Everybody knows how a bill becomes a law.
One Bill married Hillary and became President.
The rest usually die in committee.
Everybody remembers the old Schoolhouse Rock version.
A hopeful little bill sits on Capitol Hill, explains how democracy works, survives committee, passes the House and Senate, gets signed by the President, and becomes a law.
Adorable.
We should probably tell the little guy what actually happens.
Step One: Somebody Has an Idea
This is often where the trouble starts.
A member of Congress announces legislation to solve a problem. Sometimes the problem is real. Sometimes the bill is thoughtful. Occasionally the member has even read it.
Staff begins drafting.
Interest groups arrive.
Lobbyists arrive.
Other members arrive wanting their names on it.
Leadership arrives wanting to know whether it helps or hurts anything scheduled for November.
And somewhere in America, the original problem quietly wonders whether anybody remembers it.
Step Two: Give It a Name Nobody Can Oppose
Congress has learned an important lesson from marketing:
Never call legislation what it actually does.
Nobody introduces the Complicated Collection of Tax Changes, Regulatory Amendments, Grant Programs, Reporting Requirements, and Three Completely Unrelated Things We Needed Votes For Act.
Instead, Congress gives us names like:
The Freedom Act.
The Prosperity Act.
The Save America Act.
The Protect Children, Puppies, Veterans, Farmers, Small Businesses and Probably Your Grandmother Act.
This creates an important political advantage.
If you vote against it, your opponent can later explain that you apparently hate prosperity, puppies, and Grandma.
Step Three: Send It to Committee
This is where our little bill enters the congressional witness protection program.
Committees theoretically exist because Congress is too large and complicated for every member to become an expert on everything.
That makes sense.
A transportation bill should probably get more attention from people who spend time thinking about transportation than from somebody who just learned what an axle is five minutes before the vote.
The problem is that committees are also excellent places for legislation to disappear.
A chair can decline to move it.
A hearing can never happen.
A markup can never happen.
A vote can never happen.
Nothing dramatic occurs.
No one has to stand on the House floor and declare:
I oppose fixing this problem.
The bill simply develops a severe case of procedural death.
Step Four: The Hearing
If our bill is fortunate enough to receive a hearing, experts appear before Congress.
Some of them actually are experts.
They testify.
Members ask questions.
Occasionally the question is related to the testimony.
More often, the member has approximately five minutes and television cameras are present, so the hearing becomes an opportunity to deliver a miniature campaign speech disguised as an inquiry.
The witness begins answering.
The member interrupts.
“My time is limited.”
Which is congressional language for:
Thank you for attending my monologue.
Step Five: Markup
Markup is where legislators actually change the bill.
This can be useful.
It can also resemble watching relatives divide an estate.
Amendments appear.
Some improve the legislation.
Some weaken it.
Some strengthen it.
Some have very little to do with the bill but are attached because this happens to be the train leaving the station.
Eventually the legislation that emerges may bear a family resemblance to the bill that entered.
Possibly a second cousin.
Step Six: Leadership Discovers the Calendar
Even if a committee approves the legislation, it still has to reach the floor.
This requires something Congress has in remarkably short supply:
time.
There are appropriations bills.
Defense legislation.
Nominations.
Continuing resolutions.
Debt-limit fights.
Emergency packages.
Recesses.
Campaign season.
Fundraising.
Television appearances.
And, periodically, the constitutional requirement that everyone blame everyone else for not getting anything done.
A bill can have substantial support and still never receive a vote.
This is important.
When people ask why Congress “voted against” something, sometimes Congress never voted on it at all.
The legislation simply died waiting for somebody to put it on the calendar.
Step Seven: Pass One Chamber
Suppose a miracle occurs.
The House passes it.
Champagne?
Not yet.
Our bill now travels approximately 750 feet across the Capitol and enters an entirely different civilization.
The Senate may have different committees.
Different priorities.
Different amendments.
Different procedures.
Different political incentives.
And one hundred people who have spent centuries developing ways to prevent one another from doing things.
The Senate may pass its own version.
Which creates another small problem.
Step Eight: Both Chambers Passed It — Just Not the Same It
The Constitution requires the House and Senate to pass identical legislation.
So if the House passes version A and the Senate passes version B, Congress has technically accomplished the impressive feat of agreeing without agreeing.
They can resolve the differences.
They can form a conference committee.
One chamber can accept the other chamber’s version.
Or everybody can stare at one another until the congressional session ends.
At which point our bill returns to its natural state:
dead.
Step Nine: The Clock Runs Out
This is perhaps the most elegant congressional killing mechanism of all.
Congress works in two-year sessions.
At the end of a Congress, legislation that has not completed the process generally dies.
No funeral.
No congressional coroner.
No little marble headstone.
If supporters still want it, somebody introduces it again in the next Congress.
And our little bill begins another exciting journey through the machinery.
The Important Part Isn’t the Joke
The joke is that Congress has developed an extraordinary number of places where legislation can die.
The serious problem is that most citizens see only the beginning and the end.
A politician announces a bill.
Months later, nothing happened.
That tells us almost nothing.
Did the bill lack support?
Did a committee chair block it?
Did leadership refuse floor time?
Did one chamber pass it while the other ignored it?
Did an amendment destroy the coalition?
Did the Senate’s rules stop it?
Did Congress simply run out of time?
Those are very different failures.
If we’re going to measure whether Congress can govern, counting bills introduced or even bills passed isn’t enough.
We need to know where legislation dies.
That’s one reason we’re building the governance model behind this site.
Not because spreadsheets are exciting.
Well, Morgan seems to think they are.
But because government failure becomes easier to understand when you can point to the exact place where the machine stopped.
And once you know where it stopped, you can ask the question Congress generally prefers you not ask:
Who had the wrench?