DENNIS MYERS Against the Grain Advertisement

A couple of weeks ago, Las Vegas reporter Patrick Coolican wrote an advance story on a lecture by UNLV law professor Tuan Samahon about the failings of the Nevada Constitution.

Coolican described one of Samahon's misgivings:

"Picture this scenario: Nevada's governor is incompetent and corrupt, failing to lead in a time of crisis while bringing disrepute on the state with his various embarrassments. What could be done? If the Legislature is in session, as it is every other year for 120 days, lawmakers could impeach the governor. But for the other 83 percent of the time, the Legislature would have no recourse. Under the state constitution, only the governor can call the Legislature into a special session, and it's unlikely a sitting governor would call a special session for his own impeachment."

As it happens, in the 1980s a state legislator had anticipated this problem. Sen. Jean Ford of Clark County introduced a constitutional amendment that would have allowed legislators to call themselves into session. In other words, a legislator did what we seldom believe that legislators do -- show foresight and get out in front of a problem. For her trouble she was denounced in newspaper editorials and her proposal never came to pass. Shortly after its defeat, a governor of Alaska got into trouble, illustrating the need for a Ford-type proposal.

The editorials that greeted Ford's constitutional amendment took the tone that often greets legislative reforms -- a cynical, jaundiced eye toward any expansion of legislative authority. It has been that way as long as I can remember.

In 1958, Nevadans voted for annual sessions of the legislature. The first such session, in 1960, was handled creditably, but it didn't matter. Opponents of annual sessions were planning an initiative petition to repeal annual sessions even before the first one was held. They leveled months of criticism at the legislators. Two years after members of the public supported annual sessions, they repealed them. As a result, lawmakers had to continue trying to predict budgets two years in advance. That wasn't much of a problem for those who wrote the original constitutional language providing for biennial session in 1864. It wasn't all that difficult to predict upcoming budgets in a state whose population was in five figures. But in this era it has meant constant, and expensive, fiscal difficulties.

In 1998 a constitutional amendment limiting legislative sessions to 120 days was on the ballot. It was exactly what the state did not need, but it fed into the distrust of the legislature that so many cynics are willing to spread. A four month legislature makes it difficult for lawmakers to take on major initiatives that they were able to handle in the past, such as reform of the state workers injury insurance system or major changes in the tax system.

This year, for instance, the Assembly speaker and other lawmakers hoped to take a look at the issue of tax fairness in whatever tax program is enacted. But there was no time. It will have to wait.

There's no greater proof of the cynicism behind the 120 day limit on legislative sessions than the fact that its sponsors have never abided by it. At the very first legislature after its adoption, budget hearings were scheduled to start two weeks before the legislature went into session. In other words, they cheated on the 120 day limit. But they didn't tell the public of their plans to do so before the public voted on the limit. They misled the public in campaign debate.

Nor has there been a 120-day session since they were mandated by the public. Every session started with advance budget hearings and nearly always was followed by special sessions.

As long as distrust of legislators is a fundamental of public attitude toward state legislators, we'll continue with a legislature that is practically designed to fail.