‘Two votes, you could do any damn thing you wanted’ — A brash but bipartisan Utah politician leaves the stage

In this era of polarizing and paralyzing politics, this recently retired Salt Lake County Council member stood out.

He bickered, bargained and battled for his causes, but the conflicts — whether with Republicans or fellow Democrats — seemed to rarely, if ever, turn personal.

Always passionate and often blunt, colleagues say, he was more interested in moving the ball on projects than blocking them to score political points.

So why did this longtime officeholder, a man who’s had his head, heart and hand in Utah politics for nearly six decades, walk away from elected office.

The answer is simple. Jim Bradley is 78 years old, and he did not want to, well, frankly, die in office.

“That wouldn’t be cool,” Bradley said recently over a glass of chardonnay and a sugar-sprinkled brownie. “God knows what’s going to happen. It’s a six-year term, and I don’t want to be senile in office. So for all those reasons, I said, ‘As much as I’ve enjoyed it, much as I’ll miss it, it’s time to go.’”

But after decades in Utah politics, he’s leaving behind plenty to mark his time. Bradley’s legacy is written all over some of the Salt Lake Valley’s most iconic buildings.

Legacy of the ‘last Utah Democrat’

Bradley has been involved in politics for decades. But he didn’t win an election until 1990.

After graduating from Skyline High School in 1964, Bradley banded with the anti-Vietnam War movement and worked for Eugene McCarthy’s Utah office during the Minnesota Democrat’s 1968 presidential bid.

During that campaign, Bradley wanted to become a delegate so he could vote for McCarthy at the Democratic convention. He asked a few friends to show up and vote for him at the precinct but assumed his selection was a “gimme.”

“I’ll be darned if there were like 80 people there, 50 of them were for a person named Al Santi who owned a bar and was interested in liquor by the drink, which was going to be on the ballot here,” Bradley recalled. “Nothing to do with the war, national politics or anything else. And he beat me, and I learned a lesson: OK, never take anything for granted.”

Despite the defeat, Bradley’s political interest swelled. In 1970, he worked on the successful reelection campaign of Frank Moss, the last Democratic U.S. senator to represent Utah.

In that race, he met Wayne Owens, who was elected to the U.S. House in 1972. Bradley orchestrated Owens’ famous “walk for Congress,” where the Democratic candidate hoofed it across the entire length of his district, stretching from Salt Lake City to St. George.

But while Bradley was “playing politics,” he was supposed to be going to school. He had married right before his foot feat with Owens and had a child, so he buckled down, taking night classes while he worked writing grants for Salt Lake County’s alcohol and drug services.

After a few years in that steady job, he grew restless. He approached a friend and asked to work on Gov. Scott Matheson’s reelection campaign. With Matheson’s victory in 1980, Bradley was hired as a grant writer for the Utah Energy Office.

Through a series of staff movements, Bradley finagled his way into becoming the office’s boss.

“I’ve been lucky my whole life,” Bradley said. “... Matheson put me on … for a couple months to see if it worked out. It did, so I became the director of the Utah Energy Office within two years of being there as a grant writer. And, of course, a lot of the staff, rightly so, said, ‘What the hell?’ And I said, ‘Well, when it gets right down to it, I’m here and you’re not so; I must know something.’”

Matheson’s successor — Norm Bangerter — asked Bradley to resign a few months after the Republican governor took office. So Bradley took up consulting for a synthetic fuels company. His mentor there introduced him to Glenda Solomon, who later became Bradley’s second wife.

In time, the politics bug bit him again, Bradley recalled. He ran against Salt Lake County Commissioner D. Michael Stewart in 1988 and lost “by a hair.” Two years later, though, he unseated Commissioner Bart Barker and rose to commission chair.

‘You could do any damn thing you wanted’

Before the Salt Lake County Council took over in 2001, Utah’s most populous county was governed by a three-member commission. The commission “did it all,” Bradley said, acting essentially as the legislative and executive branches of county government.

“Two votes, you could do any damn thing you wanted,” Bradley said. “You have to have a conscience, have to have understanding of good government, or it could be very abusive.”

And the commission did get things done. Bradley points to downzoning portions of the foothills near the Cottonwood canyons, for instance, preserving the hillsides from mass development.

He also was a driving force behind the naming of one of downtown Salt Lake City’s most beloved buildings Abravanel Hall) after one of Utah’s most memorable musicians (legendary Utah Symphony conductor Maurice Abravanel).

“It didn’t cost the taxpayers anything; it was a symbol,” Bradey said. “There were members of the [symphony] board who objected, because they were hoping to sell the rights to the name for a lot of money, and they always needed money. But I said no. I said, ‘This man dedicated his life, and without him and without what he has done culturally in this community, we wouldn’t have it. We wouldn’t have a ballet. We wouldn’t have any of those things.’”

The commission planned to reveal the name at the celebrated conductor’s 90th birthday celebration. But a few days before the announcement, Bradley was called to a special meeting of the symphony board.

Bradley said he “smelled a rat,” so he checked with a fellow commissioner to ensure he still had his vote.

“I went to the meeting and had fun for about 15 minutes fielding questions like, ‘Where do you get off doing this?’” Bradley recalled. “I said, ‘Look, I represent the people of Salt Lake County, and I and my fellow commissioners decided this would be an appropriate thing to do, because we own the building. We own the ground. We can call it anything we want.’

“They all knew what a wonderful guy he was, too,” Bradley added. “But after about five or 10 more minutes of these BS questions, I said, ‘Hey, let’s stop here. The birthday party is in four days. We all know that Maurice deserves any accolade we could give him. So I suggest that you all come with gladness in your heart. I’ll see you there.’ And I left.”

After this showdown, Bradley remained friends with symphony board members. Maintaining relationships with occasional opponents was one of his superpowers, according to his policy adviser, Kerri Nakamura.

“He was always willing to be civil in discussion, and he would get as passionate as anybody else,” Nakamura said. “But then, at the end of the meeting, he would want to go have a beer with somebody, because he always understood that it was the issue; it wasn’t the person.”

After losing reelection in 1994, Bradley returned to consulting. But if serving on the commission had taught him anything, he said, it was that he “absolutely love[s]” being in charge.

So he ran for governor as a long-shot candidate at the request of a dear friend — Utah Attorney General Jan Graham, the last Democrat to hold statewide office. She asked Bradley to run so that incumbent Republican Gov. Mike Leavitt wouldn’t spend his vast resources on her opponent.

“That was the most fun campaign I’ve ever been involved in, because I didn’t have to worry about winning. There was no way in hell I was going to win. I knew that,” Bradley said. “... I like talking issues ... so I didn’t feel like I was going to be embarrassed, and that was number one: just don’t look like an idiot out there. … And, secondly, it was in my blood running, and the dialogue with your opponent is healthy.”

Soon after his sacrificial stint as Leavitt’s challenger, Bradley ran for Salt Lake City mayor against Rocky Anderson in 1999. Bradley was “fairly certain” of his chances against Anderson, but then-Utah House Minority Leader Dave Jones joined the fray and split the Democratic vote in the officially nonpartisan contest.

“I mentioned to him at one time we talked together, ‘One of us should probably drop out.’” Bradley recalled. “Neither of us would, though.”

And neither won. Anderson ultimately prevailed.

A soft landing at the county

After two unsuccessful campaigns, Bradley yearned for something different. Democrats asked him to run for County Council when the form of government changed.

He agreed on two conditions: He wanted to run unopposed within his party. And he wanted to run for a countywide seat — which came with a six-year term, unlike the four-year stints for district posts.

“It’s different. You’re not the point man. You’re not the mayor, not the chairman of the commission,” Bradley said of his council duties. “It’s more collaborative. It’s more representative. But also with that comes a problem, because what can happen is that the six council seats that are district become parochial. That is, I think there’s an over-effort to protect your council district at the expense of the rest of the county.”

In the past 24 years, Bradley has seen all types of politicians and personalities on the council. And he’s become friends with a lot of his fellow council members, Democrat and Republican.

In that quarter century, he feels one of his most fulfilling contributions has been “beating them on the head” until other council members understood that, in the end, being a Republican or Democrat doesn’t matter.

“He was always very classy in how he spoke to people,” County Council Chair Laurie Stringham said. “If he agreed with you, OK, he agreed with you. If he didn’t, you knew. But, for the most part, he was always cordial. He was always civil. It was never personal, and he could always work with you later.”

From funding the Unified Police Department to establishing an urban farming initiative, Bradley has had a hand in a lot of projects, policies and programs. And despite the toxicity infecting much of today’s politics, Bradley said, he’s “had a ball.”

“I’ve enjoyed what I’ve done,” Bradley said. “... You’re out there to help people, and hopefully what you do is you can make people’s lives better by providing a quality life environment, and encourage people to use it when appropriate, and then also see the fruits of your labor. … I can really drive around town in this county and see things that I played a part in, and that’s a personal high.”

The hole Bradley leaves on the council, Stringham said, is larger than his at-large seat.

“Jim has been an institutional knowledge base for everybody for so many years,” Stringham said. “... When you have served that many years and that long in a row, your fingers are all over so many different things.”

In retirement, Bradley doesn’t plan to keep those hands idle. But now he’ll use them for fishing.