Senate, for Sale or Rent
It's all about the Jacksons.
Dec 29, 2008, Vol. 14, No. 15 • By JOSEPH EPSTEIN
Early on the evening of November 25, I was met at the reception desk of WTTW, the PBS station in Chicago, by a pretty intern named Jennifer. She led me to what passes for the station's green room, a handsome conference room with a plasma television set playing along the far wall. I was left to await my seven minutes on a show called Chicago Tonight, where I was to flog a book I had written on Fred Astaire.
Two other men were in the room, both black. One was on a cell phone, seated at the edge of the table near the door, the other intently watching the NewsHour with Jim Lehrer on the television set. Then a small, cheerful man, Hispanic, walked in, took off his raincoat, and introduced himself to me.
"Hello," he said, "my name is Luis Gutierrez." I knew of him as a longtime Chicago alderman, who is now in Congress. He had the professional politician's handshake and smile.
The man watching the television set greeted him and then came up to me. "Jesse Jackson Jr.," he said, offering me a handshake and smile of roughly the same well-practiced earnestness.
I would not have guessed he was Jesse Jackson Jr., so little does he resemble his father, the ubiquitous Reverend Jackson. He is compact, neatly pressed and polished, smallish, as opposed to his father's considerable height and bulk, with nothing of the ministerial bearing about him in either speech or manner.
Cheerful and lively, Gutierrez has a natural ebullience. He started talking about how pleased he is to have recently left his house and moved into what one gathers is a luxurious apartment. He talked about no longer having to worry about mowing lawns, shoveling snow, and the rest of the normal householder's quotidian duties. Jesse Jackson Jr. chimed in by saying that he rather looked forward to such chores. They were an outlet for him, gave him a chance to expend pure physical energy. As the two men talked, it occurred to me that neither, as minority congressmen, would have been permitted to hire, as a Second City comedian once put it, "a truckload of our good friends from across the border," and he didn't mean Canadians, to do these jobs.
The congressmen were to go on before I did. Gutierrez was called off to have makeup applied; Jesse Jackson Jr., a real pro at such matters, brought his own makeup and brush, which he carried in a smart leather kit.
Their segment was with a political reporter who asked them their views on the recent bailout moneys. These are Chicago politicians, simple if far from pure, and neither, outside the realm of getting himself elected and reelected, qualifies as a deep thinker. They handled the questions well enough, Jackson--his platitudes better enunciated and assembled-- sounding rather more knowledgeable than Gutierrez: No doubt the economy needs all the stimulus it can get, but we want serious oversight here, we can't just pass out billions of dollars without taking genuine responsibility for the taxpayers' money, yaketa, yaketa, yaketa.
Toward the close, the interviewer asked each man if he were interested in taking up President-elect Obama's vacant seat in the Senate. "I am," Jackson averred, "very interested." Gutierrez allowed that he too was interested and had only a few days before been called in by Governor Rod Blago-jevich to talk about the prospect of his doing so.
Their time on camera over, both men returned to the conference room. Slipping into their coats, Jackson, talking to Gutierrez now, said (best as I remember it): "You know, I'm a bit hurt that Blagojevich didn't call me in to talk about taking over the Senate seat. I wonder why he didn't?" They then all departed, including the man who had been on the cell phone, and I was left alone to watch an interview, held outside the studio, with William Ayers, before I, too, went on camera, to take my seven-minute turn.
Then, on a Tuesday morning, December 9, as they said at the end of the Pahlavi regime in Iran, the shah hit the fan. U.S. Attorney Patrick Fitzgerald revealed that Rod Blagojevich, the governor of Illinois, was auctioning off a gift that was his to bestow but not actually to sell: a two-year occupancy of a seat in that best of all American clubs, the United States Senate. A seat in the Senate is obviously a valuable thing, especially to those who have drunk the potion of political power, so why not attempt, the governor figured, to find out precisely how valuable it really is by putting it up on the open market? The entire country, while secretly pretending to be aghast by such corruption, was not so secretly charmed by the simple rawness of the governor's venture, quite new in politics, of cutting out the middleman and himself directly selling political offices.