Campaign Finance: Debating For Dollars

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 GOP 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."