Rebel, rebel

State House liberals have long been frustrated by Speaker Tom Finneran's strict regime. Are they finally prepared to do something about it?

by Michael Crowley

As a small band of liberal state representatives prepared to mount their first organized challenge to House Speaker Tom Finneran (D-Mattapan) this week, the State House was buzzing with talk of rebellions and crackdowns. So naturally, it seemed like a good time to check in with the man who wrote the book on challenging Finneran: state representative Chris Hodgkins (D-Lee).

After Finneran won a 1996 battle for the Speakership and quickly consolidated power in the House, Hodgkins emerged as a kind of anti-Speaker, calling Finneran "bold and arrogant" and accusing him of resorting to "petty vindictiveness" to keep his legislative minions cowering (see "The Man Who Dares to Defy Speaker Finneran," News, August 8, 1997). Yet by early 1998, even Hodgkins had lost the will to fight alone, and it became harder to find him hollering on the floor of the House or treating reporters to an acidic quote about Finneran's latest power play.

Even as Hodgkins fell silent, however, other representatives grew more frustrated with Finneran's domineering style, which rendered them frequently irrelevant and forced them to stand by as their pet bills were remorselessly tossed into the Speaker's legislative wastebasket. House liberals in particular watched with dismay last year as Finneran smothered popular progressive measures, including a minimum-wage hike, a ban on ATM surcharges, and patient-friendly HMO reforms.

So the 1999-2000 session of the legislature has opened amid talk of rebellion in the House. The first skirmish took place this Tuesday, when the liberals proposed a handful of modest reforms to the House's strict parliamentary rules. And who should be among the first members at the podium, bellowing away and even, at one point, letting loose with a pig call on the House floor?

Why, Chris Hodgkins, of course. "I'm back," Hodgkins proclaimed this week. "I'm back and I'm having fun."

What's fun for Hodgkins -- and the 15 or so House liberals who coordinated the rules rebellion -- is a headache for Finneran. Finneran was able to beat back the Democrats' proposed rules changes, aimed at encouraging debate and making it harder to bury bills in "graveyard" committees. In fact, he actually tightened his control somewhat by making it easier to prevent bills from coming to the floor. But that first coordinated act of resistance to his regime could portend rancorous days ahead for the recently orderly House.

Of course, House dissidents have complained about Finneran before, only to sit idly by as he blocks debate and snuffs out their bills. The question is whether, this time, anyone is ready to translate the grumbling into floor speeches, parliamentary objections, and vigorous public-relations campaigns.

"This is not a full-scale rebellion," state representative Byron Rushing (D-Boston) said of the rules-reform effort he helped lead this week. "A full-scale rebellion is that someone would run against the Speaker," something Rushing calls inconceivable. "Certainly people are talking about having more debate and more-open negotiations up here. Whether they're willing to turn that into organized activity on the floor -- I think we'll have to wait a few weeks and see."

Although there may be no coup afoot, organized opposition to Finneran would still be a dramatic development. Liberalism still hasn't recovered from being a scapegoat for the last recession and a foil for the Bill Weld era. Now, ambitious and creative liberalism may be showing the first signs of a comeback on Beacon Hill, with implications for the minimum wage, welfare reform, education, and human services.

"I think you will see many of us rising to that challenge in this session," says state representative Jay Kaufman (D-Lexington). "We erred on the side of silence in the last term. This time we're going to make more noise."

---

To some, there's a boy-who-cried-wolf quality to this supposed liberal uprising. In his State House office, with a bookshelf stocked with titles by Rush Limbaugh, Dan Quayle, Richard Nixon, and Ronald Reagan, House Republican leader Fran Marini is plainly irritated by the notion.

"The liberal Democrats are whining at every opportunity, but every one of them voted for the Speaker," he says (not true, actually: in Finneran's two pro forma reelections since he first seized the Speakership, Chris Hodgkins voted "present" both times). "They don't like the Speaker's politics, his ideology, his management style. But they vote for the Speaker. They vote with him on every procedural vote that's held and the vast majority of substantive matters."

"There's no organized group of dissidents, as far as I'm concerned," Marini adds with annoyance. "They'll fall into line as soon as the Speaker cracks the whip."

Marini, of course, isn't rooting for the liberals to succeed. Ultimately, Republicans don't really mind Finneran, whom they helped elect over a liberal preferred by most House Democrats, former majority leader Richard Voke.

But even the liberals realize that they've often been more talk than action. In the months ahead, will the dissidents stand up and be counted when Finneran blocks debates or rams through complex legislation? Finneran may have tightened and manipulated House rules to quiet opposition, but he hasn't taken away the voices and votes of individual representatives.

"The failure of the legislature to fully debate issues would be remedied if more members would just stand up for their own rights," says state representative Jim Marzilli (D-Arlington), a leading progressive critic of Finneran's management style. "In fact, changing the rules is not the most important thing that could happen this year in the House. If members would just more fully exercise the power that has already been given to them, we'd all be a lot better off."

"Speakers get as much power as the members cede to them," says state representative Daniel Boseley (D-North Adams), who is not among Finneran's challengers. "I'm not sure it's the system so much as how we all deal with it."

And the system might not be so bad. Even Finneran's critics give him credit for being smart, driven, and fearlessly principled -- look at his willingness to see the New England Patriots leave the state rather than have tax dollars go to a new football stadium. The local media responded warmly to his recent call for expensive statewide early-childhood-education programs. Fiscal disciplinarians have lauded his skepticism of both big tax cuts and spending hikes. Some observers say the House has never been run more efficiently.

Yet Finneran just can't seem to avoid controversy. He didn't merely stonewall the Patriots last year; he barked about "whining millionaires" and "fat-assed millionaires," clear references to the team's owner, Robert Kraft. Even if people privately chuckled, Finneran's Kraft-bashing began an escalating pattern of rhetorical excess. When public-school teachers fared dismally on a state competency test, for instance, he branded them "idiots." Even though he endorsed his party's 1998 nominee for governor, former attorney general Scott Harshbarger, his repeated criticisms -- he warned that Harshbarger could "go loony left," and that the cost of his education plan was "mind-boggling" -- became fodder for Paul Cellucci's campaign. In September Finneran refused to defend Bill Clinton, saying the Monica Lewinsky scandal was "a stain on the office of the presidency."

The new year has found Finneran no less brash. His third annual session-opening "Address to the Citizens of the Commonwealth" was a spectacularly bombastic speech, beginning with talk about "the portals which open upon the next century" and closing with the lofty imagery of "history's pen." The address hinged on a bold policy proposal: a plan for the House to start passing two-year budgets, a power-centralizing move that would further diminish the role of the rank-and-filers, who depend on the annual budget process for a chance to attach pet amendments. Finneran later bragged to the Boston Globe that the legislature "has never been better run, it has never been better led, and it has never been more productive."

And last week, Finneran amazed politicos with some harsh words for the state's all-Democratic congressional delegation. According to the Globe, Finneran complained at a meeting with business and civic leaders that Massachusetts's congressmen had done a "pathetic" job of securing federal highway dollars, and he even seemed to threaten that the legislature would punish congressmen by redrawing their districts after the 2000 census. Finneran later downplayed his remarks, but his boldness appeared almost irrational, reviving questions about his party loyalty. Republicans quickly pounced on the story: "He was absolutely right on target," incoming state GOP chairman Brian Cresta said, suggesting that Finneran's remarks would aid GOP candidates next year. "The congressional delegation has had absolutely no influence." (Actually, the delegation, and even some Republicans, offer compelling evidence that Massachusetts fared relatively well in the 1998 highway bill.)

Some suggest Finneran is drunk with power. But others say that burning bridges is his plan. "Finneran knows exactly what he's doing," says one long-time State House observer. "There's no doubt in my mind that he wants to run for governor." This source says that Finneran, knowing his pro-life philosophy effectively prevents him from running as a Democrat, is angling to run as an independent against Paul Cellucci in 2002.

Perhaps. But whether or not he's interested in higher office, Finneran's brusque style seems likely to catch up with him sooner or later. His political base consists of a few thousand Mattapan constituents and an odd coalition of Republicans and conservative Democrats. Faced with a resurgent labor movement and a feistier crew of House liberals -- and few independently powerful loyalists -- Finneran could find his power grip weakened.

A lot depends on how rebellious the House's liberals are willing to be. Some of the dissidents were deflated by Tuesday's failed rules rebellion. "Everyone walked out of there stunned," said one. But others are vowing guerrilla warfare. Chris Hodgkins and friends are headed for the hills.

Michael Crowley can be reached at mcrowley[a]phx.com.