tahoe that Wednesday afternoon, and the salesman was eager to move vehicles after the new year. After retrieving the keys from the main office, he tossed them to Nash. But when the salesman walked around to the passenger side to accompany him on his test drive, he heard the unmistakable sound of the doors locking. He tried to open the doors, but the passenger door didn’t budge. Sealed shut. Just as he realized that his “customer” was not really interested in test-driving the SUV, Nash slammed on the gas pedal and sped out of the lot.
