Joyce Aboussie bio, part 3 of 7
John’s note: Joyce Aboussie is an iconic figure in both Democratic politics and the philanthropic world. In 2002, The Riverfront Times’ DJ Wilson authored an in-depth profile of Aboussie, published in the May 29-June 4 edition of the paper.
The Riverfront Times has since been sold, and Wilson passed away in 2019. To my knowledge, no versions of Wilson’s article remain online today. In the spirit of capturing Aboussie’s most valuable lessons – and to preserve Wilson’s detailed journalism – I’ve captured the original text of the RFT piece with occasional context added. For ease of readability, I’ve split the article up into seven parts, using the same topic breaks originally used by Wilson in the print piece.
— John Combest
Part 1: Joyce Aboussie
Part 2: Ron Casey learns a valuable lesson
Article text of Part 3 begins below:
Joyce Aboussie doesn’t want to talk about her work, or at least not to the media. What’s the point? Who needs it? She’s a busy woman, she’s got things to do.
Besides, she says, “T’m not an elected official; I’m not a public figure.”
Elected, no. Public, yes.
Her work is done, as they say, behind closed doors. But it involves elected officials; it has public consequences. Joyce Aboussie causes things to happen, make no mistake. She puts people in office. She
keeps others out.
Those who seek her favor – and those who fear her – describe her as one of the must powerful people in Missouri. Those who make their living in the political world see her as the prime mover and shaker in the
state, even more so than titular leaders.She has the ear of the area’s most powerful congressman, the St. Louis mayor, the St. Louis County executive and the governor.
They all owe her. Big-time.
In many local conversations, the shorthand term for her boss is the congressman. No, that doesn’t mean Todd Akin.
As the congressman’s national political director. Aboussie is in charge of the never-ending campaign of Dick Gephardt to be, well. Dick Gephardt. That means almost-House majority leader, rumored presidential
candidate, fixture on the Sunday-morning network chat shows, the talking head that doesn’t age, the national “liberal” antidote for George W. Bush, Trent Lott and, yes, when he drifted toward the center, Al Gore.
During a debate. Gephardt once stung Gore by telling Al that he should have learned berter manners at St. Albans, the preppy high school Gore attended in D.C. That was a way for St. Louis South Sider
Gephardt to differentiate himself from the senator’s son, Al Gore.
Dick was the milkman’s son. Dick graduated from Southwest High School at Kingshighway and Arsenal Street, catty-corner from Tower Grove Park. Dick is a Southwest High Longhorn, or used to be. He’s been in Congress for 26 years. He’s lived in Virginia, across from the District of Columbia, for decades.
Aboussie never left St. Louis.
Oh, she travels a lot, and her sphere of influence has increased to a national level. But her roots, her power, her money and her knowledge are still headquartered in South City at her two low-profile offices, one on Hampton Avenue and the other on Wation Road in Kenrick Plaza.
Those two nondescript storefronts house the dual engines of Aboussie’s info-age political machine. Telephone Contact Inc, her private, for profit “voter-contact firm.” is on Hampton. Her employees do polling by telephone and compile frequent voter lists and other voter data that are sold to political
campaigns.
The strip-mall office on Watson Road in Shrewsbury is where Aboussie does what she calls her “full time job,” working as national political directorfor Gephardt. She’s not a federal employee; she’s employed by
the campaign. There’s plenty of cash on hand to pay her salary.
According to our last click on a campaign-finance Web site, Gephardt had $2.2 million in his treasure chest. That’s 52 2 million and counting – it’s always “and counting” because the campign trail goes on forever and the fundraising never ends.
In politics, power is the sum of money and votes. Aboussie has made a living knowing how to get both for Gephardt and for her other “outside” clients.
Ken Warren, a political science professor at St. Louis University who taught Aboussie back in the ’70s, helped her develop the methodology that targets voters on a sliding scale, from who tends to vote most often to who tends to vote least often. He worked with Aboussie early on, during the first few years of Telephone Contact Inc.
“I have always admired her political acumen and relentless drive,” says Warren. “Joyce is really a very competent and politically savvy woman who I would definitely rate as the most powerful behind-the-scenes insider in Missouri. She knows how to get what she wants for her causes, and Dick Gephardt is her number-one cause.”
Her political brokerage work for other candidates is layered on top of her job of making the world safe for Gephardt. That has involved mastering the fundamental dynamics of politics and keeping score at all levels, including the messy details of ward wrestling matches and census shifts. She also makes sure enemies, as well as friends, stay on guard.
Those who labor in the political vineyard are clear about who Aboussie is and what she does. They don’t doubt her power.
“Gephardt, both as an alderman and as a congressman, disdained the local political infighting,” says one City Hall lifer, “What he does is defer all that to her. He lets her handle that. She has the congressman’s influence but not the congressman’s oversight.”
The good cop-bad cop drill, with Gephardt as the Howdy Doody frontman and Aboussie as the sub rosa sergeant-at-arms, taking names and barking orders, has been a working partnership for the last twenty years.
To a lesser degree, longtime U.S. Representative Bill Clay had a similar relationship with his right-hand woman, Pearlie Evans. Alderwoman Sharon Tyus (D-Twentieth Ward) often says, with regard to North Side
matters, that Evans would take the heat for Clay or handle tricky situations the congressman wanted to avoid.
In Tyus’ view, any criticism of Aboussie should really be directed at Gephardt.
“Joyce Aboussie only gets the power that Dick Gephardt lets her have,” says Tyus, “It’s like Pearlie Evans with Bill Clay. A lot of people used to talk about the power that Pearlie had. But when Bill Clay wanted to rein her in, he could do that. Sometimes it’s in the congressman’s best interest to play that crazy, ‘Shucks, I don’t know, I’m the good guy’ role, and you let everybody be pissed at Joyce or Pearlie.”
Only recently has the power of Gephardt and Aboussie grown to take over the governor’s mansion and City Hall. Long before Bob Holden became governor in 2000, he had built a relationship with Aboussie. After he lost his first bid for statewide office, Holden cooled his heels as an administrative aide in Gephardt’s office from 1989-91. During that same span, Aboussie helped Holden’s wife get a job with Bi-State.
In ’92. Holden became state treasurer. Born in Kansas City but raised in the small farm community of Birch Tree, Holden benefited from the big-city linkages gained during his time with Gephardt and Aboussie.
After Governor Mel Carnahan died in a plane crash, Democratic bosses worried that an expensive primary fight between Holden and acting Governor Roger Wilson would lessen their chances in the general election. Wilson, never known for his fundraising skills, bailed after Holden compiled an insurmountable lead – in money. Aboussie, with Gephardt’s connections, was instrumental in helping raise money for Holden, particularly multimillion-dollar bash at Democratic Party big wheel Lee Kling’s farm in Franklin County.
During Holden’s campaign against Jim Talent, he made no major decision without consulting with Aboussie. Many say Holden wtill doesn’t make any serious political decision without first calling Aboussie.
Last year, Francis Slay became mayor. Aboussie was a de facto campaign manager for Slay and played a role in assembling Slay’s staff and kitchen cabinet. For years, when Jeff Rainford worked as a political and public-relations consultant, Aboussie referred work his way. Rainford is now chief of staf for Slay. City Hall courtiers Richard Callow and Lou Hamilton have a history of getting work through Aboussie. Slay’s press spokesman, Ed Rhode, previously worked in Gephardt’s office.
Rainford says Aboussie applied her powerful skills to Slay’s campnign for mayor last year because she believed Slay was “the city’s last best chance.”
“Since he has become mayor she has never, ever – not once – asked Francis Slay to do anything or asked him for any thing. In fact, it’s just the opposite,” says Rainford. “As soon as the mayor took office, she convened a meeting of all of his top people so that we could go through the city’s priorities and they could identify where they could be helpful. It has been a one-way street, and the one way has been Joyce Aboussie helping Francis Slay.”
“Sometimes I feel guilty because it’s such a one-way street,” says Rainford. “We go to them, and it’s all for us. It’s all gimme, gimme, gimme. That’s the way it works. They have the money, and we don’t.”
Aboussie managed County Executive Buzz Westfall’s first campaign in 1990, when he defeated H.C. Milford. Aboussie’s badgering of Westfall to make fundraising calls led him to nickname her “the ayatollah.” He meant it in an affectionate, humorous way. As Westfall prepares for his run at a fourth
term this summer, Aboussie is expected to play a major role.
The governor, the county executive, the mayor and the House minority leader all return calls promptly when Joyce Aboussie phones. It’s almost always paid off in the past.
Part 4: The Barry Bonds of politics
John Combest – Missouri political news headlines