Betting on the ballot: how smart money and clever strategy brought dockside gambling to the Mississippi Gulf Coast

Campaigns & Elections,  June-July, 1993  by David Beiler

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"Thank God for Mississippi!"

For decades, that sigh of relief has been heard from officials of other impoverished states whenever some comparative economic indicator found its way into print. Be it personal income, public health, or education, the Magnolia State could be counted upon to straggle in near the bottom of the list.

Now, the gambling industry may be evincing that same cry. Known by political demographers as one of the most culturally conservative areas of the country, coastal Mississippi nevertheless approved dockside casinos in a referendum held last Spring. If legalized gambling can win here, its advocates reason, it can win anywhere.

Just how it won here is an enlightening study in political persuasion -- and a powerful demonstration of the pull of a pinched pocketbook.

Bible Belt Beachhead

Although pleasure cruisers based on the Mississippi Gulf Coast have long been allowed to conduct gambling while in international waters, their patrons often bemoaned the long trips and short casino hours. When neighboring Florida and Louisiana instituted state lotteries in the mid-1980s, gaming dollars began flooding out of the area. The boat operators then persuaded the legislature to allow them to start rolling the dice from the time they left port.

That development led business interests in the historic towns of Natchez and Vicksburg to lobby for gambling aboard boats moving on the Mississippi River. As the image of riverboat gambling appealed to the state's romanticism about the Old South and prospects for passage of a lottery appeared dim, state lawmakers acceded to the plea -- but not before an enterprising colleague slipped in a little-noticed amendment that would allow gambling aboard the boats while they were in port. Approval by the local voters remained the only obstacle to floating casinos at dockside.

In December, 1990 -- 14 months before they would overwhelmingly elect to spin the roulette wheel -- voters in the principal Gulf Coast county of Harrison narrowly rejected dockside wagering.

"It was obvious we weren't ready to properly regulate |gambling~ or integrate it into the local economy," explains Roland Weeks, publisher of the area's only major newspaper, the Biloxi/Gulfport Sun Herald. "People were concerned about the social and physical changes it might bring, so they voted it down."

Weeks admits the active role played by his newspaper in the debate over that first gambling question contributed mightily to its defeat. The Sun Herald opened the campaign with a series on organized crime in the Deep South, followed up with unflattering portraits of communities that had legalized casinos, and delivered the crowning blow with seven editorials that lambasted the proposal.

Gamblers and Gunslingers

Prohibited by law from raising the issue again within a year, the gambling lobby carefully set about professionalizing its efforts for the inevitable rematch. Baton Rouge generalist Nancy Todd was hired to manage the campaign; Washington pollster Bill Hamilton was soon added. Their task was formidable.

"I would love to run the campaign against |a gambling initiative~," muses Todd. "They're so simple to defeat. All you have to do is keep harping 'Mafia and crime, crime and Mafia.'"

To minimize their vulnerability on the crime issue, the gambling forces launched a pre-emptive strike. "This is the real crime threatening Harrison County," an early TV ad intoned, as grim depictions of poverty, homelessness and unemployment filled the screen. The spot later won a Telly award and "knocked |the opposition~ out of the gate," according to Todd. "They had to answer to the point about the poor economy before they could begin attacking us."

Not that the opposition was that studied in its approach. Composed primarily of disjointed church groups, it failed to file the 1500 valid signatures that would have kept gambling off the ballot and never really got organized. Local civic leaders such as Weeks and state Sen. Vic Franckiewicz had been instrumental in turning back casinos the year before, but their criticism had been muted by the regulatory infrastructure subsequently put in place by the state. Deprived of established sponsors, the "anti" movement would find itself outspent $225,000-$25,000, a 9:1 margin.

Bullying Pulpit

Despite its shortage of formal media advertising, opposition to the gambling measure found its way onto the airwaves through alternative avenues. The televised services of a large Biloxi church became a curious substitute for negative advertising when the pastor led the congregation in prayer to save the soul of Nancy Todd's nine month-old daughter, presumably from the perdition earned by her mother's sinful political acts. Todd countered by overrunning her headquarters opening with scores of children, ferried in by their pro-gambling parents.

Creating the impression of massive Middle American support was critical to the success of the gambling campaign's strategy. Todd wanted the election defined as a struggle by hardworking families for the chance to earn a decent living in tough times. An image of grassroots demand was nurtured with registration drives, person-to-person canvassing and colorful fund raising rallies in open spaces. But there was an important missing element in this campaign of carefully orchestrated visuals: the obliging cooperation of the local TV news media.