Decision Points Page 10

  I felt good about the debates. I believed my performance had exceeded expectations, and I figured the dramatic moments of the campaign were behind me. I was wrong.

  Five days before the election, at a routine campaign stop in Wisconsin, Karen Hughes pulled me aside. We walked into a quiet room and she said, “A reporter in New Hampshire called to ask about the DUI.” My heart sank. Such negative news at the end of a campaign would be explosive.

  I had seriously considered disclosing the DUI four years earlier, when I was called for jury duty. The case happened to involve drunk driving. I was excused from the jury because, as governor, I might later have to rule on the defendant’s case as a part of the pardon process. As I walked out of the Austin courthouse, a reporter shouted, “Have you ever been arrested for DUI?” I answered, “I do not have a perfect record as a youth. When I was young, I did a lot of foolish things. But I will tell you this, I urge people not to drink and drive.”

  Politically, it would not have been a problem to reveal the DUI that day. The next election was two years away, and I had quit drinking. I decided not to raise the DUI for one reason: my girls. Barbara and Jenna would start driving soon. I worried that disclosing my DUI would undermine the stern lectures I had been giving them about drinking and driving. I didn’t want them to say, “Daddy did it and he turned out okay, so we can, too.”

  Laura was traveling with me the day the press uncovered the DUI. She called Barbara and Jenna to tell them before they heard it on TV. Then I went out to the cameras and made a statement: “I was pulled over. I admitted to the policeman that I had been drinking. I paid a fine. And I regret that it happened. But it did. I’ve learned my lesson.”

  Not disclosing the DUI on my terms may have been the single costliest political mistake I ever made. Karl later estimated that more than two million people, including many social conservatives, either stayed home or changed their votes. They had been hoping for a different kind of president, somebody who would set an example of personal responsibility.

  If I had it to do over, I would have come clean about the DUI that day at the courthouse. I would have explained my mistake to the girls, and held an event with Mothers Against Drunk Driving to issue a strong warning not to drink and drive. All those thoughts ran through my head as I went to bed that night in Wisconsin. So did one more: I may have just cost myself the presidency.

  Five days later, the four-point lead I’d held before the DUI revelation evaporated. I campaigned frantically through the final week and went into election day in a dead heat with Gore. That night, our extended family gathered for dinner at the Shoreline Grill in Austin. Toasts flowed freely until the exit polls starting coming in. The networks called Pennsylvania, Michigan, and Florida for Gore. CBS anchor Dan Rather assured his viewers, “Let’s get one thing straight right from the get-go. … If we say somebody’s carried a state, you can pretty much take it to the bank. Book it!”

  Our guests who did not know much about politics continued to babble away. “The night is young, anything can happen.…” Those who understood the electoral map recognized I had just lost. Jeb and I were furious that the networks had called Florida before the polls closed in the Panhandle, the heavily Republican part of the state that lies in the central time zone. Who knew how many of my supporters had heard that news and decided not to vote? Laura and I slipped out of the dinner without touching our food.

  The car ride back to the Governor’s Mansion was quiet. There isn’t much to say when you lose. I was deflated, disappointed, and a little stunned. I felt no bitterness. I was ready to accept the people’s verdict and repeat Mother’s words from 1992: “It’s time to move on.”

  Shortly after we got back, the phone rang. I figured this was the first of the consolation calls: “You gave it your best shot.…” Instead, it was Karl. He didn’t sound dejected; he sounded defiant. He was talking fast. He started spewing information about how the exit polls in Florida had overweighted this county or that precinct.

  I cut him off and asked for the bottom line. He said the projections in Florida were mathematically flawed. He then got on the phone to the networks and screamed at the pollsters with the facts. Within two hours, he had systematically proved the major television networks wrong. At 8:55 p.m. central time, CNN and CBS took Florida out of the Gore column. All the others followed.

  Laura and I followed the returns from the mansion with Mother, Dad, Jeb, and several top aides. Eventually the Cheneys, Don Evans, and a contingent of other close friends arrived. As the night went on, it became apparent that the outcome of the election would turn on Florida. At 1:15 in the morning, the networks called the state again—this time for me.

  With brother Jeb on election night 2000, when things were looking good. Time Magazine/Brooks Kraft

  Al Gore called shortly after that. He congratulated me graciously and said, “We sure gave them a cliffhanger.” I thanked him and said I was headed out to address the twenty thousand hardy souls freezing in the rain at the state capitol. He asked that I wait until he spoke to his supporters in about fifteen minutes. I agreed.

  It took time for the meaning of the news to sink in. A few hours earlier I had been getting ready to move on with my life. Now I was preparing to be president of the United States.

  Fifteen minutes passed. Then another fifteen. Still no concession speech from Gore. Something was wrong. Jeb got on his laptop and started monitoring the Florida returns. He said my margin was narrowing. At 2:30 a.m., Bill Daley, Gore’s campaign chairman, called Don Evans. Don spoke to Daley briefly and handed me the phone. The vice president was on the line. He told me his numbers in Florida had changed since the last call, and thus he was retracting his concession.

  I had never heard of a candidate un-conceding. I told him that in Texas, it meant something when a person gave you his word. “You don’t have to get snippy about it,” he replied. Soon after, the networks put Florida back into the undecided category—their fourth position in eight hours—and threw the outcome of the election into question.

  I don’t know about snippy, but I was hot. Just when I thought this wild race had ended, we were back at the starting gate. Several folks in the living room advised that I go out and declare victory. I considered it, until Jeb pulled me aside and said, “George, don’t do it. The count is too close.” The margin in Florida had dwindled to fewer than two thousand votes.

  Jeb was right. An attempt to force the issue would have been rash. I told everyone that the election would not be decided that night. Most went to bed. I stayed up with Jeb and Don as they worked the phones to Florida. At one point, Don called the Florida secretary of state, Katherine Harris, to get an update. I heard him yell, “What do you mean you are in bed? Do you understand that the election is in the balance? What’s going on?!”

  With that, a strange night ended—and an even stranger five weeks began.

  Of the 105 million ballots cast nationwide, the 2000 election would be determined by several hundred votes in one state. Florida immediately turned into a legal battlefield. Don Evans learned around 4:30 a.m. that Gore’s campaign had dispatched a team of lawyers to coordinate a recount. He advised me to do the same. I was confronted with the most bizarre personnel choice of my public life: Whom to send to Florida to ensure that our lead was protected?

  There was no time to develop a list or conduct interviews. Don suggested James Baker. Baker was the perfect choice—a statesman, a savvy lawyer, and a magnet for talented people. I called Jim and asked if he would take on the mission. Shortly thereafter, he was bound for Tallahassee.

  Laura and I were mentally and physically worn out. We had poured every ounce of our energy into the race. Once it became clear we were in for a lengthy legal process, we spent most of our time decompressing at our ranch in Crawford.

  I first saw Prairie Chapel Ranch in February 1998. I had always wanted a place to call my own—a refuge from the busy life—as Dad had in Kennebunkport. When I sold my stake in the Rangers, Laura and
I had money to make a purchase.

  I was hooked the moment I saw Benny Engelbrecht’s 1,583-acre place in McLennan County, almost exactly halfway between Austin and Dallas. The ranch was a combination of flat country suited for cattle grazing and rugged canyons that drained into the middle fork of the Bosque River and Rainey Creek. The view of the limestone cliffs from the bottom of the ninety-foot canyons was stunning. So were the trees—huge native pecans, live oaks, cedar elms, burr oaks, and bois d’arc trees with their green fruits. In all, the place had over a dozen varieties of hardwoods, a rarity for Central Texas.

  To win over Laura, I promised to build a home and new roads to access the most scenic parts of the ranch. She found a young architect from the University of Texas named David Heymann, who designed a comfortable one-story house with large windows, each offering a unique view of our property. He utilized geothermal heat and recycled water to minimize the impact on the environment. Most of the construction took place during 2000. Surviving a presidential campaign and a homebuilding project in the same year is the mark of one strong marriage—and a tribute to the patience and skill of Laura Bush.

  Our ranch house in Crawford. White House/Susan Sterner

  The ranch was the perfect place to ride out the post-election storm. I checked in regularly with Jim Baker to get updates and provide strategic direction. I decided early on that I would avoid the endless, breathless TV coverage. Instead I took long runs that gave me a chance to think about the future, burned off nervous energy by clearing cedar trees that guzzled water needed by the native hardwoods, and went for hikes by the creek with Laura. If I became president, I wanted to be energized and ready for the transition.

  There were some moments of high drama along the way. On December 8, one month and one day after the election, Laura and I were back in Austin. That afternoon, the Florida Supreme Court was scheduled to hand down a decision that Jim Baker was confident would make my victory official.

  Laura and I invited our good friends Ben and Julie Crenshaw to watch the announcement. Ben is one of the most accomplished golfers of his era, and one of the most likeable people in professional sports. For the past few weeks, Gentle Ben had joined crowds protesting outside the Governor’s Mansion. Some were Gore supporters, but many backed me. One of Ben and Julie’s three young daughters carried a poster emblazoned with the words “Sore-Loserman,” a play on the Gore-Lieberman ticket. Ben had a homemade pink sign that read “Florida, No More Mulligans.”

  Ben, Julie, Laura, and I gathered in the living room to await the ruling. I broke my no-TV rule in the hope that I could experience victory in real time. Around three o’clock, the court spokesman walked to the lectern. I prepared to embrace Laura. Then he announced that the court, by a 4–3 vote, had ruled for Gore. The decision mandated a statewide manual recount, yet another mulligan.

  Shortly thereafter, Jim Baker called to ask if I wanted to appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court. He and Ted Olson, an outstanding lawyer Jim had recruited, felt we had a strong case. They explained that appealing the decision was a risky move. The U.S. Supreme Court might not agree to hear the case, or they could rule against us. I told Jim to make the appeal. I was prepared to accept my fate. The country needed closure, one way or the other.

  On December 12, thirty-five days after the election, Laura and I were lying in bed when Karl called and insisted that we turn on the TV. I listened intently as Pete Williams of NBC News deciphered the Supreme Court’s verdict. By a vote of 7–2, the justices found that Florida’s chaotic, inconsistent recount procedure had violated the equal protection clause of the Constitution. Then, by a vote of 5–4, the Court ruled that there was no fair way to recount the votes in time for Florida to participate in the Electoral College. The election results would stand. By a tally of 2,912,790 to 2,912,253, I had won Florida. I would be the forty-third president of the United States.

  My first response was relief. The uncertainty had inflicted a heavy toll on the country. After all the ups and downs, I didn’t have the emotional capacity to rejoice. I had hoped to share my victory with twenty thousand people at the state capitol on election night. Instead, I probably became the first person to learn he had won the presidency while lying in bed with his wife watching TV.

  For the first 140 years of American history, presidential inaugurations were held on March 4. A president elected in early November had about 120 days to prepare for his administration. In 1933, the Twentieth Amendment changed Inauguration Day to January 20, shortening the average transition to about 75 days. When the 2000 election was finally resolved in Bush v. Gore, I had 38 days.

  My first big decision was how I wanted the White House to function. That was a question I had pondered before. In 1991, Dad asked me to study the operation of his White House. After interviewing all his senior staffers, a common theme emerged: People were dissatisfied. Most felt that Chief of Staff John Sununu had denied them access to the Oval Office and limited the flow of information to Dad. I had always liked John, but my job was not to debate the case; it was to report the findings. I did so several days before Thanksgiving of 1991. Dad concluded that he needed to make a change. He asked me to notify John, which I did in an awkward conversation. He submitted his resignation shortly thereafter.

  I was determined to avoid that problem in my White House. I wanted a structure that was tight enough to ensure an orderly flow of information but flexible enough that I could receive advice from a variety of sources. It was important that advisers felt free to express concerns to me directly, without passing through a filter. Plus it would be easier to convince key members of my Texas political family to move to Washington if they would have regular access to me.

  The key to creating this structure was to hire an experienced, confident chief of staff who would not feel threatened by my relationships with his subordinates. Ironically, I found the perfect man in John Sununu’s deputy, Andy Card. When I visited Dad’s White House, I would often kick back in Andy’s office to get a candid update on how things were going. Andy was perceptive, humble, loyal, and hardworking. He had served under every chief of staff during both the Reagan and Bush presidencies. He had the sound judgment and steady temperament I needed, along with a caring heart and a good sense of humor. I was convinced he was the right person to lead my White House staff.

  A couple of weeks before the election, I met discreetly with Andy in Florida. It was clear he thought I was asking him to lead the transition. “No, I’m talking about The Big One,” I said. I explained that he would be the only chief of staff, but that I would also rely heavily on Texans like Karl, Karen, Al Gonzales, Harriet Miers, Clay Johnson, and Dan Bartlett for advice. Andy agreed to the job, so long as I informed him of any decisions I made outside his presence. I announced his selection in late November, making him the first official member of my White House team.

  The next important position to fill was national security adviser. I knew from watching Dad’s close relationship with Brent Scowcroft that it was crucial to find someone highly capable and completely trustworthy.

  On a trip to Maine in the summer of 1998, Dad introduced me to Condoleezza Rice, who had served as a Soviet specialist on his National Security Council staff. The daughter of an African American minister from segregated Birmingham, Alabama, Condi had a Ph.D. from the University of Denver and had become provost of Stanford at age thirty-eight. She immediately struck me as a smart, thoughtful, energetic woman.

  With my two closest foreign policy advisers, Steve Hadley and Condi Rice. White House/Paul Morse

  Over the next two and a half years, Condi and I met frequently to discuss foreign policy. One summer day in 1999, Condi, Laura, and I were hiking on the ranch. As we started to climb up a steep grade, Condi launched into a discourse on the history of the Balkans. Laura and I were huffing and puffing. Condi kept going, explaining the disintegration of Yugoslavia and the rise of Milosevic. That trail is now known as Balkan Hill. I decided that if I ended up in the Oval Office, I wanted Condi Rice
by my side.

  With Colin Powell. White House/Eric Draper

  The first selection for the Cabinet was easy. Colin Powell would be secretary of state. I had first met Colin at Camp David in 1989, when he was chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He and Dick Cheney had come to brief Dad on the surrender of Panamanian dictator Manuel Noriega. Colin was wearing his Army uniform. In contrast to the formality of his dress, he was good-natured and friendly. He spoke to everyone in the room, even bystanders like the president’s children.

  Colin was widely admired at home and had a huge presence around the world. He would credibly defend American interests and values, from a stronger NATO to freer trade. I believed Colin could be the second coming of George Marshall, a soldier turned statesman.

  The two key national security positions left were secretary of defense and director of central intelligence. More than a decade after the Berlin Wall fell, much of the Defense Department was still designed for fighting the Cold War. I had campaigned on an ambitious vision to transform the military. I planned to realign our force structure and invest in new technologies such as precision weapons and missile defense. I knew there would be resistance within the Pentagon, and I needed a tenacious, innovative secretary to lead the effort.

  My top candidate was Fred Smith, the founder and chief executive of FedEx. Fred graduated from Yale two years ahead of me, earned the Silver Star as a Marine in Vietnam, and built his company into one of the world’s most successful businesses. He loved the military and would bring an organizational mind to the Pentagon. Andy Card called Fred, learned he was interested in the job, and invited him to Austin. I was prepared to offer Fred the position, but before he made the trip, he was diagnosed with a heart condition. He had to bow out to focus on his health.