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Excerpts from a new biography
Governor Richard Ogilvie: In the Interest of the State
by Taylor Pensoneau, Southern Illinois University Press, 1997.
Republican Richard B. Ogilvie served a single term as Illinois governor, from 1969 to 1973. During that four-year period, he managed to preside over creation of a modern state constitution, restructuring of agencies and consolidation of budget-making under the executive branch. And he launched an anti-pollution program and pushed the Regional Transportation Authority. But he is best known for pushing the state's first income tax through the legislature in a bid to save a financially strapped Illinois. That accomplishment helped cripple his political career. Nevertheless, at the memorial service for Ogilvie in 1988, the Rev. John Buchanan said, "When it comes to politics, good decisions are not always easy decisions; the right choices are not always popular choices." Yet, he said, "this experiment in self-determination and representative government depends absolutely on leaders with strength and character, the courage to make right but unpopular decisions." He then saw fit to add, "Our city, our state, our nation need that courage today." In this first biography of Ogilvie, Taylor Pensoneau's assessment is that Ogilvie was one of Illinois' best governors.
While just about everybody was reasonably sure it was coming, shock waves still were inevitable when Governor Ogilvie really did it. On April 1, 1969, the April Fools' Day of his first year in office, Ogilvie asked the General Assembly to approve the imposition of a state income tax. For years, no subject had received a colder shoulder from his predecessors.
None of the ventures by Governor Ogilvie would have near the impact of this one — on the governor himself, on legislators reluctant to go along with him, and on taxpayers not the least bit enthused at the thought of possibly having to ante up. Ogilvie was pictured by numerous friends and foes alike as a person engaged in the act of committing political suicide. Because his public career held so much promise, his supporters lamented, it was a shame. Even the man's detractors allowed that he was that rare officeholder with the gumption to take an action that had to be done, unpopular as it was.
Still, responsibility for the push for the tax in the General Assembly would fall to the Republican leadership in each chamber, a reality that spawned an ironic exchange when Ogilvie met with GOP legislative leaders to inform them of his definite intent to seek passage of an income tax.
"What fool in the legislature," asked Senate Republican leader W. Russell Arrington, "do you think you are going to get to sponsor the bill?"
"You, Russ," replied the governor.
Following a moment of silence, Arrington reminded everybody present that he had strongly opposed a state income tax throughout his legislative career. Then, looking at Ogilvie, Arrington added, "But, if in your judgment, Governor, it's that time, then I'll sponsor it."
Later, after Ogilvie had made public his desire for an income tax, Arrington would tell listeners that he intended "to live up to my responsibility as a legislative leader. We may have to resolve ourselves into a position to do things we may not want to do."
Arrington would need every bit of his prowess as a legislative strongman to prevail on this issue, which went against the grain of so many with a voice in the matter. Arrington would have his hands full running interference on the income tax for Richard Ogilvie, the person holding the seat that Arrington himself had fancied.
No way could Ogilvie's push in 1969 for enactment of the state income tax not ignite political drama. Too much was at stake, and besides, the cast of players with a big say in the matter was dominated by strong-willed and even explosive characters. More than a few
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of them were found in the most exclusive political club in the state, the old-guard Republican majority in the Illinois Senate. The General Assembly's upper chamber had been a Republican stronghold through the decades since the Depression. Moreover, in 1969, the public careers of some of the Senate GOP [conservative] Bourbons still in the saddle dated back to the Depression.
A year or two later, a combination of age, the stepped-up pace in the legislature, and exasperation would take a toll on a good number of the _ Bourbons. However, in the first year of the Seventy-sixth General Assembly, 1969, the Senate's Republican majority — with its lopsided advantage, thirty-eight to nineteen, over the Democrats — reigned.
Even in the mid-1960s, when Democrats were in control, except in the Senate, the tightly knit contingent of GOP senators still managed to have its voice, heard on issues. That also happened to be the period when the image of the General Assembly was soiled by an unpleasant episode, the disclosure in 1965 of those tape-recorded discussions of lobbyists on purported payments to legislators for votes. None other than the old guard came to the rescue. Its leader, W. Russell Arrington, forcefully whipped the Senate into a model of operating efficiency, one designed to prove that the legislature still could play a very full role in government.
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As Arrington molded the Republicans into a cohesive battalion, Governors Kerner and Shapiro found themselves having to compromise on most of their programs. If they didn't, GOP versions were passed. The Bourbons may have been criticized for being recalcitrant on civil rights and other hot issues surfacing in the 1960s, but nobody argued that any interests were better served than those protected by the old guard — financial institutions, insurance firms and other big businesses, public education, agriculture, and strict interpretation of the Illinois Constitution. The Bourbons could attack with almost puritanical zeal subjects they frowned on. Extension of legalized gambling beyond horse racing was one. Another was the multiplication of social welfare programs, a favorite goal of the Chicago Democrats. New or increased taxes were not on the Bourbons' agenda either, meaning that Arrington faced a tough chore in selling his men on Ogilvie's income tax. (In 1969, only one woman held a seat in the Illinois Senate, Democrat Esther Saperstein of Chicago.) |
Arrington was far from the only featured performer in the General Assembly's passage of the income tax. Mayor Daley's influence hung heavily over the Democrats in both chambers of the legislature, and he could only relish the call by Ogilvie for a levy the mayor obviously wanted. Over in the House, the Republican speaker, Ralph Smith, would have to put votes for the income tax on the board. And southern Illinoisan Clyde Choate, a key cog in the Democratic leadership team in the House, would certainly get his due before any income tax legislation was sent to Ogilvie.
Wrenching votes for the income levy out of the Senate Bourbons, though, had to be the least desirable assignment for those seeking the tax. Daley would dictate in the end a vote for the tax by a large number of Senate Democrats, but that would have been meaningless without significant support for the levy in the overwhelmingly GOP majority.
So the onus was on Arrington.
W. Russell Arrington had commandeered a huge role on the state government scene. Commandeered was hardly an exaggeration because Arrington seemed to do everything forcibly. Moving ahead with all the delicacy of that proverbial bull in a china shop, Arrington was the majordomo behind the General Assembly's progression from a part-time institution to one functioning almost full-time. For that, he would be praised and condemned. Success in the world of Illinois government and politics seldom came to persons with small egos, but Arrington's critics insisted that he set a new standard in self-esteem. And that was one of the nicer things they said about Arrington. Arrogant and overbearing, not to mention ruthless those were adjectives attributed to Arrington by some of those on his side in addition to Democrats and other unfortunate souls who got in his way. At the least, Arrington clearly was a man driven to seize the same success in politics that he had achieved in private life, where he had used his law practice and business dealings to make himself a wealthy person.
Because the ball game was in the Senate, final rounds of hectic maneuvering consumed the hours leading up to the Senate vote the night of June 27. Ogilvie was in the middle of it all, huddling one moment with [Jeremiah ] Marsh, [Thomas J. ] Drennan, and his other top strategists and then retreating behind closed doors with legislative leaders of both parties. At the climactic juncture, the governor parked Arrington, Speaker Smith, and their top lieutenants in his own office, and he installed [state Sen. Thomas "Art" ] McGloon and [Democrat state Rep. John P.] Touhy in the nearby smaller office of [deputy governor] Brian Whalen. Ogilvie then shuttled back and forth, from one office to another, again and again, relaying proposals and counterproposals.
By this point, Ogilvie finally had given up on getting an income tax with the same rate for individuals and corporations. ... Consequently, out of that last crucial negotiation, on June
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Editor's choice STANDARDS OF CONDUCT A framework for reform
Drawing the Line: Legislative Ethics in the States
Should public officials accept cash from contractors or lobbyists? OK, the answer to that one seems easy enough. But how about tickets to sporting events? Should politicians use public positions to enrich their private concerns? Should they put campaign contributions to personal use? Though the answers to many such questions might seem straightforward in this era of hyperattention to political ethics, Alan Rosenthal argues they're not. Outright bribery is beyond the pale, certainly. But conflict of interest can be tricky to determine. The distinction between public and private can be blurry. Rosenthal, a political scientist at Rutgers University in New Brunswick, N.J., has spent decades studying state legislatures and dispensing advice on ways to improve the legislative process. It's his contention that most of the ethical decisions legislators are called on to make fall into a gray zone, that many officials are confused about where to draw the line in their private and public conduct. He offers a framework for weighing such decisions, and poses another set of questions designed to get at the intended purposes and the unintended consequences of ethics reform. The response to Rosenthal's standards will depend, he allows, on the culture of each state and on the political dynamics of each legislature. Nevertheless, he reveals his positions on many specific ethical dilemmas faced by the states, including this one. It should be said at the outset that, while Rosenthal is empathetic to lawmakers, respectful of the work they do and sympathetic to the pressures they face, he is not an apologist for unethical conduct. If there is one sour note in this book, though, it is Rosenthal's tendency to blame the messenger. He is correct that lawmakers face increasing pressure to respond to a public perception of corruption, and that the response often misfires in unintended ways. But he implies that public officials might face fewer ethical dilemmas if the media stopped focusing on the problems. At the same time, politicians come in for their share of blame: He criticizes a trend toward politicizing ethics for partisan gain. Rosenthal does make a strong case against appearance as a primary standard for measuring ethical conduct and designing reforms. An action "that is not immoral in itself can, in the language of ethics, be immoral because it resembles an immoral action." Yet Rosenthal admits the appearance standard cannot be ignored completely. Two standards he would add are fairness to individual legislators and responsibility to the legislative institution. Rosenthal's analysis could help inform Illinois' current debate over ethics. And for those who would cut "to his specific suggestions, we'll give away a few, with apologies for the loss of nuance. He would ban gifts to legislators from lobbyists, as well as campaign contributions; curtail legislative leadership PACs (reluctantly) or cap the campaign contributions they can receive. Such reforms could, he believes, go a long way toward changing the political culture in the state capitals. ¯ |
27, emerged the compromise legislative package that would impact taxpayers so heavily for decades.
Under the accord, SB 1150 would be amended to impose a levy of 2.5 percent on the adjusted gross income of individuals and a 4 percent tax on the earnings of corporations. With the enactment of such a levy, everybody was reminded, only the sales tax would provide more revenue for the state.
In a further step considered necessary for Chicago Democratic support, the agreement provided for one-twelfth of the revenue to be rebated to local governments in the form of block grants to aid school districts, reduce real estate taxes, or use for other purposes. The compromise package also allowed municipalities and counties to receive an increased share of the proceeds from the five-cent per dollar state sales tax, another sop to Daleyites. Other parts of the revenue-raising deal included a hike in the state levy on gross receipts from the renting or leasing of hotel rooms and increases in the so-called sin taxes, the state levies on cigarettes, beer, and other alcoholic beverages. Another outgrowth of the compromise, quite significant, was a green light for passage of Ogilvie's ambitious program for improving highways. Besides upping the state motor fuel tax and vehicle registration fees, the program featured as its centerpiece the establishment of a trust authority empowered to issue $2 billion in bonds to finance road building and repairs. ...
The House vote on SB 1150 was taken the night of June 30, a few hours before the General Assembly ended the session....
Later, when asked by the press whom Illinoisans should blame for the income tax, Ogilvie averred that there was "no matter of blame involved." Instead, the governor expressed trust that "the people will accept the verdict of their duly elected representatives." ... [But] the indignation was aimed largely at Ogilvie— some of it within earshot, from boos at the Illinois State Fair to insults as he made the gubernatorial rounds. ¯
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