Sniping

By Evan Thomas

On the

Road

The Democrats come up short of unity and cash

The idea seemed promising: for two whole days, the eight contenders for the Democratic presidential nomination would stop taking potshots at one another and instead travel together across the U.S., preaching party unity and raising money. The proceeds, an anticipated $2.4 million, would go to the campaign chest of the eventual winner.

But unity never comes easily to Democrats, nor does fund raising. Before the Democrats even set forth last week in a pair of DC-8 jets, Jesse Jackson accused party leaders of "stacking the deck" against outsiders, minorities and the poor. Alan Cranston refused to join the trip because of a squabble with Party Chairman Charles Manatt, and Reubin Askew bowed out when his mother-in-law died. At the first stop in Atlanta, Gary Hart insinuated that John Glenn was a closet Republican. Glenn, meanwhile, suggested that Walter Mondale was a big-spending liberal. In Chicago, Party Boss Edward Vrdolyak boycotted a $500-a-plate breakfast because of his feud with Mayor Harold Washington, a battle so bitter that the Democrats' once assured ability to "deliver" Cook County can now be called into question. A lunch in St. Louis was canceled for lack of interest, and many seats were left empty at a $500-a-plate breakfast in Atlanta. At the last stop, in Albuquerque, Ernest ("Fritz") Rollings pronounced both the Glenn and Mondale campaigns to be "mush."

At its merciful conclusion, the trip had netted only $1.1 million. The party seemed only tenuously united, and the candidates had trouble rising above the internecine sniping. With one exception: Jesse Jackson stirred audiences at every stop with his blunt style and rousing rhetoric. Even party fat cats paying $1,000 a plate for a prime-rib dinner in Albuquerque cheered his populist message, delivered in the cadences of a revival preacher, calling for "unity without uniformity" and attacking Ronald Reagan as a "reverse

Robin Hood," who stole from the poor to give to the rich. "The old minorities in coalition are the new majority!" Jackson cried, bringing the mostly white male audience to its feet. Marveled a Glenn aide: "If we had a speaking contest, Jesse would win." Agreed Rollings: "Jesse's having a big time."

Jackson was also giving Democratic leaders fits by challenging the party's rules. Charging that the delegate-selection process discriminated against outsiders like himself, Jackson demanded major reforms before the primaries begin. In so doing, he became a lightning rod for other disaffected long shots. Hart, Rollings and George McGovern all jumped to second Jackson's complaints. Hart was so enthralled by the limelight shining on Jackson that he decided to share it, and word spread that he would begin making joint appearances with the charismatic preacher. "The rules make the party undemocratic," charged McGovern. "They help a front runner, a candidate with money who is first out of the box."

In fact, that is precisely what the rules were intended to do. Stung by the surprise successes of McGovern in 1972 and Jimmy Carter in 1976, supporters of Mondale and Edward Kennedy pushed through a new set of rules in 1982 designed to give party regulars like themselves the inside track. Jackson, however, warns that the poor and minorities--"the boats that are stuck on the bottom"--will not rally behind the Democratic candidate if they feel "locked out" by party leaders. Specifically, Jackson objects to the winner-take-all primaries in seven key states (California, Pennsylvania, Florida, Illinois, New Jersey, Maryland and West Virginia), arguing that the also-rans are denied their share of the vote. He also opposes a rule allowing states to require that candidates win at least 20% of the vote in a congressional district to qualify for convention delegates; this penalizes minorities, he says, because only 86 of 435 districts are at least 20% black. Yet another obstacle for dark horses, adds Jackson, is the setting aside of some 550 seats at the convention for party leaders and elected officials.

Insisting that "it's time for the old wineskins to make room for the new wine," Jackson threatened to propose a long list of reforms during the Democrats' unity trip. Unnerved by that prospect, Party Chairman Manatt promised to meet with Jackson next week if he would hold off making his demands public. Jackson agreed, in part because his chronically unorganized staff had not finished drafting the rule changes.

Party regulars privately say that it is too late to change the rules. In the end, they speculate, Jackson will diplomatically back down. It has been his practice to follow up harsh public rhetoric with backroom compromise; at Operation PUSH, his celebrated boycotts of Budweiser and Coca-Cola began with charges of "Bud is dud" and "Coke is a joke," but ended in vague agreements to steer more trade to minorities. In the meantime, however, Jackson will make party leaders sweat over his threats to carry the challenge right onto the floor of the convention. It is a game he enjoys. On the tour, Georgia's state party chairman Bert Lance, Jimmy Carter's good ole boy Budget Director, tried to down-play Jackson's obstreperousness by wishfully declaring that "Jesse is a Southerner, and we're Southerners, and we think alike." Jackson playfully followed up by suggesting the "real possibility" that he will make Lance his campaign co-chairman in the South. When Lance good-naturedly waved his thanks, Jackson deadpanned, "An outside chance."

While audiences almost everywhere roared for Jackson, Hart was not so lucky. In Albuquerque, he seemed to show the strains of his stalled candidacy by cracking lame jokes and giggling to himself as his listeners sat in embarrassed silence. Following Hart to the podium, Rollings showed his increasingly biting wit by remarking, "I don't know where you all took Gary Hart, but that was a pretty good trip." Rollings then announced to an audience of 700 Democratic donors: "I am the Cabbage Patch candidate. I want you to adopt me." Though his clowning may mask bitterness at being prematurely counted out of the race, Rollings seems to relish his role. On the trip, at least, he was also a more effective spokesman for the moderate-conservative viewpoint than Glenn, who seemed plodding and vague. "Old John is inadequate," Rollings told a reporter. "He just doesn't like politics."

Only one candidate, McGovern, chose not to twit his competitors. Instead he addressed directly what may be the Democrats' best campaign issue. "Ronald Reagan," declared the onetime peace candidate, his voice hoarse from overuse, "is taking this country into war."

Mondale assiduously avoided such flat and potentially controversial pronouncements. He is wary of upsetting his strong Jewish support by embracing McGovern's Middle East solution, a straight troop withdrawal. Indeed, Mondale seemed to want to avoid altogether the Democrats' road show, which awkwardly exposed him as chief beneficiary of the party rules decried by Jackson and others. The final indignity came at tour's end,

when Manatt, presumably trying to compliment Mondale and the other candidates, enigmatically described them as "not flashers, not streakers, but presidential sweepers."

Meanwhile, Mondale's eight-cylinder organization was, as usual, in overdrive. On Saturday the front runner picked up the endorsement of the National Organization for Women. But Mondale had a harder time with the Alabama Democratic Conference, a statewide black organization whose support is crucial to winning the Alabama primary in March. The chairman, Joe Reed, supported him, but many other members backed Jackson. On Saturday, A.D.C. leaders compromised by endorsing Mondale for President and Jackson for Vice President. The Mondale organization, trying hard to lower expectations, pronounced itself pleased, but the mixed results raised again a nagging question about the depth of Mondale's support. He easily harvests the endorsements of party and constituent-group leaders, but the loyalty of their rank and file is often suspect. His weakness seemed to be underscored by a White House poll released last week that showed President Reagan leading both Mondale and Glenn by 16 points--his biggest lead in the G.O.P. survey yet.

For Jackson, the Alabama draw was an upbeat end to a heady week. Whether his stump-speaking ability will translate into votes is uncertain, even doubtful, if he cannot pull together an efficient campaign organization. But Jackson's stunning reception pointed up a lack of fire in the other candidates. His wife Jacqueline, after listening to his competitors make speeches on the tour, asked bluntly: "Do they really think they can beat Reagan with one of these guys?" After last week, not a few Democrats are quietly asking themselves the same question. --By Evan Thomas.

Reported by Sam Allis/Washington and Jack E. White/Los Angeles

With reporting by Sam Allis/Washington, Jack E. White/Los Angeles This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so viewer discretion is required.