CHAPTER 13

Enter the Thunderdome

Mr. Speaker, I can’t guarantee your safety.

It was Friday, February 18, and with the Democratic senators still on the run, the state assembly was preparing to take up the bill. The crowds inside the capitol had surged to unprecedented proportions and were growing increasingly agitated. Capitol police chief Charles Tubbs came to Speaker Jeff Fitzgerald’s office and told him it was no longer safe for the legislators to be in the building. If the protesters decided to rush the assembly floor, he did not have enough manpower to stop them.1

Fitzgerald had the votes to pass the bill, but now the police were warning him that there could be a riot if he proceeded with a vote. He had no choice but to suspend debate and recess for the weekend.

That was a big risk. He had seen bills with much stronger support unravel and fall apart. The lawmakers had not been back to their districts since the fight over Act 10 began, and Jeff worried what Republicans were going to hear from their constituents. Were people elsewhere in the state as upset as the folks in Madison? Was it perceived that Republicans had gone too far? If what the legislators heard back home echoed what they were hearing in the capitol, the debate over Act 10 would be finished.

That weekend, as the legislators fanned out across the state, Representative Robin Vos decided to get some errands done back home.2 He stopped by Catrine’s, a little three-chair barbershop in downtown Racine, to get a haircut. As he sat down for a trim, everyone in the shop was talking about the protests in Madison. The fellow in the chair next to Robin explained how his daughter had just been laid off and had to move back in with them because she couldn’t afford to pay her rent. “So when I hear these folks say they don’t need to pay towards their pension and health insurance,” the man said, “I can’t believe how out of touch they are.”

The fellow in the other chair told Robin that he was an architect, and had just had his pay reduced by 25 percent with one week’s notice. “I’m not complaining,” he says, “because I’m just happy to have a job. But when I hear these people telling me they want a guaranteed job and they don’t want any reduction in their pay when times are tough, I say [EXPLETIVE] them.”

And the first guy says, “You know, you’re doing the right thing, Robin, that’s why we sent you guys there; you’ve got to fix this.”

It was the same all across the state. As the legislators came back to Madison the next week, they all had similar stories about walking into their local diner and getting a round of applause, or people coming up to them and saying, “Hang in there.” Far from weakening his caucus, the involuntary recess had actually strengthened their resolve.

While the legislators were out of town, we used mutual-aid agreements to bring hundreds of additional police officers from counties across the state to Madison. With security at the capitol strengthened, on Tuesday, February 22, the assembly met again to begin debate.

In the morning, I went over to meet with the GOP caucus. That day, I got a taste of what it is like to be a University of Wisconsin running back as the state troopers formed a “flying wedge” to get me through the masses in the capitol. We learned it is impossible to program the antique elevators in the capitol to skip floors, so the elevator doors opened on each floor as we went up to the fourth-floor meeting room. Fortunately, none of the protesters recognized me behind the phalanx of troopers. If they had, a real riot might have started.

When I arrived, the room erupted. It was an emotional meeting. I explained to the members of our caucus that “every one of us who’s ever sought public office wonders, in the back of our minds: Will our term in office really make a difference? Will we have a lasting impact for the good of the people of your state? In the totality of our careers, whether we’ve been here one term or twenty terms, what will our impact be?

“This is one of those moments where you can do something that will fundamentally change the course of history and the State of Wisconsin for the better of the taxpayers,” I continued. “For those of you who are new, you’re fortunate to be having this opportunity right off the bat. For those of you who have been here for many years, this might be the high point of your legislative accomplishments. . . . But,” I said, “we have a chance to do something that will change the course of history in our state.” I knew how hard this vote was and the pressures they were all feeling. “If there was ever a moment you could pull deep within your reservoir of courage, this is that time. This is that moment.”

There was long, sustained applause. After I left, several legislators got up to speak. A first-term lawmaker from a heavy union town, Representative Joe Knilans, told his colleagues, “I just want to say that taking this vote today will probably cost me my job. But that’s why I came to Madison—to take votes like this. I never wanted to be a career politician—it’s about doing the right thing.”3

Then, the longest serving Republican in the assembly, Representative Al Ott, asked everyone to pray. For about fifteen minutes, everyone held hands and asked God to give them guidance and to protect their families. Later, Robin Vos said that after that experience, “there was nothing that the other side could do that would make this group of people not pass the bill.”

After the caucus meeting, the Republicans proceeded into the assembly chamber, with the crowds of protesters chanting and stomping their feet outside. It was like entering the Thunderdome. The debate lasted more than sixty-one hours. By the time it ended, the legislators had become virtually incoherent from exhaustion. The Democrats had offered 128 amendments but were demanding time to debate and vote on 40 more. After two and a half days of nonstop debate, Speaker Fitzgerald took the floor and said, “This is the longest in the history of the state assembly that a bill has ever been debated. In the end, you know we’re going to have to take this vote.” After allowing the debate to go on a few more hours, Republicans finally offered a motion to send the bill to the senate and adjourn. It was Friday at 1:06 a.m. when the assembly finally voted. The bill was approved by a voice vote.

As the vote was called, the assembly Democrats exploded—yelling, screaming, throwing water, cups, and paper at their Republican colleagues. Robin Vos said the fracas on the assembly floor got so bad “it was impossible to tell a protester apart from a legislator.” At one point, Democratic representative Gordon Hintz turned to his Republican colleague Representative Michelle Litjens on the assembly floor and said: “You’re F———ing dead!”4 He later apologized for the comment,5 but it illustrated how heated and uncivil the debate had become.

All the critics who charged that we rammed collective bargaining reform through without notice or debate seem to forget about the time two years earlier when Governor Doyle rammed a budget repair bill that raised taxes by more than a billion dollars through both houses in twenty-four hours—without a public hearing. By contrast, Republicans held a record sixty-one hours and fifteen minutes of debate on our bill in the assembly alone. (Not to mention a record seventeen-hour committee hearing before that.)

After the vote, I praised the Republican leadership for its action, adding that “assembly Democrats should also be commended for coming to work every day and giving their constituents a voice at the state capitol.” Now, I said, “all attention is on the senate. The fourteen senate Democrats need to come home and do their jobs, just like the assembly Democrats did.”

That was not happening anytime soon. With the Democrats hiding out in Illinois, we could not move forward. The senate Republicans were paralyzed because they did not want to split the bill. Meanwhile, the unions had shifted the debate, and public opinion, in their favor. If the senate had just acted, it would have been over and saved us weeks of grief.

Instead, we were stuck.