Remembering Jeff Raimundo

Jeff Raimundo – news reporter, political consultant, author and tireless community volunteer — passed away last week after a tough three-year battle with prostate cancer. As with everything he did, he handled those final years with poise and dignity. The Sacramento Bee devoted an incredible nineteen inches of copy to his obituary.

The first time I met Jeff was in 1969 when we were young reporters. I had just taken a job at KCRA in Sacramento after a stint in Los Angeles for United Press International. Jeff was covering Sacramento County government for the Bee. One of my first assignments was to sit through a Sacramento County Board of Supervisors meeting and find something interesting. The meeting lasted several hours and was beyond boring. Sitting at the press table, we struck up a conversation about sports, I think — or maybe it was Vietnam — to pass the time while the supervisors discussed zoning issues.

A few months later, we offered our respective new organizations gavel-to-gavel coverage of an obscenity trial involving nude dancers, including an unusual court session where one of the defendants showed off her dance moves – without a stitch of clothing – for the jury. In his Bee article, Jeff quoted Municipal Court Judge Earl Warren, Jr. “The record will reflect that we are convening at the Pink Pussy Kat Bar,” as well as the prosecutor, who grumbled that the bar had the “pungent odor of a latrine.” He noted that that the bar was filled with spectators who applauded after each number.

Covering that trial together, we became fast and lasting friends – gathering news, taking vacations together with our wives, hitting the golf links, competing against each other as public affairs consultants and collaborating on three books on California political history. Jeff transitioned to the newspaper’s Capitol bureau, then as a Washington correspondent and editor for the Bee’s parent news service, McClatchy News Service. At the same time, my beat became the State Capitol.

For Jeff, the glass was always half full, even when it was near empty. In 2003, we took a golf trip to a resort in Rancho Santa Fe, north of San Diego. The evening we arrived, the devastating Cedar Fire was raging out of control twenty-four miles to the east. Eventually, it would destroy 273,000 acres of land, take fifteen lives and cause more than a billion dollars in damage. We had an eight o’clock tee time the next morning. When we awoke, the sky was thick, brown and dirty. The smoke irritated our lungs. The fire had raced down the mountains overnight and was barreling in our direction. Grabbing his golf clubs, he started racing towards the first tee. “Quick, I think we can get in 18 holes before it gets too bad,” he said optimistically. It was a nice try, until minutes later the entire resort was evacuated before we could even tee off.

For Jeff, the glass was always half full, even when it was near empty.

In 2013, Jeff and his wife, Becky, along with my wife, Susie, and I took a vacation trip together to Seattle. Becky was a veteran journalist and Susie had spent decades working in the state legislature. Jeff and I had given up full-time journalism but dabbled in writing and political analysis.  Jeff would get involved in a number of campaigns. Over dinner one night, we talked about how we were easing into semi-retirement (although Becky was becoming a lecturer at CSU Sacramento). We were talking about the next phase of our lives. “Why don’t we write a book together about California political history,” Susie said. “After all, between the four of us, we probably have a combined 150 years of experience in and around state government.” Jeff and Becky had many of their old articles; I had all my KCRA scripts, and Susie had won a national ProPublica award for investigative research.

We decided to write about the impactful elections in California history. We called it Game Changers: Twelve Elections That Transformed California. At a leisurely pace, we started researching historical records – old books and manuscripts, newspaper clippings going back a century and a half, oral histories, and we conducted interviews with historians and newsmakers. Our goal was to coax the University of California Press to publish the book. One evening in late June, 2014, after Susie and I returned from San Francisco, I checked my email and saw a message from UC Press. Our submission was rejected, but the note suggested that Berkeley’s Heyday Books might be interested. Curious, I checked out Heyday’s website and noticed that it  was co-sponsoring a book contest with the California Historical Society. The winning entry would receive a publishing contract and a modest advance. Submissions had to include one completed chapter and an annotated table of contents. There was only one problem. The deadline was that night, and it already was 9 pm.

We called Jeff and Becky. We had completed one chapter, but it needed polish. We had a rough outline of our other chapters, but it needed work. I questioned whether we could possibly put together a submission in three hours. In a style that defined Jeff’s sunny outlook, enthusiasm and drive, he replied: “Are you kidding?  We’ve been working under deadlines for decades. We can do this.” We divided up the workload and sent the submission at 11:47 pm.

A few days later, contest organizers asked if we had any other completed chapters. We didn’t. The four of us secluded ourselves in a Truckee timeshare for a week, churning out three more chapters. Then, an email arrived from Malcolm Margolin, Heyday’s publisher. “I’ve seen many miracles,” it said. “I’ve seen four babies born…I’ve watched dead languages come alive. I’ve lived to see a black man elected president. These pale in significance at the miracle before me. You have managed to make state politics interesting.” We won the 2014 California Historical Society Book Award among 33 entries and received a publishing contract. Without Jeff’s determination and hustle, it probably wouldn’t have happened.

Five years later, the four of us researched and wrote another book, which traced California women’s struggle for political equality since the Gold Rush. On Feb. 19, 2020, Jeff, Susie and I (Becky was teaching a class) drove to the Cupertino Library for a book presentation. COVID had recently been detected in in Santa Clara County, and we wondered if anyone would show up for our book event. As it turned out, only three people attended. Jeff was unfazed. He looked forward to our next book event – eventually canceled — at the Los Altos Library.

Jeff had been seeing a doctor and had taken a battery of diagnostic tests. On the long drive home that night, he scrolled through the emails on his phone as I maneuvered along Interstate 680 near Concord. He saw a message from his doctor but said he didn’t want to read it until later. After we had traveled a few more miles, his curiosity got the best of him. He silently read the email, then said: “Well, this isn’t good.” The diagnosis was prostate cancer that already had spread to his bones and beyond.

For the next three years and five months, he fought like hell. He played golf and fantasy sports. He went to Giants games. He traveled to Portland and San Diego to visit his kids and grandchildren. He lent his expertise to various political campaigns. After decades of leadership on community boards dealing with the homeless, illiteracy and the Sacramento Zoo, he took on new challenges, including service with Friends of the California Archives. He kept going. I never – not once – saw him complain or seek pity. His attitude was, “what will be, will be.” Poise and dignity. That’s how he lived and that’s how he died.

Steve Swatt is a longtime Sacramento reporter and political consultant.