Debating For Dollars

By Karen Tumulty/Washington

John McCain's crusade for campaign-finance reform has attracted plenty of well-wishers over the years, but his Republican colleagues in the Senate have not often been among them. His attempt to get the bill past a G.O.P. filibuster in 1999 set off one of the nastiest Senate confrontations in recent memory, as members of his own party ganged up to smother his reform. So it was both a good omen and a bit of a surprise that last week, as McCain launched yet another attempt, the bouquet of flowers he received came not just from a Republican but from one sponsoring a rival bill that could kill McCain's. "It was a big day for John," says Nebraska's Chuck Hagel, who sent the flowers. A fellow Vietnam veteran, Hagel addressed the card to Captain McCain and signed it Sergeant Hagel.

As the Senate began debating campaign-finance reform last week, the only safe bet was that things would soon get ugly. But by the second day, even that bet was off. And by Friday, astonishingly enough, the bill, which McCain co-authored with Democrat Russell Feingold, hadn't been killed--or even altered all that much--after a week in which an amendment was offered roughly every three hours. Just as unexpected was what did happen--something the Senate hasn't seen much of on any issue: a substantive, thoughtful and generally amicable debate. The kind the framers intended.

Even the fireworks turned out to be an inside joke. A shouting match between the starchy conservative Orrin Hatch and the overstuffed liberal Ted Kennedy seemed real at first, then devolved into an obvious put-on and finally ended in a hug as the gallery broke into applause. Similarly, after the Democrats' floor manager, Chris Dodd, gave an impassioned speech on Friday, Hagel dismissed him as a fine Irish actor--and they too smoothed their differences with a hug.

No wonder they were in a good mood. The debate was unscripted, a reminder of how the place operated in the freewheeling days when Senators actually used the brass spittoons under the antique desks. Such spontaneity is rare under majority leader Trent Lott, who does his best to precook and shrink-wrap bills before they reach the floor. But in this debate, neither side knew in advance what amendments the other was putting forward, and no one knew how most of the votes would come out. "I couldn't tell you today whether [an amendment] is going to get 20 votes or 60 votes," says Democratic leader Tom Daschle. That meant everyone had to pay attention.

A cynic would suggest the bonhomie was a sign that none thought the bill had a chance of passing. But a realist would give them credit for trying, while recognizing it as the protective warmth that envelops any effective mutual-aid society. Campaign-finance reform may be an arcane subject, but it is also a matter of survival for politicians, as familiar as their morning coffee. And the Senators were using their intimate knowledge of the subject to protect themselves and each other.

After a week of debate, the Senate had made two changes that really mattered; both would make life more comfortable for the few, the proud, the Senators. One would ensure that broadcasters give candidates the lowest rates possible for their campaign ads. Although most observers said the change was minor, Don Nickles of Oklahoma called it "a major gift to politicians." (It also stirred up the powerful broadcasting lobby, which could be hazardous to the bill's long-term health.) The second amendment would allow Senators to collect larger donations if they found themselves running against a rich opponent willing to spend his or her own money. That is the ultimate nightmare for many lawmakers, who need think only of former Senators Slade Gorton and Rod Grams, who lost last year to millionaire challengers (and now freshman Senators) Maria Cantwell and Mark Dayton. Susan Collins of Maine, a state where at least two rich Democrats are rumored to be considering a challenge next year, made sure politicians from small states got the biggest leg up. "There's raw self-interest, contrasted with the grand rhetoric," groused Jim Bopp, an adviser to the bill's chief opponent, Kentucky Senator Mitch McConnell. "Almost everything they've done is to pad their own nest as candidates and protect themselves as incumbent politicians."

But by week's end, there were indications that McCain-Feingold could actually pass in a recognizable form. Even the staunchest opponents seemed to have softened their opposition to the bill's central provision, a ban on the unregulated "soft money" that has flooded the political system over the past decade, nearly half a billion dollars in the 2000 election cycle alone. What may have been a breakthrough came after McCain arranged a meeting with one of his foes--Nickles, the Senate's No. 2 Republican. "Tell the Senator his friends are here," McCain told Nickles' secretary when he arrived. Their discussion moved through some disagreements but found common ground. Nickles surprised McCain by bringing up soft money--and saying Senators were sick of raising it. Bush was willing to ban all but individual soft-money contributions, Nickles said, so why not go the rest of the way? There was a catch: he could support a soft-money ban only if McCain increased the amount of hard money donors could give, limits that have not been raised since the 1970s.

That's a tricky bargain. A big increase risks losing the support of some of the bill's strongest supporters, including Daschle, whose defection would give plenty of other Democrats the cover they need to bolt. (It was so much easier for Democrats to oppose soft money before they became as good as Republicans at raising it.) Big increases in the hard-money limits, where Republicans still have an advantage, would make any claims of reform a sham. Says Senator Paul Wellstone: "It puts even more big money into politics."

Equally sobering is the fact that reform efforts inevitably have unintended consequences: the next generation of abuse and scandal. Soft money didn't exist until the 1980s, when political parties figured out a way to exploit loopholes in the last reform that Congress passed, opening the way for donors to give hundreds of thousands of dollars at a time under the guise of "party building." Even McCain acknowledges his bill would be at best a temporary fix, one that would work only until politicians and interest groups figure a way around it.

And that's if it passes. Last week's goodwill may have been a false spring. This week the bill faces far tougher votes, any one of which could be fatal. "With each change, I think you lessen the opportunity for us to keep Democrats together and in support of a bill that they can no longer identify as McCain-Feingold," Daschle warned early in the debate. Three days later he added, "There are some bright warning signs, some blinking yellow lights about the direction that we are going."

The fate of the measure seems to be riding on whether and by how much to raise the hard-money limits. Hagel, whose alternative bill limiting but not banning soft money has the quiet support of the White House, told TIME he is ready to offer his measure if no deal emerges. Another battle looms over the bill's provision barring unions, corporations and interest groups from running "issue ads" for or against candidates close to Election Day. Opponents of the bill are also expected to try to plant a time bomb called "non-severability," which ensures that if any part of the bill is struck down in court (the issue-ads provision is a likely candidate for rejection on constitutional grounds), the entire bill would fall. Non-severability, says McCain, "is French for 'kill campaign-finance reform.'" But proponents of it may find support among Democrats, who fear that if courts start slicing off parts of the bill, they could find themselves facing a barrage of attack ads without the soft money to fight back. "We haven't really got to the hard parts yet. You can lose a Senator like that," Hagel says, snapping his fingers.

Even if the bill passes the Senate, its future is far from assured. The House approved a similar measure in the last Congress, when it was certain the Senate would kill it. Would it do the same if it means sending a bill to Bush's desk? And if the two houses have to reconcile their versions, who would Lott appoint to the conference committee? If he sent McCain and his nemesis McConnell, the fight would just continue in a different theater.

President Bush, whose father's veto pen stopped the last campaign-finance reform to make it through Congress, is lying low on the issue. In a meeting with House leaders on Thursday, Bush told them, in essence, "I'm not going to be your backstop," according to a participant. The President doesn't want to have to veto. In fact, White House officials were making noises about compromise. And for the record, Bush asserted Friday, "I look forward to a bill and am confident they will be able to come up with a bill that I can sign."

It's smart politics for Bush to make sure that should the bill die on Capitol Hill, he has no fingerprints on the murder weapon. He also puts more pressure on lawmakers to do the deed themselves--which means the time for hugs and flowers may have passed. It's back to business as usual in the Senate.

--With reporting by Matthew Cooper, John F. Dickerson, Viveca Novak and Michael Weisskopf/Washington

With reporting by Matthew Cooper, John F. Dickerson, Viveca Novak and Michael Weisskopf/Washington