"With Caleb, what you see is what you get'

In his third term, Mid-Missouri legislator has established himself as a vocal presence

Missouri State Rep. Caleb Jones reads a story in March 2015 to Rock Bridge Elementary students in Columbia.
Missouri State Rep. Caleb Jones reads a story in March 2015 to Rock Bridge Elementary students in Columbia.

The kids are a tough crowd.

There's randomness to their questions that can freeze even the most seasoned politician. They can ask about anything. If it were the kids' parents asking the questions, they would likely be tactful and pertinent, short and sweet.

But on this early March morning, there's no safety net. With the picture book "Duck for President" under his arm and a bag of lollipops hidden in his briefcase, Caleb Jones waits to be introduced as a mystery reader for a Friday assembly at Rock Bridge Elementary School in Columbia.

"This is more stressful than anything else I do," Jones says.

During the week, Jones roams the halls of the Missouri Capitol as one of the most respected members of a Republican caucus that holds a supermajority in the House. Now, in his third term representing the 50th District, which includes most of southern Boone County and parts of Cole, Moniteau and Cooper counties, the 35-year-old attorney has been pegged in recent months as a possible candidate for the 19th District state Senate seat held now by Republican Kurt Schaefer.

Jones isn't shy about the possibility of running for higher office, but just months into a term for which he ran unopposed, the possibilities seem endless for a candidate who, other than an unsuccessful campaign for speaker of the House in 2013, hasn't lost a public election since his college days.

photo

Vehicles drive over a sleet-covered Main Street bridge from North Little Rock to Little Rock Friday morning.

This morning, the stresses of the future seem far away. He's more worried about keeping the kids focused as he reads. After striking a deal to give them the lollipops if everyone stays quiet, Jones reads aloud Doreen Cronin's acclaimed picture book about a duck who wins every campaign he runs until realizing his true happiness isn't as an elected official but, instead, being exactly what he is - a duck.

Behind his head, a PowerPoint presentation lays out three facts about working in the state Capitol:

Jones has 36,000 bosses. Jones gets fired every two years. Jones helps decide how long you have to stay in school.

After Jones closes the book, the kids raise their hands, sticky with the remnants of lollipops. He's made light of his job, but the students can tell his work is serious.

"Is your job fun?" one child asks him.

"It's fun," Jones says. "We get to make some really tough decisions sometimes."

"Like what?" another asks.

"Well," Jones says, "we can either have no recess or candy at lunch."

"Candy at lunch!" the students shout back.

"That's an easy one, right? How about we start school at 5 a.m. or we get out at noon?"

His point isn't lost on the students. The room erupts in a chorus of confusion, some students shouting yes and the others groaning no.

"These are decisions that we have to make," Jones says. "It's a lot of fun, but there are some real tough decisions that we have to make. You have to figure out what's best for everyone, not just you."

As he heads out the door, a man dressed as Abraham Lincoln takes the stage to read next. Jones can't help but roll his eyes with a hint of mischief.

Opening for the Republican Party's most famous president, even if it's an impersonator, is a tough way to start a Friday.

_

After four years in office, Jones has established himself as a vocal presence in the Republican caucus's supermajority in the state Capitol. He serves as chairman of the select committee on General Laws and has helped shepherd legislation through the House, including a bill last year that made the hemp extract cannabidiol legal treatment for Missourians with intractable epilepsy. In 2013, the Missouri Times wrote Jones "may be the most well-connected man in the General Assembly."

Jones isn't sure how many bills he's sponsored during his three terms in office. He jokes the folks in legislative research tell him he holds the record for most amendments passed.

Early on in his career, Jones said he learned an important lesson from a lobbyist. You can have a bigger impact when you don't care if your name is on a bill.

"I think what makes you effective isn't the ability to pass legislation with your name on it, but your ability to pass good meaningful legislation," Jones said.

Chris Kelly, a former state legislator from Boone County, said Jones is talented at working with constituents and understanding the inner workings of state government and local courts. Kelly now works as a lobbyist. Jones is his state representative.

"He studies hard, and he reads his legislation," Kelly said. "That's good. Too many folks do not. He actually knows what's in the bills."

Rep. Jeremy LaFaver, D-Kansas City, said he found Jones abrasive when they first met but their working relationship has evolved over time as they both grew as legislators.

"He makes you do things that you don't really want to do, but at the end of the day, you feel good about doing them anyway," LaFaver said. "I don't know how that works."

_

Jones' second home is a state Capitol office down the hall from the speaker of the House and steps away from the House floor. He's worked his way up to this office, one that makes those of his counterparts in the minority party look like poorly lit broom closets.

There are framed pieces of memorabilia from his time working for the George W. Bush re-election campaign. There are mementos from his time working in Washington when he was a political wonk, trying to pay a $1,000 a month rent on a $19,500 salary, living off the "grace of God" and a maxed-out credit card. To keep his spirits up during the session, there's a bed for his dog, Finn, a mutt Jones rescued from a ditch a few years ago.

On one wall, there's a letter framed next to the bookshelf. It is inconspicuous next to a stack of Styrofoam coffee cups and an unopened bottle of chardonnay.

Over time, the letter has become creased and slightly faded. It's a January 2002 letter from the Missouri Department of Corrections asking Jones to confirm his plans to attend the execution of James Johnson.

Thirteen years later, in his office decorated with mementos of victory, the execution letter can still catch people off guard. Once, one of Jones' friends asked him why he hung the letter up. Jones told him it was a constant reminder that there are bad people in the world - and good people have to do their part to keep them at bay.

_

What follows are the facts of the case State of Missouri v. James R. Johnson (1998) as recorded by the Missouri Supreme Court.

On Dec. 9, 1991, Moniteau County sheriff's deputy Les Roark knocked on Johnson's door to look into a reported domestic disturbance. Shortly before Roark visited the home, Johnson had threatened his wife, Jerri Wilson, and her teenage daughter from another marriage, Dawn Becker, with a rifle.

Roark asked to talk to Becker. Johnson didn't let him. Wilson brought Becker to the door and told the deputy they were fine.

While Roark walked backed to his car, Johnson pulled out a gun and started shooting. Roark was wounded. Johnson went back into the house. Hearing the deputy moaning, Johnson walked back outside and shot Roark in the head. Roark died later from the injuries.

Johnson stocked his car and started driving. He packed a Thermos, clothes, guns and ammunition and went looking for Caleb Jones' father, Moniteau County Sheriff Kenny Jones.

Once he got to the Jones household, Johnson could see a group of people inside. He took a gun from his car and shot at anyone he could see through a window. Once the bullets stopped, Caleb Jones' mother, Pam Jones, had been shot five times. Caleb was 11 years old at the time of his mother's death.

Johnson killed two more people before his rampage was over. After hiding out and taking a hostage, Johnson surrendered and was taken into custody.

Johnson admitted to the killings but pleaded not guilty. He said he was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder caused by his fighting in the Vietnam War. A jury in Laclede County found him guilty of four counts of first-degree murder. In 1993, Johnson was sentenced to death.

"It was a very trying time for my family," Jones says. "It puts life in perspective and really caused all of us kids to grow up pretty quick."

When Johnson was executed on Jan. 9, 2002, Jones didn't hesitate to watch. He didn't regret going. After a decade of publicity, court hearings and appeals, Jones felt he had the closure he needed. Leaving the Potosi Correctional Center, the significance of the day wasn't lost on him.

He'd spent the first minutes of his 22nd birthday watching the man who murdered his mother be killed.

_

The memory of his mother and the perseverance of his father are never far from Jones' mind.

Kenny Jones remained sheriff and raised his four kids as a single parent. He was elected to the Missouri House of Representatives in 2004, and Caleb helped manage his campaign. When Kenny ran unsuccessfully for the state Senate in 2010, Caleb won his father's open seat in the House.

"It would have been easy for Caleb to shy away from public service after an experience like that," his friend Brian Grace said. "I think he took the opposite lesson from it, and it drew him to it. He saw the ways that he could help other people."

Like most politicians, Jones sees himself as a perfectionist. No matter the pressure of his constituents or his fellow legislators, the person pushing Jones the hardest will always be himself.

"I feel like I am constantly lacking, like I am constantly missing something," Jones says. "Whether it's spending more time in the office, spending more time in Jefferson City working on stuff. The one thing I try not to miss out on is family."

Caleb Jones' cousin, Republican Tim Jones and the former speaker of the House in Missouri, said Caleb's top priority is his family, even as his stature continues to grow in the Republican caucus. He said Caleb Jones likes to do a million things at once but he's learned to prioritize his family over everything else.

"Caleb is in all sense of the word a big, gregarious open-door person," Tim Jones said. "He's one of the friendliest people I've ever met in life. With Caleb, what you see is what you get."

Lindsey Jones said her husband had to grow up quickly after his mother's death. Although he's open about the tragedy, Lindsey Jones said Pam Jones' death always has a presence in Caleb's life. They often talk to their 20-month-old son, Max, about "Grandma Pam."

"I think it helps Caleb feel like she's leaving some sort of legacy," Lindsey Jones said.

Once the session lets out for the day, Jones is on a mad dash to make it home. The 30-mile drive between Columbia and Jefferson City leaves Jones with a small window of time to see Max before he goes to bed. Try as he might, the work in the Capitol seems never-ending. But for around an hour a day, he eats dinner with his family and reads to Max before he falls asleep.

"He's got a good perspective," Lindsey Jones said. "He realizes how short life can be and how sweet those little moments can be."

_

Minutes after leaving the House floor in April, Stephen Webber plops down on the couch in Jones' office, and the two start talking shop.

Jones and Webber, a Democrat representing the 46th District in Columbia, have worked together for the past four years. Against the odds, they've achieved something relatively rare in today's divisive political environment: They're friends.

"We're members of the old guard," Jones says. "We can curse each other out on the floor, be opposed on issues and still get a cocktail afterwards. We're a dying breed."

The two politicians are in a lighthearted mood, comparing the number of party fundraisers they have to attend. Jones jokes that the Democrats have to hold their larger fundraisers in Kansas City and St. Louis to garner support, while Republicans can fan out across the state to reach their party's voters. The downside for Jones is a schedule that's packed with speeches and dinners that can often keep him away from home.

"It must be unfortunate to get votes in rural Missouri," Webber says, sarcastically.

Jones flashes a grin.

"Just dogs chasing cars," he says.

The next morning, Webber announced his campaign for the state Senate seat in the 19th district. His candidacy for the seat had been one of the worst kept secrets in Columbia with prominent Democrats such as Secretary of State Jason Kander and Kelly pledging their support for Webber months before he officially announced.

While the two are friends, Jones hasn't ruled out running against Webber for the Senate seat. This sets up what could possibly be one of the more competitive Senate races in Missouri.

"I don't think there's very many examples of people spending a million dollars apiece running ads against each other and being friends afterwards," Webber said. "I think it would be very hard to go through that. But we're unique to be friends where we are right now."

Jones said while he and Webber are friends, they both have different ideas about the role of government.

"Running against someone you know would be different than running against someone you don't know," Jones said. "I think all too often people are too quick to make personal attacks. While I don't think I would ever do that regardless of who I run against, I certainly would never do that to a friend."

If Webber and Jones are indeed molded in the old-guard style of politics, it's because of Chris Kelly. Both men see him as a mentor, one that presented them with the tools to succeed in the ever-changing political environment of the Capitol.

During Kelly's last term in the House, he helped the Boone County delegation in a bipartisan effort to help secure $38.5 million in bonding to renovate MU's Lafferre Hall. The success has been a point of pride for local members of both parties during a time when bipartisan efforts at the Capitol can sometimes seem few and far between.

Kelly said the kind of friendship Jones and Webber have has become more rare.

"There's too big of a divide between the parties," Kelly said. "Too little listening to critics of legislation. The content of the legislation has become less and less important. What's become more important is which team you're on."

_

The nuances of politics demand candidates be likeable enough to seem like they could be your best friend or confidant you'd have a drink with at a bar. Most of their free time is spent in methodical practice to ensure this kind of life. They'll go to dinners and give a speech, calm their constituents, talk about how their party is the voice of the people and its influence is here to stay. At party fundraisers, they're the most popular person in the room until someone better connected walks in.

Caleb Jones rarely has to deal with being upstaged. His networking skills and popularity in his legislative district have grown to the point that he hasn't had a primary or general election challenger since his first campaign.

His office is a way station for politicians when the House is in session, folks moving through to talk about legislation in his committee. He's ducking in and out to vote on bills, his deep, quick laugh bouncing off the walls. Almost everyone he's passing says his name, asks for advice, asks for a moment of his time.

Jones tactfully shoos everyone from his office, leans back in his chair and lets out another hearty, exhausted laugh. The work can be frustrating and time consuming, but he says there's no question this is what he wants to be doing.

"As much as Lindsey doesn't like politics sometimes because it keeps me away, she can tell every morning whenever I'm in the shower whether or not I'm headed down to Jeff City," Jones says.

"It's because I'm singing."