King makers

The Rev. Leon "Rabbit" Harris sits at a makeshift bingo table in the Ralph D. Abernathy Tower, home to about 100 senior citizens. Harris is a big, roly-poly kind of guy with a stubbly white beard and the reputation as a lovable scoundrel.

His teeth are large and grouped in a scattershot row. The front two poke out at angles. You get the nickname. On the table in front of the 66-year-old sits a cell phone -- on his belt, a pager.

"I know this high rise ain't going to let anybody in but Shirley," Harris says. He's talking about Atlanta mayoral candidate Shirley Franklin.

Harris has worked Atlanta's elections since 1972 -- the year of Andrew Young's successful bid for Congress. His candidate has rarely lost, and he is widely considered the undisputed king of getting out the vote in the city's 23 senior citizen high rises -- worth thousands of votes.

Over the years, others have tried to move in on his game, "but they just mess it up," he says.

When it comes to senior citizens, there are few better plugged in than Harris. He eats where they eat, sleeps where they sleep. He operates a table game program -- bingo, dominoes -- in the high rises and knows the faces in his small fiefdom intimately. Come election day, he'll buy doughnuts and coffee and roll out 50 volunteers. Vans, full of supporters, are driven from tower exit to polling place door.

Over the last 30 years, the routine hasn't changed. "I'd go along with a candidate if he or she wants to work it another way, but I still do it the same," Harris says with a chuckle.

On Sunday, not far from Rabbit, Aaron Turpeau and baseball legend Hank Aaron are throwing a fundraiser for Franklin at Turpeau's house in the Cascade neighborhood. About 40 people show up.

Turpeau's careful diction and stylish dress separate him from Harris obviously and immediately. Yet the two men share history. They've been political operatives in Atlanta for 30 years, and at times, part of what some say is the city's political "machine."

In the November mayoral election, they will again, in a way, resume their roles as different limbs on the same body.

Fact vs. myth
In the past 30 years, or so the thinking goes, a political organization -- a machine, if you will -- has ensured a steady lineage of Atlanta's mayors. It started with Maynard Jackson in 1973, who then endorsed and campaigned for his successor, Andrew Young. Then Jackson's torch passed to Mayor Bill Campbell. Now with Campbell in his last year and clouded in controversy, the heir apparent is Shirley Franklin, who, if the thinking is right, will use the machine to try to grind up her opponents in November's mayoral election.

But this thinking requires a very broad brush, so broad it minimizes individual personalities and paints a sort of monolith into Atlanta politics.

The fact is there is no machine, hasn't been anything resembling one for 15 years -- certainly not in the tradition of the beast created by former Chicago Mayor Richard Daley or Tammany Hall in New York. At best, Atlanta has a revolving list of top political organizations that avail themselves of a network of neighborhood operatives.

The picture of Atlanta's political future isn't one of an inevitable victor nesting in Jackson's legacy. The years, a divisive congressional election in 1986, and Campbell himself have seen to the rusting of the gears.

What is true, though, is that many of the same people who, as far back as the 1970s, backed Jackson and Young, who formed a successful, cohesive political organization with Jackson at its center, are coalescing around Franklin. The question is: Will it matter? Changes in city demographics, the political maturity of Atlanta's electorate and the age of the people in the Jackson organization fuel the uncertainty.

ANVL AND MAYNARD
The roots of the Jackson-Young organization stretch back before the days of integration, when Atlanta's blacks still rode in the back of the political bus.

In 1949, Jackson's grandfather, John Wesley Dobbs, and A.T. Walden co-founded the forerunner to the organization that crystallized around Atlanta's first black mayor. That organization, the Atlanta Negro Voters League (ANVL) held political sway among Atlanta's blacks for almost two decades, Emory University's Gary Pomerantz writes in Where Peachtree Meets Sweet Auburn.

White politicians had their own political organization, which centered around the heads of Atlanta's major companies -- Rich's, Georgia-Pacific, Southern Bell and the publisher of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution.

Blacks, who represented a quarter of the population and voted in the city primary for the first time in 1949, were a swing vote. "In the black community, people came together as a reaction to their exclusion ... out of necessity," says Clark Atlanta University political scientist William Boone.

Soon, white politicians would need ANVL's endorsement to win.

"Now, that was a machine," says Sam Massell, the city's last white mayor and president of the Buckhead Coalition.

But by the time Jackson decided to run for mayor in 1973, the ANVL had aged, and Atlanta's black leaders were in disagreement about whether it was time to run a black candidate for mayor.

Out of that disagreement grew a new, younger flock of politicos, many of whom had received their first taste of campaigning during Young's runs at a congressional seat in 1970 and 1972. David Franklin, who was a political strategist and adviser during Jackson's and Young's mayoral bids, commissioned a poll that would convince black leaders to line up behind Jackson. The soon-to-be mayor was then only 35.

During Jackson's first two terms (1974-1982), Young's two terms (1982-1990) and Jackson's return to the mayor's office (1990-1994), a recurring cast of behind-the-scenes characters grew up around the administrations: James Orange, Michael Lomax, Julius Hollis, Aaron Turpeau, Rodney Strong, Eugene Duffy, Herb McCall, Harris and Franklin.

Under those men worked a network of operatives passing out literature, canvassing neighborhoods and church parking lots, drumming up excitement. They formed the army for getting out the vote -- the lifeblood of campaigning in Atlanta's black community, the key to winning Atlanta elections. Some of those workers -- like Shirley Franklin, David Franklin's ex-wife and one of the few women in the elite group, and Michael Langford -- eventually rose to the status of upper-level organizers. Shirley Franklin later became chief administrative officer during Young's administration and held two high-ranking posts during Jackson's third administration.

Before the organization's rise, election efforts were less orchestrated in the black community, David Franklin says. Little polling was done and candidates relied more on beauty shop scuttlebutt.

From romance to disintegration
What grew out of the organization was an exportable election strategy with a heavy neighborhood focus. "Those were the glory days," Franklin says. The group helped elect two mayors and a congressman, and rolled out the Atlanta vote for President Jimmy Carter. "There was almost a romantic feel to it."

Hollis' story is fairly common within the group. He came on to the scene as a campaigner out of Morehouse College and was introduced to Young in the early '70s. Eventually, he was teamed with a veteran campaigner and put in charge of poll watchers, bus drivers and phone banks.

During and after his election, Jackson was the nucleus of the organization. After he left City Hall, his endorsement still brought out the troops.

During Young's 1981 run for mayor, Jackson worried about the impact a business community solidly behind Young's white opponent, Sidney Marcus, would have, says Rick Allen, author of Atlanta Rising. On election day, Jackson stationed workers at exits off I-20 in south Atlanta holding signs that read "Heavy voter turnout on northside," Allen recalls. Jackson had become Atlanta's kingmaker.

Still, the organization was less a machine than a collective of individuals with specific talents and similar interests. "How can you have an organization that doesn't meet?" Franklin laughs.

The group saw its first major split during the 1986 congressional campaign that pitted John Lewis against Julian Bond. Old friends wound up competitors.

Other cracks emerged later. Lomax, by then Fulton County Commission chairman, would run against Jackson in 1989, and then against Campbell.

Jackson's endorsement still meant plenty of hardcore organizers, like Harris, would line up behind Campbell in 1993. But Turpeau supported both of the Campbell's challengers -- Lomax in 1993 and Marvin Arrington four years later. The Franklins, though divorced by then, both supported then-councilwoman Myrtle Davis in 1993. Young gave his endorsement to Lomax.

Still, it's a little surprising that Campbell has overseen a breakdown of the top-level organization. After all, he inherited Jackson's ready-made powerbase, won office against a candidate who already had broken with many of the city's political insiders and ran for re-election against Arrington -- considered the "anti-Jackson" of Atlanta politics.

The Arrington-Campbell election in 1997 turned on 6 percentage points, about 4,000 votes, even though Arrington was outspent 2-to-1 and running against an incumbent. It looked neck-and-neck, but Arrington stumbled during the race's final week when he accused Jackson of sitting on the sidelines during the civil rights struggle. Jackson struck back, and public opinion in south Atlanta swung strongly to Campbell.

"[Arrington] gave Jackson the microphone," Turpeau says. "You don't give him the microphone."

Still, up to that point, the election looked close, and that says something. "If it was such a machine, then Campbell wouldn't have had such trouble with Arrington," Boone says. "You don't split a machine."

Many of the upper-level operatives backed away from Campbell, and he backed away from them, says an insider in all four of the administrations.

"The 'Jackson-Young-Campbell' machine is a misnomer," David Franklin says. "Bill wanted his own machine. He wanted personal support."

Atlanta lawyer Kevin Ross, who led Lewis' 1986 campaign, ran both Campbell campaigns with Campbell friend and attorney Steven Labovitz. Meanwhile, Langford stepped into the grassroots-organizer role once occupied by James Orange.

In the 1998 gubernatorial primary, the split between Campbell and longtime members of the Jackson-Young camp could be seen again. Campbell endorsed Lewis Massey, while most of the old organization backed Gov. Roy Barnes.

David Franklin says it's just more proof that the idea of a monolithic political beast is overly simplistic.

Warming the engine
For her part, Shirley Franklin has been trying to distance herself from the idea that her troops will be the same ones seen in the city's old battles. "What we did 10 or 20 years ago is not consequential to the election in November," she says.

Beyond the obvious goal of wanting her campaign to be inclusive to Atlantans old and new, it's easy to see why Franklin doesn't want to be seen as part of a pre-ordained line that stretches from Jackson to Campbell.

In an AJC column Tuesday, she proclaimed, "I don't want Bill Campbell's support, and I don't have it. ... Campbell has made some huge mistakes in running city government."

Of course, anyone with half a brain wouldn't want to be connected to the growing crescendo of scandal in Campbell's administration.

"No one has seen a race like this, because nobody has seen a past mayor like this," David Franklin says.

At 42, Michael Langford represents the younger face of the political organization that Shirley Franklin helped construct. He's known for getting out the vote in Atlanta's black community. There isn't anybody better at it, according to those in the know.

"Michael Langford has the troops," says one longtime Atlanta political observer. "In every town, there's a guy who knows all the preachers, knows all the neighborhood leaders, has known them since growing up as a little boy."

He started by attending community meetings with his father, Arthur Langford Sr. By 14, Langford was the chairman of the drainage committee for his Neighborhood Planning Unit.

He cut his political teeth as a volunteer in the mayoral campaigns of Young and Jackson and eventually built a team that allowed him to become the field operations chief for both of Campbell's election runs. He's responsible for "the noise and the sound," David Franklin says.

But as head of the city's Office of Community Affairs, Langford has also been tied to the litany of mini-scandals that have plagued the Campbell administration. Three former employees of the federally-funded Atlanta Private Industry Council complained that fellow employees Tracy Langford (Michael's wife) and another man campaigned for Campbell during agency -- and taxpayer -- time.

The whistleblowers were fired after complaining about the practice and awarded a $473,721 judgment by a jury in December as compensation.

So Langford has obvious close ties to Campbell, and says he has no plans of sitting on the parade route while the election marches by. But while he's spoken with Franklin, she has not offered him a position with her campaign -- not that she would need to yet. Langford's strengths wouldn't be employed until the summer when the campaigns really start heating up.

For his part, Langford hasn't ruled out working for Council President Robb Pitts, though he says "there's a number of major concerns I'd have to overcome" before joining the camp of a bitter Campbell enemy. Pitts is considered Franklin's leading opponent.

Teaching an Old Guard new tricks
With chief Campbell operatives out of the picture, the old network is rejuvenated.

Look at Shirley Franklin's campaign contributors. Hollis is there. So is Strong. The Rev. Harris already has pledged his support. And Turpeau is a campaign contributor.

"I haven't seen this group of people together since the 1980s," David Franklin says.

The old machine, it seems, is being re-tooled for this year's election. But will it be enough? After all, the dynamics of Atlanta have shifted -- 20,000 new residents have arrived since 1990. Many are white.

"There's been an influx of middle-class whites," says Clark Atlanta professor Boone. "Gentrification has taken hold. That's going to have a powerful influence on the election."

Even Harris notes a change. "It's not just black no more," Harris says. "I work with as many whites as blacks."

The demographic changes have led some to wonder whether old tactics will have the same effects on November decision-making. The upcoming election is going to be a major test on whether traditional get-out-the-vote efforts -- door-to-door, sound trucks, church pamphleting -- still work, says Dana Bolden, a consultant for Pitts' campaign. "My gut reaction is, yes."

Lomax disagrees. Face-to-face campaigning "has lost favor during the last few years," Lomax says. It's been replaced by a more costly and expensive concentration on mass media, paid pollsters and phone banks.

Lomax says that in the presidential race, blacks went to the polls and pulled the lever for Gore without much grassroots prompting by Democratic organizers. That's because the black community is in a "high energy" period right now and is "recognizing the power of their enfranchisement."

But Turpeau says speculation about campaign tactics supposes the old guard will run Franklin's campaign and try to win it the way they won before. "I don't think that's true at all," he says. The old guard is going to have to come up with some new answers if it wants to be included, according to Turpeau.

For both campaigns, a new generation could assert itself in the coming election. And in every election, up to two thirds of the workers tend to be first-timers, David Franklin says. But there's a question of how active younger campaigners want to be, Turpeau says. "I've been trying to get someone to do my stuff for 10 years," he says. It hasn't happened yet.

Lomax thinks the election will come down to a few key endorsements. Other players, influential preachers included, will follow the endorsements and, the thinking goes, the votes will fall in line.

That could be good for Franklin. Young is a member of her campaign committee. And Jackson -- well, he's the godfather of Franklin's son.

Langford says endorsements might have once been essential, but it's debatable now. "People now evaluate it for themselves." The election will turn on who is willing to work hardest for an Atlantan's vote. The black community wants to see that, wants you to earn it, Langford says. "They want to see excitement."

Both Langford and Lomax could be right, because the excitement has seemed to follow Jackson. The former mayor could not be reached for comment, but given that his once-powerful but revived brain trust is aligning around Franklin, you get the sense that the election might come down to a referendum on his enduring influence.

Jackson, Turpeau says, is "the rain-maker. There's no question about that."

kevin.griffis@creativeloafing.com