by Ira Shapiro
During Nelson’s tenure, Wisconsin enacted a series of path-breaking conservation measures, including legislation to control billboards, acquire more wetlands, and establish conservation easements to expand the number of state parks, fish and wildlife habitat, and state forests. Nelson was probably the most innovative governor in the country, and his popularity in Wisconsin showed that people understood the need for action to preserve the state’s natural beauty against the pressures of growing population, automobile traffic, and industrialization. Nelson ran for the Senate to take the lessons of Wisconsin’s experience to the nation.
In the spring of 1962, President John Kennedy came to Milwaukee to speak at a Jefferson–Jackson Day dinner. Riding together to the event, Kennedy told then-governor Nelson that most government issues had become too complex for people to grasp; except for Medicare, there were no easy issues to explain. Nelson disagreed. There was at least one other significant issue that resonated with people from all walks of life—conservation of natural resources. He urged Kennedy to make conservation a priority. Maybe it was important, Kennedy admitted, but since he’d been born and raised in a city, and despite his love of sailing, he hadn’t really given it much thought.
In November, Nelson won a comfortable victory over three-term senator Alexander Wiley. After his election, undeterred by Kennedy’s initial reaction, he pressed the issue again with White House staffers. Finally, Kennedy agreed and on September 24, 1963, the president embarked on a five-day, eleven-state conservation tour. Nevertheless, Kennedy had no real interest in the environment. He never issued a dramatic warning that the country’s natural resources were imperiled, using the trip to emphasize other issues of greater interest to him. The Wall Street Journal observed that Kennedy was “rather bored with the whole subject of conservation.” The New York Times editorialized that Kennedy seemed “more interested in conservation of the Democratic Party than in conservation of America’s natural resources.” Nelson was bitterly disappointed that a great opportunity to educate the country about protecting the environment had been lost. He would not make the same mistake.
Freshman senators were expected to settle in slowly, hire staff, set up offices, and learn about the Senate by spending time in the cloakroom and seeking advice from the veterans. The Senate made it easy to settle in gradually. A senator was emphatically not a governor or a mayor. There was no budget to prepare, no state legislature or city council to battle, and virtually no defined responsibilities at all. Moreover, every two-year Congress began slowly. Its pace intensified before recesses, but most major legislative accomplishments occurred only in the second year of the session.
In many ways, Nelson was content to accept the role of a freshman, adapting to the Senate’s unique mores. Engaging, relaxed, possessed of a wonderful sense of down-home humor, he truly enjoyed other politicians, irrespective of where they stood politically. He made friends in the Senate almost immediately. He and his irreverent wife, Carrie Lee, were at the center of a bipartisan group of senators and their wives who ate dinner together regularly. As the years went by, the Nelsons’ home became one of Washington’s most popular dinner places.
But there was nothing easygoing about Nelson’s passionate commitment to environment. Long before others, he saw the peril the planet was in. He became the first member of Congress to propose a ban on DDT. He offered six pieces of legislation on water pollution in 1966, the most comprehensive program ever suggested. He battled to clean up the Great Lakes and prevent ocean dumping. He would tell a United Auto Workers convention that the internal combustion engine had “powered Americans to unparalleled affluence, but now may drive it to unprecedented environmental disaster.” Shortly thereafter he proposed banning the internal combustion engine altogether. Starting from conservation and constantly broadening his field of vision, Nelson was one of the nation’s first and greatest environmentalists.
Nelson’s first year in the Senate, 1963, would prove to be a historic year in terms of environmental legislation. Muskie, who was chairman of the subcommittee with jurisdiction over air and water pollution, had collaborated with J. Caleb Boggs of Delaware to write the Clean Air Act, the first serious attempt to grapple with the pollution of an industrial age. Nelson was the visionary whose radical proposals created space for Muskie’s progressive legislation. But for Nelson, even the enactment of enlightened legislation wasn’t enough. He wanted the legislative equivalent of a long pass, while the Senate tended to operate day by day, issue by issue—grinding matters out three yards at a time.
On April 22, 1970, Nelson’s effort culminated in the first Earth Day. Twenty million people—fully 10 percent of the country—mobilized to show their support for the environment. They planted trees and picked up tons of trash. They attended marches, rallies, concerts, and teach-ins. They confronted polluters, held classes on environmental issues, and lobbied politicians. Philip Shabecoff, a longtime New York Times environmental reporter, called it “the day environmentalism in the United States began to emerge as a mass social movement.”
The environment was Nelson’s passion, and Earth Day would be his legacy. But the best senators recognized the opportunity to range wide across a wealth of issues, and Nelson did so as well. He waged a private war against the powerful, distrusting concentrated power whether held by corporations or by presidents. Nelson successfully pushed legislation to give Congress a veto power over foreign arms sales. He battled the pharmaceutical companies on behalf of consumers and attacked them for “the circle of death” by which they sent unsafe drugs into foreign countries. He conceived and spearheaded the legislation to make the tapes and papers of Richard Nixon’s presidency the property of the federal government; before that time, presidential papers were treated as private property of the president. And, in January 1977, when asked by Majority Leader Byrd, he took on the challenge of producing a Senate code of ethics.
I WAS NELSON’S LEGISLATIVE counsel at the time, and on January 18 he told me “Byrd has asked me to write the God dam ethics code.” He initially seemed pleased with the assignment. It was something of an honor to manage such a delicate assignment. Producing an ethics code by April 1, the deadline set by the leaders, was going to be a real challenge. But Nelson felt reassured that the House effort, already under way, was being chaired by his close friend, Representative David Obey, also of Wisconsin. “Obey’s smart as hell,” Nelson said. “We will be able to borrow some of the work that he has already done.”
Nelson understood that most of his colleagues resented the idea that the Senate needed an ethics code. He firmly shared their view that ethical standards in government were at least as high, if not higher, than in any other walk of life. And he certainly believed that the situation had improved from when he had arrived in the Senate, when one of the most powerful senators had been the flamboyant oil man, Robert Kerr, the Oklahoma Democrat, who was known as “the senator from Kerr-McGee.” The line between public service and private gain was crossed far less often than it had been in the past. But for Nelson, the bottom line was clear: “The Senate’s concern should be the current period of deep disillusionment and cynicism. . . . If restored public confidence demands a strong code, the Senate should adopt one. There is no arbiter of right or wrong in this arena; there is only the overriding question of whether the people trust their government.”
Yet the task quickly proved even more difficult than anticipated. The cornerstone of the ethics code being drafted in the House, which Nelson’s Special Committee on Official Conduct would parallel, was a straightforward deal: the members would receive a much-needed pay increase, from $42,500 to $57,500, in exchange for limiting their outside earned income to 15 percent of their new salary. Nelson and his staff soon discovered that this approach, generally acceptable in the House, would be extremely controversial in the Senate. Most House members were not wealthy, and they did not receive much outside earned income. They needed the pay raise and would not be sacrificing much to get it.
In con
trast, the Senate was filled with wealthy men who received income from investments and did not need honoraria from speeches. On the other hand, those of more modest means who gave a lot of speeches for money regarded outside earned income as essential to maintaining two residences and putting children through college. Additionally, the Senate had considered requiring senators to disclose their finances as early as 1965. Most of the senators hated the idea then—and shot it down quickly. Now, despite the public mood after Watergate, and the pressure created by Carter’s emphasis on ethics, many still hated the idea. The Nelson Committee was heading straight into a buzz saw.
The Special Committee on Official Conduct brought its proposed Senate code of ethics to the Senate floor on March 17. Nelson and his staff anticipated three or four days of floor debate; they had underestimated the Senate’s rising anger. For eleven days, the Senate debated its ethics code with an intensity usually reserved for war or taxes; the ethics code hit senators where they lived, affecting their personal finances and intruding on their privacy.
On the day that Nelson and Muskie were set to debate, the Senate chamber was fuller than usual, and the press gallery was packed. Nelson was relaxed, his sparkling blue eyes gleaming with good humor. Dressed in blue slacks and a blue and gray sports jacket on the Senate floor, he looked more like a pharmacist from a small town in Wisconsin than a U.S. senator. It was all part of his charm. From the “well” of the Senate, where the senators managing legislation hold forth, Nelson explained the need for a limitation on outside earned income. Honoraria for speeches provided interest groups an unacceptable opportunity to influence senators. What was the point of limiting campaign contributions if affected groups could simply channel money directly to senators through honoraria?
Several of the opponents of the honorarium limit had indicated their intention to speak, including Bob Packwood, Birch Bayh, Bob Dole, and Fritz Hollings. If nothing else, the anger was bipartisan. But Muskie had taken the position as the leading opponent to the honoraria limit; he and George McGovern had even gone to the Common Cause office, to tell the organization’s leaders just how unfair they thought the honoraria limit was. And Muskie’s opposition would count for a great deal.
From the back row of the Senate, he sought and received recognition from the chair. Muskie then launched a passionate attack on the outside income limitation. Muskie was 6’4”, and he had a fierce temper. His face got redder and redder as he spoke. The Senate chamber is gently banked, with the back rows higher than the front, and Muskie seemed to grow taller as he got angrier, looking down at Nelson from the Senate’s commanding heights.
Muskie recounted that when he was Maine’s governor, he had refused to supplement his income by staying in law practice, although that was commonly done at the time, because he believed that it would inevitably present blatant conflicts of interest. But the governor’s salary was a pittance, and Muskie had small children, so he needed to supplement his income. To stay afloat, he had chosen to give speeches for honoraria.
Muskie reminded the Senate that political speechmaking was a great American tradition. He recounted tales of speeches given on the Chautauqua circuit. He was enraged at the implication that receiving honoraria for speeches was in any way corrupt or corrupting. “You’re throwing us to the wolves,” Muskie shouted. “The senator is putting a cap on my income, and he doesn’t give a damn what the consequences are for my family.”
As Muskie continued, Tom Eagleton entered the Senate, flopping down next to Nelson. Eagleton had agreed to speak in favor of the outside income limitation. But after hearing a few minutes of Muskie’s speech, he whispered to Nelson, “Jeez, Gaylord, he’s killing you. I don’t want any part of this issue.” Then Eagleton threw back his head and laughed raucously. He later gave a powerful speech opposing Muskie.
Muskie was approaching his climax. “I have looked everywhere for an explanation of why the committee is taking away my livelihood,” he boomed. “I have read the legislation and found no explanation. I have read the committee report and found no explanation. But finally, in today’s Washington Post, I got an explanation. An aide to Senator Nelson is quoted: ‘We can’t do anything about outside income from investments, but we can limit outside earned income to prevent conflicts of interest.’”
Nelson turned to me and whispered “Did you say that?” Embarrassed, I shrugged sheepishly and nodded. Nelson rose, turned to Muskie, and sought permission to respond.
Nelson was as unflappable as Muskie was furious. “Let me say to my friend from Maine: I don’t know if one of my staff members said that or not,” Nelson observed. “But if he did, it was actually a statement of uncommon wisdom and insight.” Then Nelson restated his argument about the fundamental differences between outside earned income and investment income, in terms of potential conflicts of interest.
When Nelson finished his comments, Muskie, still steaming, stormed down the Senate aisle to confront his longtime friend. Nelson suggested the lack of a quorum, the clerk began calling the roll, and Nelson, seemingly without a care in the world, left the Senate floor before Muskie could reach him. Further infuriated, Muskie approached me. I jumped up to greet him, and in the process knocked a glass of water all over the senator. Muskie, already enraged, was now both startled and soaked. I imagined the Wicked Witch of the West shriveling up at the touch of water. Muskie stalked off the Senate floor, still searching for Nelson and, perhaps, a towel.
Byrd had no sympathy for Muskie’ argument. He believed that senators were obviously profiting from their positions when they accepted honoraria; “I don’t think any group of citizens would pay me $2,000 to play my fiddle for 15 minutes if I were a meatcutter or working in a shipyard or practicing law.” Byrd saw the limitation on outside earned income as the centerpiece of the ethics code, and worried that the Senate would look bad if Muskie’s amendment prevailed. Howard Baker also supported the limit on outside income, even though most of his Republican caucus opposed it. Both of the leaders worked hard to line up votes against Muskie.
On March 22, the Senate defeated Muskie’s amendment by a vote of 62–35. Muskie angrily commented: “There is every indication that the Senate is panicking, and will vote for anything in the name of ethics.” He said that he might have to sell one of his houses in order to make up for the lost honoraria income and finish his term.
Several days later, on April 1, 1977, the Senate enacted the ethics code by a vote of 86–9. Common Cause, the citizens’ lobby, and editorial writers around the country praised the Senate’s action. But the overwhelming final vote masked how angry many senators were about the outside income limit, the new requirement that senators and senior staff members publicly disclose their finances, and the basic implication that the Senate needed an ethics code to behave ethically. Abraham Ribicoff, a key member of the special committee writing the code, said in a committee meeting: “I hate this code. I hate this code.” And he was a stalwart supporter of it.
In the closing hours of the debate, the Senate offered something of a compromise to the code’s opponents, accepting an amendment that delayed the effective date of the honorarium limit until January 1, 1979, giving the senators two more years to supplement their incomes.
Meanwhile the Carter administration pressed forward on government-wide ethics legislation, which would require public financial disclosure by all high-ranking officials, slow the “revolving door” between government and the private sector, and create a mechanism to trigger the appointment of a temporary special prosecutor to handle investigations in cases involving high-level executive officials close to the president. The legislation would take almost eighteen months to work out. But long before it was complete, Carter and the Senate would face a full-blown ethics crisis.
BY LATE JULY, SIX months into the Carter presidency, Hill Democrats had grounds for cautious optimism about their new president and their work together. Congress had enacted the Carter tax cut and put together legislation to raise the minimum wage, a cherished
Democratic goal. Carter’s ambitious energy program was rolling forward much faster and more favorably than expected. In late July, he had signed legislation creating a Department of Energy, the first new cabinet-level department since the Department of Transportation in 1966. In early August, the House of Representatives had passed his entire program virtually intact, less than four months after the president introduced it.
Carter had met with Egyptian president Anwar Sadat in April and Menachem Begin, the new Israeli prime minister, in July as part of a bold initiative to bring about Middle East peace. In a speech at Notre Dame, he had committed the United States to a foreign policy focused on human rights, rather than an “inordinate fear of Communism,” strong words at a time when the Cold War was very real and the war in Vietnam a recent memory.
The White House seemed at last to be playing the Washington game. Against his nature, Carter even seemed to have accepted the senators’ preferred role as advisors in large decisions. In June, Carter faced a major decision on whether to fund the B-1, a new generation of bombers. George McGovern and John Culver had collaborated masterfully the previous year to prevent the Ford administration from approving the B-1. McGovern had proposed to kill the program, a move that could not have prevailed in the hawkish Senate, but then allowed Culver to offer a moderate, compromise amendment to defer the decision on the B-1 to the next president. As Carter considered the future of the B-1 bomber program, he invited supporting and opposing senators to debate the issue at the White House on two consecutive evenings. His ultimate decision to kill the B-1 elated some senators and angered others, but the decision-making process augured well for the future.
