Jones lured into seemingly competitive governor’s race

Friday, Oct. 13, 2000 | 11:27 a.m.

Editor's note: This is the sixth and final excerpt from the new book, "The Anointed One," by Sun political columnist Jon Ralston. This series is exclusive to the Sun.

A few weeks before filing for office opened in May 1998, Las Vegas Mayor Jan Jones began to have serious second thoughts about her decision to stay out of the governor's race. She had recovered from breast cancer, and after being prodded by friends, began to wonder if she might have a chance if she ran against a still-undefined Kenny Guinn. Here's what happened:

Jan Jones had hired Celinda Lake, a national Democratic pollster known for her work with female candidates, to conduct the survey. She had worked with Lake during her 1994 gubernatorial bid. Lake conducted the poll starting on Tuesday, May 12, less than one week before filing closed the following Monday. Her firm interviewed 400 registered voters during the next two days to gauge Jones' chances.

On Thursday, May 14, Lake disclosed the results of the poll on a conference call with Jones and Matthew Callister. Jones' numbers were impressive, especially compared to the other candidates, Lake told her. Fifty-five percent of voters viewed her favorably and only 15 percent unfavorably. As for Kenny Guinn, nearly half the voters either didn't know him or had no opinion of him. His favorable-unfavorable ratio among those who did have an opinion was 34-20. Hardly daunting. The survey also showed that possible Guinn opponents Aaron Russo and Lonnie Hammargren were not well known, and those who knew them didn't like them all that much. In addition, three-quarters of voters had never heard of Joe Neal, the prospective Democratic nominee.

Then, Lake unfurled the results of the horse-race question: "If the election for governor were held today, would you vote for Jones or Guinn?" Jones had a six-point lead -- 39 percent to 33 percent.

Lake then tried to flesh out those numbers by asking respondents how they felt after hearing the following description of each candidate:

Jones hung up the phone, stunned. She actually had a great chance to defeat Guinn. He'd not defined himself. His lack of a TV campaign had ensured voters still didn't know much about him. She immediately showed the survey to her husband. "What do you think?" she asked him. Schuetz told her that the sample was statistically small. But even with the variables built in, he told her, "You'd be nuts if you didn't do it."

Jones' eldest daughter, Maura, wanted her mother to run, too, but she knew that Schuetz couldn't imagine what it would be like. Maura remembered 1994 and going up against a favored opponent. "You don't understand," she told Schuetz. "It's not fun."

The next morning, Jones called Sen. Harry Reid, who was campaigning in Northern Nevada. The mayor told the senator that she had a poll showing that she could win the governor's race and was planning to file on Monday, the last day to do so. Reid was thrilled. "I would love it if you would do this," he told her. "I can help you with the Democratic party's coordinated campaign and I don't think you'd have to raise much more than seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars." But, Reid told her, she'd better be sure, because he was trying to get Schneider into the race.

"Don't worry," Jones told him. "I'm sure." She was leaving that day for Arizona to attend her stepson's graduation, but would return Sunday and file Monday, the last day candidates could put their names on the ballot.

Reid was not the kind of man, though, who liked to leave anything to chance. He immediately called Washington and tracked down his friend, Al Gore, the vice president. He wanted Gore to call Jones to close the deal. Hearing from the vice president would ensure that she'd follow through, Reid figured. Gore agreed to call, but in typical Jones fashion, she'd made a big splash, then vanished. No one, even the vice president of the United States, could find her.

The Guinn folks were ready for a blood-pressure check. Rogich refused to believe that she was really thinking about filing on Monday. It just couldn't be happening. If it was, he told others in the campaign, she had lied to him. Some believed Jones ultimately wouldn't go through with it -- the "cry-wolf" syndrome Vassiliadis had talked about. But there also was a palpable sense of fear in the Guinn camp. "There was an emotional roller coaster kind of ride," said one Guinn insider. "We were three days out and we thought we'd be facing Hammargren, Russo, and Neal. All of a sudden we were dealing with the Democrats' strongest candidate for governor. There was a lot of anxiety."

Fairly sure

Jones returned from Arizona on Sunday night, still fairly sure of her commitment, though not all the way there. The phone rang at her home that evening and on the other end of the line was Steve Wynn. Jones was stunned by his attitude. "He said, 'It's not right not to have a race,' " Jones recalled Wynn telling her. " 'This guy (Guinn) is unproven.' " Wynn was actually calling to encourage her to get into the contest, Jones thought. " 'You know we've been on opposite sides before,' " Jones said that Wynn reminded her. " 'But Bob Miller was proven, he was in office. Kenny is not proven. Jan, you are. If you run, I'll give you the same amount of money, and I think you should do it.' "

Jones and Schuetz discussed how to leak the news about what time she would file the next morning. Schuetz wanted to give the story to George Knapp, the high-profile reporter for the CBS affiliate. Jones thought giving anyone a heads-up might cause her a problem later in the campaign; the media were funny that way and some held campaign-long grudges. She and Schuetz had a row about the plan, but he eventually called Knapp and tipped him off.

That Monday morning, some of the Guinn team gathered at Sig Rogich's office to plot strategy. They still weren't sure Jones would file, but they had to be prepared, as Ernaut put it, to "run a real campaign now." Rogich was furious, feeling a sense of personal betrayal. He kept muttering that he had just talked to her the previous week about meeting with Guinn about a role in his administration. And he had not heard a word from her. He convinced himself that her husband was pushing her into the race, wanting to be close to power.

As the inner circle chatted, political consultant Billy Vassiliadis' cell phone rang. He answered and Jones was on the line. He quickly excused himself and went into the bathroom to take the call. Her first words were, " 'Do you still love me?' " he remembered.

"You're making it a lot harder, mayor" he retorted.

Jones then said she was not sure why she was running, that she must be crazy to have changed her mind. And then she pleaded with Vassiliadis not to let their friendship be affected, the way it had in 1994.

Jones arrived at the Grant Sawyer Building near downtown Las Vegas about 11 a.m., with a full media entourage (14 reporters and photographers) in tow. Though George Knapp was supposed to get the exclusive, the lid was off. Virtually every news organization was there. Jones strolled into the offices with Schuetz on her arm. How impulsive had she been? When asked for the $300 filing fee, Jones asked if she could write a check. No, she was told; the law mandates cash. So Schuetz had to run out to an automated teller machine to withdraw the money so she could make it official.

Jones implied to the media that her breast-cancer experience had given her a sense of carpe diem, which was partly responsible for her sudden entry. "I know the importance of life and the time you have," she told the media. "And I can't let the democratic process go ignored." She was peppered with questions about her health, so she repeated her mantra of a month earlier: "I don't have breast cancer. I had breast cancer."

As shocking as her decision was, Jones had to share the media spotlight. Lonnie Hammargren, after months of oscillating between running for governor or running for Congress or not running at all, officially became a gubernatorial candidate. Even more surprising than Hammargren's candidacy was his rhetoric, which was a blistering screed against Guinn. He called Guinn a "Republican in name only, a RINO," words that had been whispered earlier about Guinn and an acronym coined by his friend, George Harris, the GOP finance director and Sheldon Adelson's paid lieutenant. Hammargren also told the media he would spend a half-million of his own money, which could force Guinn to unload some of his war chest. He even went so far as to froth, "Kenny Guinn is controlled by the gaming industry and union bosses."

Hammargren was as peculiar as any Nevada elected official in many, many years. But now that he and the equally mercurial Russo were willing to expend hundreds of thousands of dollars attacking Guinn in the primary, the entire calculus of the race had changed. Guinn would have to spend money defending himself. His negatives inevitably would rise. And Jones could stand by and watch. She wouldn't have to do much to erase Neal from the landscape. She could concentrate on raising money and be ready for a strong general-election challenge after the September primary. It was a dream scenario for the Democrats, especially Harry Reid, who now had the lightning rod to attract female Democratic voters to the polls in his race against John Ensign.

In the space of a few days, an assured anointment had turned into a potentially competitive race for the state's highest office.

"The Anointed One," by Jon Ralston, is available for $17.95 from all major bookstores in the greater Las Vegas area; it's also available directly from the Las Vegas-based publisher, Huntington Press, at 252-0655.

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