He’s airing an ad that shows Allred in front of the border fence. “When it comes to the border, Ted Cruz is all hat, no cattle,” says the sheriff from Culberson County, essentially calling Cruz a charlatan. When Cruz had a chance to approve a bipartisan border control bill, the sheriff says, he voted against it. Joining with a constable from nearby El Paso County, the sheriff shakes his head in wonderment. They quite literally stand behind Allred along with four other lawmen.
All six of them are in uniform, most with badges, some in tactical gear. They are unquestionably contributing the weight of their offices and authority to the Allred campaign.
What’s questionable is whether this is legal.
At the federal level, under the Hatch Act, enacted in 1939 to ban political acts by civil servants, this wouldn’t be tolerated. But it doesn’t just apply to federal officials. In 1940, Congress extended the ban to employees of state and local agencies receiving federal funds, which, of course, now includes almost all police departments. Most states have since followed suit with their own mini-Hatch Acts.
In Texas, for example, no firefighter or police officer can take an active part in a political campaign while in uniform. Moreover, Texas law expressly prohibits “the spending of public funds for political advertising.” The Texas Ethics Commission, however, has done a lively tap dance. It has ruled that no officer can wear a uniform purchased by a city or county in a campaign ad, but if the officer purchases the uniform with personal money, then it no longer is coming out of public funds, and it can be worn in a commercial.
Officers aren’t supposed to wear their badges or stand in front of a government-owned vehicle in a campaign ad, but most of these officials were proudly wearing their badges. Texas allows sheriffs, who have to run for office, an exemption to campaign for themselves in uniform, but that doesn’t make the underlying problem go away: Just when can a public official use the symbols of governmental power for political purposes?
It isn’t just a Texas issue. In North Carolina, Democratic gubernatorial candidate Josh Stein has campaigned hard on the law-and-order issue. One of his ads, “Debbie,” features a woman whose son Hunter died of a fentanyl overdose. “Thank you, Debbie, for sharing your story.” Stein says in the ad. “As governor, I'll keep working with law enforcement and families like yours to combat the fentanyl epidemic and save lives,” he tells the TV audience. The ad shows Stein talking to troopers and a police chief, and the chief is wearing his badge. A Hatch Act violation? It would seem to be.
In Wisconsin, Republican U.S. Senate candidate Eric Hovde attacked two-term incumbent Tammy Baldwin. When it comes to dealing with fentanyl, the ad says, “she’s failed” and she was “lying about her role in fentanyl legislation.” Playing a featured role in making that charge is Dodge County Sheriff Dale Schmidt, re-elected in 2022 for his third term and appearing in full uniform, sporting his badge.
Things got even more dubious in California, in a June Instagram post from Riverside County Sheriff Chad Bianco, filmed while he was wearing his badge and full uniform. His post criticized California Attorney General Rob Bonta for “really being an embarrassment to law enforcement.” So, he said, he wanted to switch sides and endorse Donald Trump. “I think it’s time we put a felon in the White House,” he said. Etsy has begun marketing a t-shirt with that motto and a promise of delivery by Election Day.
When Democrats attacked him for illegal electioneering while he was on duty and wearing his uniform, Bianco countered that the complaints were from “the misguided and [in]tolerant left,” which missed the point that he was being sarcastic. But no matter what, it was very clear that neither Bianco nor any of the other uniform-wearing officials in these commercials would face any consequences.
The feds take the Hatch Act very seriously. White House Press Secretary Karine Jean-Pierre got her wrist slapped last year, for example, after she used “MAGA” to refer to a Republican budget plan. But there’s no such punctiliousness at the state and local levels, at least when it comes to law enforcement.
The Fort Worth Star-Telegram’s editors are furious about all this. They scolded the sheriffs by writing that “not only is wearing your uniform for political campaigning wrong — it’s also damaging for law officers working to maintain the public’s trust.”
That, of course, is the fundamental issue. If I see an ad featuring a sheriff in the next county who, say, campaigned for a Democrat and I’m a Republican (or vice versa), and I see flashing lights in my mirror at night, will I trust the official who pulls me over?
This basic question has been at the core of local law enforcement since the days of sheriffs in the wild west, who were part lawman, part politician and part inventors of community policing without much oversight. The rise of issue ads in the last decade has magnified the fundamental question of how far law enforcement officials can extend the power of the badge.
Or, when it comes to evacuation warnings in the face of a major hurricane or wildfire, lockdowns for an infectious disease outbreak or some other major threat, will people trust the word of public officials who have been on television proudly supporting a political cause with which they disagree? One of the things that we’ve learned since Hurricane Katrina in 2005 is the importance of cementing trust in advance of a disaster. It can take decades to build it; trust can evaporate in a heartbeat.
Governing’s opinion columns reflect the views of their authors and not necessarily those of Governing’s editors or management.
