Moscone Days, Then Nightfall

SAN FRANCISCO —  The passions of a life in politics are much like a love affair. On any given day, your moods swing from elation to depression, often in a heartbeat. And the only reason you keep coming back for more is the belief that life simply can’t be lived any other way.

This may seem strange in a world where millions of people routinely view politics and elected officials with distrust, if not contempt. But on a sunny morning in December 1975, I was smitten with an extraordinary American politician, and barefoot on the streets of San Francisco.

George Moscone, whose mayoral campaign I worked in, had won a razor-thin victory two days before, and in the sheer exuberance of the moment, I kicked off my shoes and socks to stroll through North Beach, the old Italian neighborhood where I lived. My mind and body were at peace for the first time in what had been an exhausting yearlong campaign; I was savoring a victory that seemed to herald a new progressive era for the city and, who knew, maybe a job for me.

The party lasted exactly one hour.

Returning home, I got a disturbing message: Die-hard followers of Moscone’s opponent had swarmed into the registrar of voters office and were rifling through thousands of absentee ballots, convinced the election had been “stolen.” I raced down to City Hall, where a shouting match between the two camps erupted, broken up only by police. My peaceful morning--and any sense of celebration--was ruined.

Little did I know, but this manic-depressive day foreshadowed what was to come in San Francisco. The ugly tensions of that morning never let up for the new mayor, and during his three years the city was torn by bitter divisions. It all ended with the ring of gunfire 20 years ago today, when an opponent assassinated him and Supervisor Harvey Milk, one of the nation’s first openly gay elected officials.

As the smoke cleared, the city was transformed: Dianne Feinstein, who had been prepared to leave public life on the morning of the shootings, became the acting mayor. She went on to win two more terms and was later elected to the U.S. Senate. Meanwhile, the political left was demoralized by Moscone’s death. It would take years for the community to recover from the twin killings that broke its heart.

Two decades later, Milk has been canonized as a gay martyr, the subject of books, movies, plays and even an opera. But Moscone’s legacy has been largely overlooked, even though his impact on the city was arguably greater. To many San Franciscans, he’s become a fuzzy, forgotten figure.

I couldn’t help but reflect on this as I returned last week to San Francisco. I had worked long hours as a speech writer and deputy press secretary to Moscone for nearly four years but left town shortly after he died, embittered by the political violence and a painful sense of loss. Determined to forget, I avoided the place, letting 20 years of scar tissue build up.

Now, coming back and confronting some of the ghosts of those years has taught me the implicit meaning of Moscone’s death: There is no alternative to caring deeply about politics, even though it might be risky, even fatal. After years of denial, I only now realize that the gentle, effervescent man I learned so much from in life has taught me just as much in death.

“When I think about George’s life, I realize there’s a whole generation of folks who have grown up believing that every politician is corrupt,” said Corey Busch, the mayor’s former press secretary. “I don’t think he was particularly unique in terms of what drove him or motivated him, but he’d be so unique today. He got into politics for all the right reasons. It was selfless. . . . This man didn’t have any wealth. But he really believed in public service.”

As I look back on those turbulent years, they seem unbelievable. Not just because the unthinkable happened--a charismatic mayor shot dead at 49, his wife and four children devastated--but because they took place in a world so different from our own. Today, the idea that a local election can change the world might strike many as absurd. Yet it was no laughing matter for me on that December morning, or for thousands of other San Franciscans who became passionately engaged in local politics. We were all experiencing a historic moment: The city was fighting battles over gay rights, limits on development and the drive for more women and minorities in government. These conflicts would later consume the rest of California, if not the nation. Change was in the air, and change is liberating. But it can also lead to tragedy.

‘The Kid’ on Inside of Campaign

Barely 25 when I met Moscone, I was “the kid” on the inside of a political campaign. Hired to write speeches and press releases, I only gradually got to know the man. The years with Moscone were a quick baptism in politics.

I got involved almost by accident. At the time, I was an aspiring (unemployed) journalist, and I learned from a friend that a state senator needed a writer. An interview was arranged for me with one of his deputies at a North Beach restaurant, and I stayed up half the night before studying the city charter. Corey Busch, a longtime Moscone aide, yet only one year older than me, was clearly sizing me up. But he had only two questions: Did I know much about major league baseball? And what did I think about Linda Ronstadt? Somehow, I passed the audition.

Soon, I met Moscone, a strikingly handsome man who looked terrific in a cream-colored suit. He was doing a playful imitation of Marlon Brando in “The Godfather” but paused to shake my hand and give me an assignment. He was going to deliver a speech on high-rise development and wanted a working draft. Fast. His opposition to runaway growth was well known, and when I asked him what exactly he wanted to say, Moscone didn’t miss a beat.

“You tell me,” he said with a smile. “And by the way, that’s a terrible tie.”

In fact, the candidate knew exactly where he stood on most issues. A liberal’s liberal, he was the majority leader of the state Senate and had an impressive list of legislative victories: He helped create California’s school lunch program; he helped pass bills decriminalizing consenting sex between adults and simple marijuana possession. He was an outspoken foe of the death penalty and a champion of civil rights. No one like him had ever been elected mayor, and when he won, not everyone was happy.

Poised at a crossroads, the whole community was obsessed with the question of who would capture City Hall in 1975. On election day, San Franciscans decided between two different visions of government. “The bloodless civil war erupts in the polling booths today,” wrote columnist Herb Caen, “and this city will never be the same.”

Once dominated by a back-room alliance of business and labor interests, the city was evolving in the mid-1970s, and Moscone was the first politician to forge a coalition of neighborhood activists, minorities, homeowners and gay voters. A native son, he promised to bring new voices into city government, and those who felt threatened angrily fought him.

Citizens Feared Losing Power

They were an amalgam of blue-collar workers, shopkeepers and conservative homeowners fearful of losing power. And their leader was John Barbagelata, a cranky but tireless real estate agent who protested the disappearance of old San Francisco, a Catholic town where everyone spoke the same language.

“The key thing George did was to open up City Hall,” said John Burton, president pro tem of the state Senate and a longtime friend. “Prior to George’s election, everybody on every commission looked like me: white and male. When he became mayor, he broke down all of those barriers and changed the face of the city.”

On his first morning in office, Moscone won plaudits for moving quickly to block the San Francisco Giants from leaving town; later, business interests gave him grudging credit for finally getting construction of a badly needed convention center off the ground. Yet the early months were marred by a 38-day municipal strike that crippled city agencies.

Shrugging off criticism, the mayor refused to cross picket lines outside City Hall and lived inside, turning his office into a command center where staff members slept on cots. It was a public relations fiasco, but there were remarkable moments--like late-night poker games around a conference table and constant arguments over what to watch on TV. Moscone was partial to reruns of “Sgt. Bilko” while his younger staff members favored “Saturday Night Live.”

In fact, many of the mayor’s employees were under 40, a far cry from the aging crowd that used to run City Hall. When veteran reporter Russ Cone first laid eyes on Busch and me he turned to colleague Duffy Jennings and snorted: “Why, Jennings, they’re children!”

There was also tragedy. The mayor had selected one of his friends, Frank Brann, to run the Public Utilities Commission. But then questions of malpractice surfaced in Brann’s law office, and he committed suicide. Speaking at the funeral, Moscone had tears in his eyes, saying: “I’d like to think there’s a reason for why this happened, but I don’t think God can hear me.”

The daily mood kept shifting, from victory to frustration, from relief to anxiety. Moscone’s world got uglier when Barbagelata launched a campaign to recall him midway through his term. “Nobody cuts short my term,” said an infuriated Moscone. It would be their final showdown.

One day, during the campaign, he was invited to lunch with A.W. “Tom” Clausen, chief executive of the Bank of America. Moscone asked me to come along, and I was surprised, because my multicolored tie, pants and sport coat were barely on speaking terms. Riding an elevator to the top floor of the Bank of America tower, we were ushered into a private dining room for drinks and political conversation. A top bank official cut to the chase: Business interests opposed any form of rent control. Could they count on Moscone’s support?

“I could never promise you that,” he answered, as their smiles faded. “There are a lot of people who have to be heard from. . . . They’re the people who rent homes and work in this city.”

That night was typical: The mayor made speeches, attended fund-raisers and dedicated a rehabilitated park. As we drove through traffic in my grandpa’s beat-up Dodge, he mastered the art of taking catnaps while I learned how to steer with one hand, using the other to hush motorists who called out to him. The evening ended at 2 a.m., with wine and carbonara in North Beach.

George won a resounding victory on Aug. 2, 1977, but we had no way of knowing that the last act was about to begin. The same night, voters approved a new way of electing supervisors, by neighborhood, and a more grass-roots board was installed. Almost immediately, there was tension.

Milk, 48, a former Republican stockbroker from New York, had moved to the city’s booming Castro neighborhood precisely so he could live and work as a gay man. He was a smart, tenacious politician who built bridges to firefighters, Teamsters and other groups during 11 months in office.

The same could not be said of Dan White, 32, a former cop and firefighter with no political experience. Representing the Outer Mission, a poor and marginalized neighborhood of blue-collar workers, he had campaigned against the forces of “degeneracy”--a code word for gays. His campaign slogan was “Unite and fight with Dan White,” but he did a poor job as a supervisor, losing one legislative battle after another.

A loner, White’s frustrations boiled over during a softball game between the mayor’s office and supervisors in July 1978. Most of the participants played casually, but White, a gifted athlete, acted like it was the seventh game of the World Series.

I got a taste of this on a play at second base, when White rounded first, then slid low and hard. He was wearing metal spikes, and they were aimed at my knees.

“Are you nuts?” I shouted as he dusted himself off. He glared back, saying nothing.

Four months later, White decided he couldn’t make ends meet on the supervisor’s $9,600 annual salary and quit the board. But the political forces that had put him in office--police and firefighters, real estate agents and big business--convinced him to try to get his job back. For three years, the mayor had been on the losing end of a 6-5 split on the board, and replacing White meant he would finally have a majority.

On the day Moscone was to announce White’s successor, the ex-supervisor strapped on a gun and crawled into City Hall through a basement window, avoiding a metal detector. He entered the mayor’s office through a hallway door and strode past my office, a man in a hurry. He demanded to meet with Moscone, and the mayor agreed. He poured White a drink in his back office and, according to White’s confession, Moscone told him this was not such a big deal--that life would go on.

When Moscone turned his back to sit down, White shot him four times. He reloaded, crossed a corridor and asked to meet Milk. Seconds later, the gay supervisor was killed by four bullets.

I was in the next room when Moscone was shot and thought some jerk was setting off firecrackers outside. I didn’t give it further thought because I had to finish a press release identifying the city’s new supervisor. Ten minutes earlier, I had shown Moscone a draft, and he asked me to delete a sentence referring to White’s financial burdens. “We do this out of courtesy to Dan White,” he explained. “You don’t kick a man when he’s down. You treat him as best as you can.”

Those were the last words he said to me. And as police poured into the office, people everywhere were asking the same question: Had San Francisco lost its mind?

Feinstein Rallied the City

In the days to come, Feinstein rallied the city. As for me, I used the pressures of work to block out the trauma.

I finally broke down several weeks later at dinner with some friends. Feeling flushed, I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. When I looked in the mirror, I began sobbing, and suddenly developed a horrendous nosebleed. Blood was streaming down my shirt and the sink turned bright red. My friends looked shocked when I returned, and I decided on the spot that it was time to move on.

Luckily, I found work at The Times, where I’ve been for the last 19 years. On the day I drove down the coast to my new job, White was acquitted of first-degree murder and convicted of manslaughter; his lawyer used the “Twinkie defense” to argue that White was a victim of diminished capacity because of an excessive intake of junk food. That night, riots between gays and police broke out in the streets. Paroled in 1984, White tried to resume a normal life but was shunned by friends. He finally succumbed to his own demons, killing himself in 1985. To his dying day, he never expressed remorse for his crimes.

By that time, I was far away. On my first morning at work, an editor listened to my stories about Moscone. Then he switched the conversation to the job at hand. “Go out there and show us what you can do,” he said. “All that other stuff is behind you now.”

But of course, it isn’t. In some ways, the past has begun to repeat itself.

Today, San Francisco may seem less crazy, yet its surreal heart is alive and well. Passion still surfaces: The other day foes of genetic engineering threw cream pies at Mayor Willie Brown, a Moscone ally. And now, after years of infighting, voters are gearing up for district elections yet again. (The neighborhood model was repealed after the shootings.)

Moscone’s Oldest Son May Run for Congress

The early lineup for 2000 is full of surprises: Barbagelata’s 35-year-old daughter, Elena, is considering a run for the board. In White’s district, activist Marlene Tran, thought to be a leading candidate for the seat, voices many of the same themes as White, saying the area is beleaguered and largely forgotten. Christopher Moscone, the mayor’s oldest son, is a local attorney now, and he too is thinking of running for office someday, maybe Congress.

The city is a jumble of continuity and change, including my old North Beach neighborhood. Many of the Italian restaurants where Moscone and his pals dined late are still in business, while others are long gone. They have been replaced by upscale boutiques, chic restaurants and sports bars. But prosperity has its limits; the area is also wrestling with a homeless problem that was unheard of years ago.

I remember walking these streets with Moscone, arguing the pros and cons of capital punishment. I remember a man who would suddenly riff on why Dinah Washington was the greatest jazz singer he’d ever heard, and then return to a discussion of neighborhood politics.

I think of a mayor who blended passion and political smarts, a man who was eager to replace White because it meant he’d finally have the votes to fully integrate the Police Department. A politician who got a convention center built because he persuaded people who had been fighting each other to sit down and work out their differences.

But most of all I remember a sunny morning in December, when I walked barefoot in the streets. A day when everything seemed possible. The memory no longer fills me with sadness, just a sense that there’s still time to make a difference.

Over the last 20 years, I’ve seen the contrast between politics and journalism in the trenches. As a reporter, you are able to think more expansively about people and problems than you typically do in the political combat zone. But you lose something too: the risk and reward of putting your values on the line, and gambling everything for a change that matters.

During a memorial service this week, Jonathan Moscone, the mayor’s youngest son, stirred the crowd by revealing that he is gay, saying his father would have been proud of his courage in disclosing this. And he spoke movingly of his dad’s legacy. “He loved to win, and in order to be great at winning, you have no choice but to conquer your fears,” said Moscone, who was 14 when his father died and is now art director of the Dallas Theater Center. “He never backed down. Ever. He risked it all in his work and in his life.

“I remember George whenever I land in San Francisco and drive past City Hall. And then I start to believe in politics again.”