Political consultant Clint Reilly built a lasting legacy
SAN FRANCISCO — Every election produces a campaign strategist whose victory grants them, at least briefly, the unofficial title of political genius.
James Carville, Karl Rove, David Axelrod and Stephen K. Bannon wore the crown.
For many years and many election cycles, California’s reigning political genius was Clint Reilly.
In an age before the internet, social media, cable TV talk shows and Carville and his ilk, Reilly was about as close to fame as a political operative could get. He was subjected to fear, admiration, contempt, jealousy and lengthy newspaper and magazine treatments.
His cherry red Jaguar, Italian suits, designer glasses and seaside mansion made Reilly an influencer before there was anything like it. (A connoisseur of finer things, he served coffee from porcelain to visitors to his San Francisco office.)
“Political advisors and political machinery were something that only a handful of people thought about,” said Eric Jaye, one of a generation of campaign strategists who were trained or inspired, directly or indirectly, by Reilly. “Clint himself was the real star consultant making the news and shaping the political debate.”
Reilly, a working-class Oakland native who crossed the Bay to the heights of business, culture and politics in San Francisco, died earlier this month at the age of 79.
For someone who had never held political office — running for mayor of San Francisco in 1999 was a notable debacle — Reilly had considerable clout.
The list of many Democrats he helped elect, including Nancy Pelosi, Dianne Feinstein and Barbara Boxer, reads like a palimpsest of modern California history. The incumbent mayors of both San Francisco and Los Angeles were once clients of Reilly.
He was not perfect as an election strategist. Like every political agent, he has had his share of defeats.
Reilly’s particular genius lay in the methodology (vertical integration) he brought to campaigns. Typically, a consultant will do another television commercial, another direct mail, another survey, another big picture strategy, etc. manages.
“With Clint, everything was in-house, and he was the first to do it, at least in San Francisco,” said Jerry Roberts, who was a scruffy reporter at the city’s alternative weekly when he met a shaggy-haired Reilly more than 50 years ago. At the time, the campaigns were a side hustle for Reilly, who made a living selling doodles and other salvaged items at the bustling flea market he ran in Fisherman’s Wharf.
“It was a smart business model,” said Roberts, who later led two major California newspapers.
It made Reilly very rich.
In 1988, he led what was then the most expensive political campaign in California history with a $64 million effort to beat back a Ralph Nader-inspired reform effort by the insurance industry. Reilly lost, but his company made at least $6 million from that contest alone—or about $17 million in today’s dollars.
“So that’s where our bonuses went,” a guest said in a low whistle as he arrived at the state-of-the-art headquarters Reilly built shortly after the Proposition 103 campaign. (Naturally, he made a public offer; for all his wealth, Reilly could never quite shake the proletariat shred off his shoulder.)
Once a seminarian (he was three years shy of being ordained a Catholic priest), Reilly was no saint.
He was angry, disrespectful and egotistical. After working for an arch-rival, Reilly adopted the nickname “The Devil” from a former client, reflecting his reputation for intimidation and mastery of the political dark arts.
In a moment of anger, Reilly took the unheard of step of firing a client — Feinstein — via a faxed press release because he said the former San Francisco mayor didn’t have the fire to run for governor. The two eventually reconciled, but Feinstein remained with members of the team that replaced Reilly, helping him secure consecutive terms in the U.S. Senate.
While Reilly was overbearing at times – and was known as a bad boss who made his employees sweat nights – he was also generous and had a truly bleeding heart.
Before his career took off, Reilly volunteered for the United Farm Workers and lived a reclusive life, sheltering in church halls while serving the poor. After founding his senior consulting firm, Reilly retained his political staff at no small expense even during gaps between campaigns, rather than hiring and firing seasonal workers as was the norm.
After leaving professional campaign consulting in the mid-1990s and amassing a significant fortune in real estate, Reilly donated lavishly to various charities and various civic gatherings. He established his own charitable foundation. Gulf Academicshelps poor and underserved youth attend area Catholic high schools.
In 1987, at the height of his unquestioned power and influence, Reilly took Pelosi on as a client.
Pelosi was running for a rare open congressional seat in San Francisco, and although she was known in political circles as a prodigious Democratic fundraiser and a high-profile activist, Pelosi was a blank slate for many voters. Reilly coined a slogan that resonated with Pelosi’s Washington connections and many important friendships: “A voice to be heard.”
Moreover, he made an important tactical decision in the final days of the operation.
Pelosi was one of 14 candidates, many of whom were prominent Democratic Party officials. Ignoring Pelosi’s objections, Reilly sent a mailer to the city’s vastly outnumbered Republicans suggesting that a Democrat would win the congressional seat and arguing that Pelosi was the best of the bunch — or at least not the worst.
On election day, Pelosi lost the Democratic vote to Harry Britt, who replaced Harvey Milk on the Board of Supervisors after Milk’s assassination. Still, Pelosi prevailed by fewer than 4,000 votes out of nearly 108,000 votes cast. The winning margin was his Republican support.
The rest, as they say, is history.
