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It was one of those so-crazy-it-could-work moments: Thorpe and her advisers came to the conclusion that if they wanted marriage, they would get ... marriage licenses. It could work, one of the B.R.O. lawyers explained, because Oregon gives counties authority over those permits. And of the five Multnomah County commissioners, four had been B.R.O. allies over the years--women who had supported a B.R.O. anti-discrimination ordinance, come to B.R.O. galas and luncheons and, in the case of commissioner Maria Rojo de Steffey, accepted a B.R.O. civil rights award. When Thorpe and her lobbyist Maura Roche arrived at the county building on Jan. 27 for their first meetings on marriage--meetings so secret that Thorpe and Roche hadn't even told the commissioners why they were coming--the first two commissioners with whom they met asked, "Are we in trouble?"
Thorpe laughs. "They've never been in trouble" with B.R.O., she says. So close are the four liberal commissioners to the gay community of Portland--the biggest city in Multnomah--that Thorpe had waited until after the holidays to present the marriage idea to them. "I knew they would be going to all kinds of Christmas parties with gay people, and the temptation would be strong not to keep it confidential," she says.
Secrecy was crucial for two reasons: first, enemies would surely sue to stop same-sex marriage licensing before it occurred, and the point was to have the licenses in hand once the court battle began. Second, two of the four commissioners face re-election this year, and at that time, they were unopposed. Thorpe was also concerned about Attorney General Hardy Myers, another Democratic ally, facing re-election. The image of gays exchanging vows would probably draw opponents into these races--but potential spoilers would have to enter by March 9, the filing deadline. Keep the marriage plan secret until March 10, and the politicians would be protected.
Quietly, Thorpe and her county allies--commissioners Rojo de Steffey, Serena Cruz, Lisa Naito and chair Diane Linn, along with a trusted staff member from each office--began discussing marriage. Whenever the commissioners came to meetings on the issue, they were careful to show up alone or in pairs to avoid triggering a state public-meetings law that applies when a quorum of elected officials (in this case, three of five) gather to discuss government affairs. To be sure, the commissioners may routinely follow the same practice, but the deliberate dodging of the public-meetings law on such a politically explosive decision--one that was ultimately made without a single public hearing--would later spark bitter complaints.
Even with all the planning, however, there was one wild card: no matter how much they wanted to, the commissioners wouldn't authorize same-sex marriage licenses without an assenting opinion from the county attorney Agnes Sowle. And Sowle was a litigator, not an activist.