Less than 90 minutes later, an ashen-faced Mezvinsky buckled. Escorted by party elders as if she were in custody, she walked to the well of the House and cast one of the two final votes that saved the Clinton plan. Republicans chanted, “Goodbye, Marjorie,” and with good reason. Registered Republicans outnumber Democrats 2 to 1 in Pennsylvania’s 13th Congressional District, which includes Philadelphia’s leafy Main Line suburbs. The 51-year-old former television reporter had won a narrow upset by opposing across-the-board tax hikes and by describing her opponent as a “tax-and-run” politician. “Mezvinsky may have given away her House seat,” said one senior White House aide.
She was a reluctant martyr. On the afternoon of the vote, aides helped her craft a statement opposing the president. Their argument was that there could be no real deficit reduction without paring entitlement programs such as Medicaid, welfare and social security. Clinton’s package, which skirted those politically volatile choices, simply perpetuated the myth" of deficit cutting. But one large problem remained. What if someone asked Mezvinsky where she would begin carving entitlements? “First, I’d resign,” Mezvinsky joked. They decided to call for an “entitlement summit,” where Congress and the administration would hash out the issue. It carried the veneer of reform without descending into dangerous details. It also seemed certain to be ignored. Who would take such an idea seriously’? Especially from a freshman.
Mezvinsky knew that her continued political health depended on opposing the economic package–as she did when the House version was passed in May. But, as Altman pointed out, the prospect of delivering the vote that crippled a Democratic president was untenable. After Altmarn’s call, she and aide Ken Smukler asked themselves: what did she want in exchange for a “yes” vote? They knew that a conventional piece of pork-like a public-works project–wouldn’t work. it had to be something that seemed to transcend politics as usual. Outside the House chamber, she huddled with Democratic caucus vice chairman Vic Fazio and named her price–if Clinton needed her, she wanted an entitlement conference, styled after the Little Rock economic summit, to be held in her district. Minutes before the vote, she proposed it on the phone to Clinton. “You’ve got it,” he told her.
Even then, Mezvinsky didn’t relent. She let the 15 minutes allotted for electronic voting expire before walking to the well, where she joined three other recalcitrant Democrats-Ray Thornton of Arkansas, Pat Williams of Montana and David Minge of Minnesota. Amid cheers, she and Wilhams signed voting cards. But some members were furious that politically vulnerable junior women like Mezvinsky were fed to the beast while senior men from safer districts walked.
After the vote, Mezvinsky took sanctuary in Fazio’s office. In a few hours, Republicans at home would begin denouncing her vote as expediency over principle. Smukler scribbled new talking points defending the switch as a rare chance for discussion of entitlements. He tried to cheer her up. “M,” he said, using her nickname. “It’s a whole new world out there. Embrace it!” She laughed listlessly. It’s too early to say that Mezvinsky is doomed. The 15 months between now and November 1994 are a millennium in politics. And her heavily Republican district makes reelection difficult no matter what her voting record. The wife of a former Iowa congressman, she had yearned to be a player in the House. Now, suddenly, she had arrived. The question is how long she’ll stay.
