Kerry Seed hard at work

Our election night webcast was produced by the Political Reporting program at the UC Berkeley Graduate School of Journalism, in association with the News 21 Initiative on the Future of Journalism Education.  Listen to the archive of the webcast, view images from the evening and the show schedule here.

MONTGOMERY, AL—Since Bobby Bright was asking for his vote, Roger Gaither thought this would be the perfect opportunity to ask the Democratic congressional candidate what might be the most important question of the campaign.

“People around here talk about how when you were asked if you support Obama, you raised your hand and said ‘yes.’  Is that true?”

Gaither, the owner of the Gallery antique shop in Wetumpka, about 20 miles north of here, had recently seen a television ad designed to portray Bright as out of step with Alabamans because of his support for Democratic Presidential hopeful Barack Obama.

Now, here was the Mayor—campaigning right at Gaither’s counter.

“They manipulated that clip,” Bright said. “I originally said I would support whoever won, but then they asked again and I said ‘yes, I support Barack Obama and John McCain.’  But they cut the clip.”

Politics in Alabama are changing, but for Mayor Bright, they can’t change soon enough.  The conservative mayor who is liberal by Montgomery’s standards is fighting for a congressional seat that has been in Republican hands for 40 years.

Once considered unattainable for a Democrat, the seat being vacated by Republican Terry Everett seems to be within Bright’s reach this year.  That’s partly because of the economy, partly because of people’s disenchantment with President Bush, and partly because of Bright’s support in Montgomery’s large black community after restoring bus routes that had been discontinued by his predecessor.

Republican Senator Jay love is also vying to replace Everett, and as is often the case with an open congressional seat, the race is highly contentious.

Love, a former Subway sandwich shop owner and two-term State Senator, has relied heavily on his business background to influence his legislative decisions—such as tax cuts to make healthcare more affordable for small business leaders.  In response, Bright points to Montgomery’s nationally-recognized prescription drug plan for city employees and retirees.

Still, with a constituency that will vote overwhelmingly for Republican Senator John McCain as president—there isn’t an official Obama office anywhere in the district—Mayor Bright’s biggest challenge is the “D” next to his name.

And so, his campaign is covering as much ground as it can, starting early and ending late, visiting all 16 counties in Alabama’s 2nd congressional district in the last 16 days of the race to have the Mayor meet as many people as possible.

“It would be easier socially if we were Republican,” Lynn—the mayor’s wife and a retired judge—explained as she rode in the SUV trailing behind the Mayor’s truck on their way to the next small town.  “But he couldn’t do that because of his history—he defeated a sitting Republican to become mayor of Montgomery.”

Recent polls commissioned by Democratic groups are showing the Bright-Love race essentially tied—a success that the Mayor’s staff attribute largely to his conservative values mixed with his inclusive message.

He is hoping to convince voters to split their tickets.

One of those who might is Darrell Westmoreland, who was still undecided after seeing Bright and Love debate at Huntingdon College on Oct. 24.

“There’s a lot of frustration with the parties,” the 46 year old lawyer from Montgomery said.  “I usually always split tickets—I vote for the person I think is most qualified.”

What’s tough for many voters is that with the exception of issues raised in the negative campaign ads, the candidates essentially agree.  They agree on the economy, they agree on defense spending, and they agree on agricultural issues.

In fact, their views are so similar that both of them independently sought promises from their parties that they would be assigned to the same committees—Armed Services and Agriculture.

“I guess that’s part of the Alabama upbringing, the state is largely conservative,” said 31 year old Todd Adams, a student at Huntingdon College who is voting in Montgomery for the first time.  “It’s going to come down to the letter at the end of their name: R or D.”

Which is partially why there are so many negative ads in this campaign.  The Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee has outspent its Republican counterparts two to one, spending $1.2 million to place ads on behalf of Mayor Bright—attacking Senator Love for his ties to a casino tycoon who is expanding into “Communist China.”

Mayor Bright’s campaign insists it has not run a single negative ad, conveniently ignoring those produced on its behalf by the DCCC.

“Rep. (Nancy) Boyda in Kansas said publicly that she wanted the Democratic Congressional Campaign committee out of her race and they did,” Love said at the end of a day campaigning at a fall festival in Greenville.  “Bright could have done the same thing.”

“We knew this was going to be a tough race—we were prepared for a year long battle,” he continued, noting that Rep. Everett wont he previous open-seat race in 1992 by only two percentage points, 49/47.  “We knew it would be a competitive primary and we knew the Democrats were going to spend as much as they could. We’re just gonna keep at it.”

But the public perception has not gone entirely in Love’s favor.  At a fall festival in the tiny south western town of Opp, Gordon Gilmore made a point of rebuking the state senator about campaign conduct.

“There’s too much mud slinging, and you’ve done most of it,” the 72 year old retired paint contractor said.

Senator Love thought for a moment—looking Gilmore in the eye, before loosening his shoulders and putting on a smile.  “I stand behind what I said, and we can just disagree.”

Jay Love (left) campaigning in the town of Opp.

Bobby Bright (right) campaigning at a local burger joint in Coosada.

But when it comes to Alaska’s Democratic caucus, which closes at
12:30 a.m. EST, Todd says, “Good ‘ol Aaska shuts down its caucuses,
technically, on Feb. 6.”

No, Chuck.  In Alaska, where the voting is taking place, it is
technically still Feb. 5.

POINT ARENA — Few of Mendocino County’s Manchester-Point Arena Band of Pomo Indians understand the raging debate that might decide their future.

But there’s one thing they do know: It’s all about money, and they probably won’t see any of it.

“It’s more money to the state of California, more money to their projects,” said tribal vice chair Rick Laiwa as he pointed out another house with cracked windowpanes and mold covering the bedroom walls. “Our roads are falling apart, and they are getting more money for their highways. These Indian gaming propositions are making it look like we’ve got to dig California out of the hole. That’s funny.”

About 400 Manchester-Point Arena Indians live on two plots of hilly land along the rugged Northern California coast. Their 500 acres — dotted with trailers and wind-battered wood houses — are separated by the Garcia River, which floods part of the year. The closest hospital is an hour and a half away and the biggest city, Santa Rosa, is a 2½-hour drive along Highway 1’s winding roads. Few jobs exist in this isolated coastal region besides grocery clerks or cattle farmers, and the nongaming tribe relie heavily on outside funds.

Laiwa fears his 1,000-member tribe will lose the $1.1 million it receives annually from gaming tribes if voters agree to back Propositions 94 to 97 on Feb. 5. The measures would allow four Southern California tribes to expand their casinos, add up to 17,000 slot machines, and steer more of the revenue to the state.

The Manchester-Point Arena Indians are caught in the fracas among gaming tribes with growing political clout in Sacramento, casino owners who fear competition, and a state government scrambling for even small chunks of extra money. Laiwa, who spends the week working construction in Redwood City three hours south, does not see his people represented on the slick television ads both the Yes and No sides have aired relentlessly in recent weeks.

Neither does Jeanne Logan, a 67-year-old grandmother who lives on the reservation with her family. “Big people are pushing money around,” she said. “They get everything, and we get nothing.”

Even the $1.1 million annual allotment barely covers expenses. The tribe has a community center but no employment training or after-school programs. It has relocated several families from dilapidated homes that no longer meet building codes. But Laiwa figures it will be several months before there is money to rebuild them. In the meantime, these families live in makeshift apartments on another part of the reservation.

“For (the gaming tribes) to even say they are giving housing and new schools, that’s a crock,” he said. “How’s it going to get better if we lose money?”

The tribe worries that gaming revenues once set aside for it would go directly to the state’s general fund if the measures are passed. But proponents say tribes like Laiwa’s would actually benefit from this arrangement because the state would ensure that the special revenue trust fund remains stabilized.

“It’s guaranteed for the first time ever,” said Roger Salazar, a spokesman for the Coalition to Protect California’s Budget and Economy, the “Yes” side that includes the Pechanga, Morongo, Sycuan and Agua Caliente gaming tribes involved in the deal.

“Before, there was the potential for shortfalls, but now the government code is very specific. If there is an insufficient amount in the trust fund, then the state will direct money to make sure there are enough resources for each tribe to get $1.1 million.”

But Laiwa and Nelson Pinola, the Manchester-Point Arena tribal chair, don’t know whether they can trust the state. When gaming tribes signed compacts with California in 1999, they agreed to pay $198 million in revenues to the 71 nongaming tribes through a revenue-sharing trust fund. But there was never enough, says Pinola, so gaming tribes started taking from a special distribution fund — originally set up for litigation, traffic and police fees — as a backfill. The new agreements would mean excess revenues go to the state’s general fund instead of the special distribution fund.

“The four big tribes and the state say they would take revenues back out to pay the trust fund, but we don’t believe there is legal language within the law that allows that to happen,” said Pinola. “As a result, small tribes like mine will be affected.”

The issue has divided California’s 108 tribes who traditionally avoid taking public stands against one another. At least 30 tribes who make up the California National Gaming Association have agreed to support these measures. But most of these tribes have existing casinos and are and therefore ineligible for the fund.

Gaming or nongaming, these intertribal tensions are no else’s business, said Wanda Balderama, the former tribal chair of the Hopland Band of Pomo Indians. About 400 members live an hour’s drive inland from Point Arena and have more than 500 slot machines in their casino. Hopland has not taken an official position on the issue.

“I don’t believe voters should have any say,” said Balderama. “It’s a tribe’s right to conduct their own business. We are our own government and should be treated as such instead of being put on the ballot.”

But California voters, including teacher and firefighter unions, have gotten involved in the debate because the deal would pump much-needed funds back into the state’s budget. The four gaming tribes would pay California 15 to 25 percent of their net revenue from the new machines.

The legislative analyst’s office estimates that the state would get $200 million annually over the next few years and in the “low- to mid-hundreds of millions” each year after that until the compacts expire in 2030. The governor signed the agreements last year, but the “No” side, labeling itself No on the Unfair Gambling Deals and led by two other gaming tribes, two racetrack owners and a hotel workers union, got enough signatures to place the measures on the Feb. 5 ballot.

For the Logan family, which has lived here for six generations, the outcome next week is almost irrelevant.

“People are confused and people are tired,” said Mary Logan as she grilled carne asada and nibbled homemade tortillas for a birthday celebration. Logan, 40, has been looking for a job for several months, and the $330 she receives monthly from the trust fund doesn’t go far in providing for four children.“Why even get involved?” she asked. “It’s not going to change. We can’t even get out of the rut we’re in.”