By Melissa Houston

KIMIKO BURTON WAS so psyched. "Isn't this bitchin'?" San Francisco's new public defender cooed in front of a 100-person crowd that gathered last winter to celebrate her recent appointment. Catapulted from an obscure city hall grant-writing post, Burton was about to replace longtime incumbent Jeff Brown, who had abruptly quit two years before his term was to expire. She was about to take over a $13.1 million operation that helps some 20,000 down-on-their-luck clients each year.

She was also, perhaps unwittingly, about to ignite a war. A bitchin' political war that city insiders have been relishing for the past 12 months.

It's not just that Mayor Willie Brown appointed the daughter of one of his allies, state senate president pro tem John Burton, to a $146,000-a-year position for which even certain Burton supporters quietly question whether she's qualified. Heck, during his seven years in office, Mayor Brown (a.k.a. Kimiko's godfather) has been a virtual one-man employment agency, rolling out hundreds of high-paying jobs for his friends.

Nor is it the speculation that Jeff Brown had secretly negotiated a deal that was satisfying enough to entice him to step aside and let Burton have the job. There's continued talk that his current California Public Utilities Commission (CPUC) post is just a stopping point in the former public defender's career; what Jeff Brown really wants, people close to him say, is a seat on the state Court of Appeals – and with John Burton's influence, that's what he'll ultimately get.

What really has people publicly sniping are the lengths to which the Kim Burton campaign has gone to defeat challenger Jeff Adachi, the aggressive, lauded former chief deputy public defender (and Jeff Brown's handpicked heir apparent), whom Burton fired on her first day.

First, she's aligned herself with law enforcement, the very group public defenders often battle. "Make My Day," in fact, was the theme of an April fundraiser hosted by Clint Eastwood, whose Miranda-be-damned Dirty Harry character frothed at the chance to pistol-whip the bad guys. She even has the city's police union stumping on her behalf.

And second, in the weeks remaining before the March election, Adachi is weathering a nasty stealth attack advanced by Sacramento-based pollsters. In January alone, two telephone surveys have suggested Adachi embellished his résumé, calling himself a law professor when he's really a law-school teacher. And, the pollsters tell people, while Adachi was second in command of the Public Defender's Office, he spent taxpayer money on a luxurious off-site staff training in Marin County – replete with hot tub.

"Scorched earth" is how one city employee defines Kim Burton's first foray into local politics.

And she'll have plenty of money to sling more mud: so far Kim Burton has reported raising $555,849 in campaign contributions – an amount that far eclipses the most ever spent by any candidate for a local office besides mayor. By race's end, it's possible she will have raised close to $1 million.

The race has become far bigger than either Kim Burton or Jeff Adachi, and far bigger than the job itself. The battle over the office of public defender exemplifies the fight between the powerful old guard of the Willie Brown-John Burton machine and the upstart, progressive-minded rebels allied with Sup. Tom Ammiano.

If John Burton can't get his daughter this political prize, many insiders say, it will be a strong signal that the legendary, if notorious, machine is in trouble. If Kim Burton handily defeats Adachi, it will raise questions about the grassroots operation that elected most of the district supervisors in 2000 and put Dennis Herrera in the City Attorney's Office in December.

"I think this race is what the Spanish Civil War was to World War II. It was a prelude," says Sup. Matt Gonzalez, who supports Adachi. "Just like the Spanish Civil War, there are all kinds of other fights going on. You have many of the mayoral hopefuls getting involved."

John Burton is hardly downplaying the stakes: For those who dare cross him – namely, support Adachi for the public defender's four-year term – he has a message. "I'm as supportive of her as I can – any way I can," he told Bay Guardian staff Jan. 11.

And then there's the 80-plus-attorney law shop, which employees say remains divided after a year of Kimiko Burton at the helm. There are those who support Burton, calling her an outstanding administrator who's broken the glass ceiling by elevating women to management roles. They call the attacks on her sexist. But there are others who say they're "demoralized by the rank nepotism" that allowed Burton to hijack the post. No matter whom they support, though, employees would certainly agree on one point: San Francisco politics is brutal.

If city politics is a contact sport, then John Burton is a legendary team captain. The 69-year-old state senate president has reigned on and off for more than three decades, taking over where his late brother, Phillip, left off.

Phil, the master of backroom deals, created a safe congressional seat for younger brother John in the late 1970s – but John resigned abruptly in 1982 because of a drug addiction. He kept his fingers in the stew, however, and when Phil died, he emerged as head of the family dynasty.

He was a key player in the move to put Nancy Pelosi, then an obscure party fundraiser who had never held elective office, in Congress in 1986 (crushing the efforts of then-supervisor Harry Britt to become the first openly gay member of the House of Representatives). In 1988, Burton surprised many by returning to elective office – first in the state assembly and then in the senate.

In Sacramento, Burton and pal Mayor Willie Brown (who served as the state assembly speaker for many years, until he hit the term-limits wall and landed at San Francisco's city hall) made names for themselves as the dynamic duo, the two go-to guys in the Democratic Party. They raised millions for Democratic candidates around the state, ensuring the loyalty of their party minions.

In San Francisco the Brown-Burton dynasty is woven into the fabric of civic life to such an extent that politicians these days openly align themselves either with or against "the machine."

Indeed, it dominated local politics until November 2000, when voters fought back.

Almost every candidate that Willie Brown had supported for the Board of Supervisors lost in city elections, the first election since 1978 in which voters chose neighborhood-based board members. The machine has been under siege ever since.

Brown, mayor since 1996, has been criticized for the 390 "special assistants" he hired who now swell city hall ranks. In April 2001, the board held hearings, condemning the practice. Supervisors have also sponsored a measure for the March ballot that would clip the mayor's ability to control the Planning Commission and the Board of Appeals, long friendly to business interests.

Now Kim Burton's taking a hit for benefiting from a patronage practice that people want shut down. A mounting number of critics say John Burton has an "irrational" desire to see his 37-year-old daughter vaulted into the Public Defender's Office.

"People are getting the screws put to them," says one member of the Democratic County Central Committee who asked not to be named. "It's completely irrational but not surprising, considering how far [John Burton] has gone to perpetuate the reign of the Brown-Burton machine."

"Arm-twisting" is how Kim Burton foes define her father's relentless attempts to get politicians to endorse her candidacy. In fact, one high-ranking city official, who also asked not to be named, says Burton even threatened to run for mayor should his daughter lose. The implication: there'll be hell to pay if Adachi wins.

Ted Gullicksen, who heads the San Francisco Tenants Union, admits he dropped his endorsement of Adachi after receiving a call from a Sacramento lobbyist, who told Gullicksen that Burton could be less friendly to tenants issues than he had been in the past. Sticking with Adachi, Gullicksen decided, was "more of a pain than it needed to be." He now supports Kimiko Burton.

David Novogrodsky, executive director of the International Federation of Professional and Technical Engineers, Local 21, says Burton approached him at a San Francisco Labor Council meeting and asked him if he was going to support Kimiko. When Novogrodsky said no, he relays, Burton said, " 'If you're not going to support Kimmy,' or something to that effect, 'if you want anything from me in the legislature, call Jeff Adachi.' And I said, 'John, I haven't called you in 30 years.' "

Others say John Burton has made such a pain in the ass of himself that it's having an adverse effect. Take, for example, U.S. Rep. Nancy Pelosi (D-Calif.). The House's majority whip, the second most powerful Democrat in Congress (and a longtime Burton machine ally), has stepped into the campaign on Kimiko's behalf. One city official, who says he intended to stay out of the race, was pressured by Pelosi to such an extent that he got mad and – out of spite – endorsed Adachi.

"This is going on all over the place," says Bob Henderson, Jeff Adachi's campaign manager. "It's like we're running against John, and Kimmy is along for the ride."

When it comes to fundraising, however, the Burton name is synonymous with dollar signs. As of the Jan. 15 campaign contribution filing, Adachi has raised $171,081, 30 percent of which is from out of town, mostly from Berkeley and Oakland. In contrast, 73 percent of Kimiko Burton's money is from out of town – many from curious sources. Burton's financial disclosures are steeped in lobbyist money from Sacramento and Washington, D.C. She has also received money from a Los Angeles-based casino company, Rep. Gary Condit's reelection campaign, Lockheed Martin, Coors Brewing Co., and director Rob Reiner, to name a few. Burton foes ask, do these donors really care about the San Francisco public defender's race, or are they returning favors from John Burton?

"The idea of a state senator using his power this way is gross," says Gonzalez, who worked as a public defender for 10 years until he was elected supervisor in 2000.

Not surprisingly, folks say they're scared to cross John Burton. Most of his critics – and even several people who have endorsed Kimiko Burton – refused to be quoted by name in this story. "You can't use my name. But I really support what you're doing," one source says, echoing what the Bay Guardian was told numerous times.

"The fear of John Burton runs wide and deep, and even progressive individuals fear further reprisals, targeting, or damage," one city hall insider says.

For a guy so many people say they fear, John Burton – perhaps unavoidably – is a letdown to meet. On Jan. 11 he came to the Bay Guardian to talk about Proposition 45, which would ease term limits and allow him to hold on to his state senate seat for another four years.

Burton is casual, wearing a leather blazer and loafers, but he seems worn out. He can't quite remember what's on the ballot. He's more interested in talking history than he is issues.

Then Kimiko is brought up. Burton's tone is still light – yet his face reddens. His cheeks, the tip of his chin, his temples – they're scorching.

"Don't have a kid run for public office," he says, almost softly. "It was her idea to run for public defender.... I said, 'Knowing what you do, why would you ever want to get into politics?' "

Then he paints a picture quite different from that of his foes. When asked how he's helped Kimiko raise money, Burton says he did one thing: send out a single fundraising letter. Of the record amount she's collected from out-of-town contributors, he says, Kim "knows 75 percent" of the folks who make up her campaign donation disclosure filings – hundreds of pages long.

We ask him about the arm-twisting, and he shrugs. He denies getting involved at the time of Kimiko's appointment, saying that before Jeff Brown decided to quit for a CPUC post, he and Brown had never discussed anything related to the public defender's successor.

And then we ask him about the maelstrom: the bitter anger that's helped Adachi harness even more endorsements than he might have, had he not been running against Burton's daughter.

"It's not that they owed me, but I'm just disappointed," he says of officials who are supporting Adachi. "What am I gonna do – say 'don't?' "

Now it's Burton's turn to have a bit of fun. Bringing up this newspaper's endorsement issue, to be published Feb. 6, he says, laughing, "If the Bay Guardian doesn't step up to the plate, I plan on reinstituting the tax on free newspapers."

Is that a joke? Perhaps. It's definitely John Burton at work.

If Kim Burton benefits from her father's campaigning style, she also admits she's hurt by it.

"I guess one of the things that is frustrating is that people say, 'Don't think of her, think of her father,' " she says. "But then they turn around and criticize me.... They say, 'Daddy's little girl.' I don't know, there is a part of me that feels that if I were his son, the focus would be different."

Spend even a bit of time with Kim Burton, and you're enthralled. The Potrero Hill resident is affable and witty. She's lighthearted but well informed. A good Democrat: against the death penalty and ready to revamp the city's woefully inadequate juvenile justice system. And most important, she's eager to ensure that the public defender provides excellent legal services to the city's poor.

On one Saturday afternoon in January, she's out to spread that word.

Burton has an hour before she has to recite her campaign speech before the Chinese American Democratic Club, her third such presentation that day. So she takes a walk down Taraval Street, a popular commercial stretch with several Irish pubs but a majority of Asian shops – a reflection of how the once-Irish-dominated neighborhood has been transformed but still thrives.

The Burtons, John and Philip, came of age on nearby Kirkham Street. And in many elections they counted on the Sunset and other west-side neighborhoods to deliver the votes. Today, Kimiko is there to stake her claim.

Flanked by two of her father's longtime campaign workers, Burton is having phenomenal success selling her message. Actually, it's Francisco Hsieh who is doing the selling.

Speaking in Mandarin and Cantonese, Hsieh, a well-known Chinese restaurant owner, chats with a string of Taraval Street shopkeepers up and down the strip. While a smiling but silent Kim stands by, Hsieh explains that she's a Burton, ready to improve "the safety on our streets."

Wait a minute. A public defender touting crime-fighting?

Burton later elaborates, explaining how she's able to equate citizen safety to the often thankless job of defending the criminals. "We get someone into the drug programs, the rehab they need," she says, "then they can be cycled out of the system."

At least Burton's speaking a language she knows.

From 1991 to 1995 the Hastings College of the Law graduate worked as a line attorney in the public defender's office, eventually leaving, she says, because women weren't being promoted. After a year at the state Board of Equalization, she landed an appointment to the Mayor's Criminal Justice Council, where she wrote state and federal grant applications that netted more than $46 million in aid. She secured the funding for the very programs she's now touting on the campaign trail as a viable way to provide low-income people who are in trouble with the law – many of them drug addicts – with the help they need to avoid crime.

Further, Burton argues, very convincingly, for the need to overhaul San Francisco's juvenile punishment system, a Gordian knot of social service agencies the city often neglects. On the mayor's council she helped draft a blueprint to improve the juvenile justice system (a 1997 plan that received accolades when it was released but still has yet to be put into effect).

Burton has already reassigned more-experienced attorneys to the juvenile court division. She's secured a $120,000 foundation grant to track where kids end up, to make sure they don't fall through the cracks. Currently San Francisco teens spend an average of 95 days (three times as long as other California youth offenders) in the Youth Guidance Center waiting for placement in either rehab or a group home. Burton has pledged to reduce the backlog.

And for this she's applauded, even by her harshest critics.

Supporters say she's proved an excellent manager since she was appointed last January. She's hired the department's first finance director and established broadly defined department goals.

"I've been a public defender for 22 years, and I've tried as many serious cases as anyone in this office," says Susan Kaplan, whom Burton elevated as the first female felony supervisor in department history. "She's a great lawyer, a great administrator, a great and fair person. And she has integrity. For women she's a fantastic plus."

Burton says she wants to continue to bring "the focus back to the client. That means we exist to serve the clients. That is our mission, our mandate, our raison d'être.

"There was a lot of focus on the attorney" before she took over, she says, adding that staffers have complained that they believed management pushed public defenders to go to trial when it wasn't in the client's best interest.

"I want the lawyer to go to trial," Burton adds, "but you don't go to trial for trial's sake."

And it is here that certain, indeed many, folks in the city's legal community cringe at the reality of Kim Burton, public defender.

"She said that?" asks Peter Keane, the respected dean of Golden Gate University School of Law, who served as Jeff Brown's second in command for two decades.

"That will ultimately weaken the office," he says of Burton's plan to relax the mandate to bring cases to trial. "You want your lawyers to go to trial a lot. It's how they develop their skills; then they're respected by the district attorney and the judges. You can't have too many trials."

For longtime attorneys like Keane, Adachi vs. Burton isn't about who will head the department. It's about who will preserve it.

Founded in 1922, the office is the second oldest in the country and one of only two elected public defenders nationwide (Tampa, Fla., is the other). And for many years it had a bad reputation. Indeed, the city's first officeholder, Public Defender Frank Eagan, was jailed for life after being convicted of murder. Even today, staffers love to tell the tale of the attorney who plea-bargained a death sentence for his client.

But for 22 years Jeff Brown reigned, with dramatic results. Brown and Keane are credited with constructing the department's Seventh Street headquarters in the late 1980s, doubling the number of attorneys, and training them to take on prosecutors. In effect, the Public Defender's Office became a powerhouse.

And one of the most celebrated attorneys there was Jeff Adachi. "I come from a place where I understand what it's like to struggle for justice," says Adachi, an upbeat attorney who's well known in legal circles for his determination. "It's the only thing I wanted to do. It's why I went to law school." Compared to Burton, who by her own admission has tried five felony cases, Adachi's been a legal pit bull. No question, he has proved himself the more experienced litigator, having tried more than 100 cases.

For Adachi, a trial is exactly the way to promote the interests of clients. Only by forcing the district attorney to fight, and sometimes lose, before a jury can a public defender negotiate the best possible deals, he argues.

Indeed, Adachi has tried several high-profile cases while at the Public Defender's Office. In 1996 he represented Lam Choi, accused of killing a gang boss in the Tenderloin but ultimately convicted on a reduced charge of voluntary manslaughter. In 1991, Adachi represented a defendant in the murder trial (commonly referred to by the media as the "911" case) of a Fresno State student who'd called the police for help, only to have the dispatch unit fail to take him seriously. Though his client faced the prospect of life in prison, Adachi convinced the jury to hand down an involuntary manslaughter sentence. And then there's J.J. Tennison, sentenced to 25 years to life for a 1989 homicide most people don't think he committed. Adachi has yet to give up on the case (see "The Hardest Time," 1/17/01).

The 42-year-old Sacramento native came to the Public Defender's Office in 1986 after graduating, like Kimiko Burton, from Hastings. After 18 months on the job, Adachi had already tried 28 cases and was quickly promoted to felony supervisor, where he continued to strengthen his reputation as a tough attorney. Few were surprised when Adachi was picked to replace Keane, who retired in 1998.

Adachi stepped into the chief-attorney role, overseeing the budget, creating staff trainings and an in-office database that's still used today. He also started the first-ever employee evaluations. For his efforts, he won two city awards. All the while, he continued to go to court.

So in 1998, when Brown announced he would not seek another term, Adachi was considered a shoo-in for the post. Brown hadn't been particularly shy in voicing his support, even introducing Adachi to a Bay Guardian editor at the 2000 Pride Parade as "the next public defender."

But it all came crashing down in January 2001, when rumors emerged that Brown was eyeing a commission's spot at the CPUC, a decidedly non-headline-generating post; city hall insiders quickly smelled a rat.

Then Kimiko. Political gossip columnists rarely have such a softball thrown their way.

First, Adachi was publicly, though justifiably, blasted for altering Brown's e-mailed resignation letter so it cast Adachi in a more favorable light. He was then dismissed on Burton's first day (she sent a messenger to his house with a pink slip). Adachi's office computer was later impounded so the city attorney could determine if he had illegally worked on his campaign during office hours. After more than a year, though, no charges have been filed.

If anything, the political intrigue has angered the office's rank and file, many of whom believe the best attorney – i.e., Adachi – should be at the helm.

"It needs to be the best trial attorney [in charge]," says Keane, who's supporting Adachi. "That way you won't have your deputies saying, 'You don't know what it's all about.' It gives you leverage in directing the office."

While Burton's supporters say the office has grown and is in need of an administrator, not a head litigator, critics have choice words for her management thus far.

"Most people think that her last official act as public defender was to fire Jeff Adachi," one veteran litigator snarls when asked about Burton.

Another calls her "clueless."

"It would have been an utter disaster if not for the high quality of the staff," one attorney says.

In mind-numbing detail, Burton's critics paint an ugly picture of a day in the life of a public defender. Turnover at the office is high, with at least 13 women leaving since Burton took over. Staff meetings, they say, are an opportunity for litigators to stare at the floor. Management hides in its offices, never interacting with attorneys. Evaluations haven't been conducted in more than a year, they carp.

And about that "Isn't this bitchin'?" comment, so notorious that this reporter heard about it on at least four occasions: "It's like her daddy gave her a new Corvette," an attorney quips. Ouch.

Burton's supporters within the department are equally as brutal when it comes to describing life under Adachi's lead. Adachi isn't close to being the martyr he's depicted as in press accounts of the race, they say.

Adachi foes have pounced on campaign literature stating that he's a professor when, in fact, he teaches preparatory classes for the state bar exam.

They've also severely criticized him for a series of five off-site staff training sessions with Maureen Kallins, a flamboyant litigator who runs daylong attorney workshops in Marin. The 15-hour training seminars, which started in 1999 and cost a total of $10,000, did leave time for breaks in the hot tub and for filet mignon – all captured in photos posted on the Internet.

For the past month pollsters have twice relayed the story to voters, suggesting that Adachi wasted city money. The second poll asks respondents to comment on the "tone of draft text" of a San Francisco Police Officers Association letter about to go out in support of Burton. The letter blasts the Kallins training, emphasizing the hot tub. Reportedly, the poll was conducted by Sacramento-based J. Moore Methods (which did not return Bay Guardian phone calls by press time).

Burton, too, has delved into the hot tub, saying the session was "inappropriate." Trainings she's introduced will remain in-house, she maintains.

"The fact that a couple of lawyers were photographed during a break ... that's the best they can come up with?" Adachi says of Burton's campaign tactic. "It's a nonissue, and it's basically attacking me for being a manager, for providing training for lawyers."

From the level of vitriol, you'd never guess that the Public Defender's Office had been insulated from city politics for more than two decades. Politicos have zealously lined up behind their candidate, each capturing an impressive number of endorsements.

For progressives, Adachi is the latest poster boy, an independent politician steamrolled by John Burton Inc. High-profile leaders such as Board of Supervisors president Ammiano have gone public, seizing the opportunity to stick it to the Burton political empire.

"All the major political powers have their hand in it," Supervisor Gonzalez says.

And Adachi's made use of the support, recently redoing his campaign signs to cast himself as a progressive.

"I didn't set out to be in politics," he says. "But I find myself fighting for justice on a bigger playing field than I have before. But it's the same fight if you're doing it in the courts or in government. It's fighting for something I believe in."

If elected, Adachi says, he'll "restore the professionalism in the office. It's going to take some time to get back to what we're supposed to do – defend people. The focus on the office has to be shifted away from campaigning. It's going to take time to erase the fear that is engendered by machine politics."

Though his campaign maintains the race will be won with support from Republicans also disenchanted with Brown-Burton, clearly Adachi's counting on a victory delivered from the left, hoping to tap into voters' sense of outrage that a more qualified candidate fell victim to insider politics.

But while Adachi's banking on his role as an outsider, members of Burton's campaign have done what they can to link him to Mayor Brown. They've criticized the Westwood Highlands resident for appearing in a Willie Brown campaign ad. Adachi appeared alongside Brown again in another ad celebrating winners of a San Francisco Chamber of Commerce management award, which Adachi received in 2000. Adachi, they say, is "disingenuous."

And then there's the carefully honed message. Burton's supporters have recently started talking "integrity." The underlying message: Adachi has none. They've touted Jeff Brown's Jan. 11 decision to switch his endorsement from Adachi to Burton.

The about-face has been labeled a "shameless" attempt to please Burton Sr. and further secure a new job. (Legal newspaper the Recorder viciously blasted Jeff Brown in a Jan. 25 editorial, saying, "The former PD turned all-but-irrelevant party hack woke up one day and decided to knife former protégé Jeffrey Adachi in the back"). But Adachi's foes point to Brown's defection as more evidence that Adachi's lacking in the character department. In a Jan. 18 interview with the Recorder, Brown said Adachi "did a few things" that prompted him to reconsider his longtime support.

Slamming Adachi's ethics seems to be the strategy, one likely to surface when the two meet head-on at a Feb. 5 debate at their alma mater, Hastings.

You have to wonder why Burton supporters are going to such lengths to suggest Adachi's a moral lightweight; there are those who would like to think it's because Burton remains behind in the polls. In fact, one Adachi supporter let it be known that an independent polling survey put him six percentage points ahead as of Jan. 19.

Clearly, Adachi's camp says, voters have had enough of the Burtons.

"The theme line of this campaign is, can Willie Brown's appointment have her father buy the race for her," says Adachi supporter Jack Davis, a well-known consultant who ran one John Burton campaign and both of Brown's mayoral efforts. "The story line of this race is, what does that mean for a guy, a good guy who spent 15 years defending the poorest of the poor? I think it's a pretty sick world if people don't get that that's wrong."

If there's one thing that's lost in Adachi vs. Burton, it's the clients, political observers say. California, after all, loves to lock up its citizens. San Francisco politicians too have become "quality of life" crime stoppers and, if they have their way, will soon outlaw begging. Sups. Gavin Newsom and Tony Hall have both presented legislation that, if passed, will ultimately lead to increased prosecutions of the homeless. In other words, never before has the public defender been so critical to efforts to protect the indigent.

"We have lost sight of the fact that a group of human beings are the ultimate victims here," Keane says. "We're going to see more people spending more time in dungeons and facing the death penalty.... The mission of this office has been completely forgotten. I get real depressed when I hear it."