The Credit-Card Governor

Back in 1970, few Oklahomans gave Democrat David Hall much chance to win the state's gubernatorial race. He had failed in the primary four years earlier, and his opponent this time, Republican Incumbent Dewey F. Bartlett, was a millionaire in his own right and well financed by oil interests. Yet Hall persisted, showing the same determination that got him through the University of Tulsa law school (he drove a Pepsi truck), and then saw him become Tulsa County's chief prosecutor.

He stumped indefatigably through the state's heavily Democratic back country. To meet expenses, he passed the hat at bean dinners and watermelon feasts, borrowed from banks, and so overstrained his credit that wags described his campaign as the first ever to be financed on a Diners' Club card. At a small fund-raising event in Tulsa, Hall had to leave the restaurant, race to a friend's house and borrow enough money to cover the dinner bill. But it all paid off on election day, when Hall won by 2,181 votes.

Last week Hall was at the epicenter of a scandal involving precisely what he has never had: money. Almost from the day he took office, the Internal Revenue Service has been trying--without success--to uncover possibly unreported income from political contributions. More recently, a local grand jury presented indictments that charge key aides with trading state favors for political donations. Oklahoma's attorney general and a federal grand jury last week began to investigate those charges. The probes may eventually focus on Hall himself.

Hot Cider. It is reasonably certain that Hall did not use public office for private gain. His official financial statement shows that his family's net worth has plunged by $17,000 (to about $7,000) since he became Governor. Yet there is little question that his official salary of $35,000 and expense allowance of $15,000 does not cover gubernatorial costs --at least not in Hall's style. He has a reputation for public generosity; he threw a hot-cider Christmas party in his mansion last year, for example, and 7,000 people showed up. Nor does the salary cover the continuing repayments Hall had to make on some $200,000 worth of campaign debts.

He has not been able to rely for financial help on big contributors. Something of a reformer, Hall raised the taxes on oil and gas production for the first time in 35 years and closed a gaping loophole by taxing as income dividends earned within the state. The taxes obviously did not win him the kind of friends who write substantial checks to help politicians meet their bills. "You need many, many small contributions," says Hall. "Otherwise, there is no way to do it unless you borrow and go into debt." He went into debt of various kinds.

A strapping (6 ft. 3 in., 200 Ibs.), handsome man with prematurely white hair that belies his 43 years, Hall had a blithe attitude toward money. To fill his needs he turned to a well-connected entrepreneur and buddy, Arthur ("Sunny") Jenkins, 52, authorizing him to raise the funds where he could. In the 2 1/2 years that he thus served Hall, Sunny shone. He says he borrowed from banks, or got friends to do so, and cajoled contributors into parting with a total of about $250,000, most of it in donations of $500 to $2,000. The big donors were given plaques that certified them as members of the "Governor's Club." Disturbingly, many of the plaque owners were contractors or architects who stood to benefit from making political contributions -"frog hair,"* as such funds are known locally. But Sunny insists that he used no pressure: "The contributors just wanted to make sure they were treated equally."

That is not quite how a pair of grand juries saw the situation. One in Oklahoma City recently indicted Jenkins and four associates on a total of 25 counts, the most serious being the charge that the men fixed state contracts to give big donors construction jobs. In Tulsa, the other grand jury alleged in its indictment that a state tax supervisor underreported a sales tax return from the local Sheraton Inn. A former controller at the inn claims that similar transactions were allegedly repeated over ten months and saved the hotel a total of $19,700, at least a part of which went into political contributions.

"I am 100% innocent of any wrongdoing. I did not know what was going on," insists Hall. Skeptics wonder how the Governor could have remained unaware of so sizable a fund-raising drive. Indeed, one of Jenkins' group has testified (in return for immunity) that Hall was at least vaguely informed.

Though shaken by the scandal, Hall can be accused only of a poor choice of aides, and even they are still not proved guilty. Indeed, because the IRS'S investigators apparently have not turned up evidence to incriminate the Governor, Hall's own record so far seems clean. This has led sympathizers to accuse Hall's political enemies of gunning for him.

In his own defense, Hall argues, somewhat beside the point: "If only the rich can run for office, we'll soon have nothing but government by a select group." He says that he definitely intends to run for re-election this year, and has launched a complicated court suit to end what he sees as unfair investigative tactics. Such legal action, of course, costs money. Typically, Hall has gone to a bank and borrowed $30,000.

*Because, as old Sooners say, new money feels "as slippery and smooth as frog hair."

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