Decision Points Read online

  An Oval Office meeting with Dad and (from left) Andy Card, John Sununu, and Lee Atwater in 1989. Two days earlier, Dad had ordered American troops into Panama.

  One change Dad did make was to bring Secretary of State James Baker back to the White House as chief of staff. The campaign ran more smoothly with Baker at the helm. Voters began to focus on Bush versus Clinton. The polls narrowed. Then, four days before the election, Lawrence Walsh, the prosecutor investigating the Iran-Contra scandal of the Reagan administration, dropped an indictment on former defense secretary Caspar Weinberger. The indictment dominated the news and halted the campaign’s momentum. Democratic lawyer Robert Bennett, who represented Cap, later called the indictment “one of the greatest abuses of prosecutorial power I have ever encountered.” So much for the independence of the independent counsel.

  In the final days before the election, my brother Marvin suggested that I campaign with Dad to help keep his spirits high. I agreed to do it, although I was not in the most upbeat mood. I was especially irritated with the press corps, which I thought was cheerleading for Bill Clinton. At one of the final campaign stops, two reporters from the press pool approached me near the steps of Air Force One. They asked about the atmosphere on the plane. The politically astute response would have been some banality like “He feels this hill can be climbed.” Instead, I unleashed. I told the reporters I thought their stories were biased. My tone was harsh, and I was rude. It was not my only angry blurt of the campaign. I had developed a reputation in the press corps as a hothead, and I deserved it. What the press did not understand was that my outbursts were driven by love, not politics.

  Election night came, and Dad did not win. Bill Clinton won 43.0 percent of the vote. Dad ended up with 37.4 percent. Ross Perot took 18.9 percent, including millions of votes that otherwise would have gone for George Bush. Dad handled the defeat with characteristic grace. He called early in the evening to congratulate Bill, laying the foundation for one of the more unlikely friendships in American political history.

  Dad had been raised to be a good sport. He blamed no one; he was not bitter. But I knew he was hurting. The whole thing was a miserable experience. Watching a good man lose made 1992 one of the worst years of my life.

  The morning after the election, Mother said, “Well, now, that’s behind us. It’s time to move on.” Fortunately for me, baseball season was never too far away. In the meantime, I trained for the Houston marathon, which I ran on January 24, 1993—four days after Dad left office. I was holding my 8:33-per-mile pace when I passed Mother and Dad’s church around mile 19. The 9:30 a.m. service had just ended, and my family was gathered on the curb. I had a little extra spring in my step for the gallery. Dad encouraged me in his typical way. “That’s my boy!” he yelled. Mother had a different approach. She shouted, “Keep moving, George! There are some fat people ahead of you!” I finished in three hours, forty-four minutes. I felt ten years younger at the finish line and ten years older the next day.

  Just as I had once run to rid my body of alcohol, the marathon helped purge the disappointment I felt about 1992. As the pain began to fade, a new feeling replaced it: the itch to run for office again.

  It started gradually. When Laura and I moved back to Texas in 1988, I became more aware of the challenges facing the state. Our education system was in trouble. Children who couldn’t read or do math were shuffled through the system without anyone bothering to ask what, or if, they had learned.

  The legal climate in our state was a national joke. Texas personal injury lawyers were ringing up huge jury verdicts and driving jobs out of the state. Juvenile crime was growing. And I worried about a culture of “if it feels good, do it” and “if you’ve got a problem, blame somebody else.”

  The dividends of that approach were troubling. More babies were being born out of wedlock. More fathers were abdicating their responsibilities. Dependence on welfare was replacing the incentive to work.

  My experiences on Dad’s campaigns and running the Rangers had sharpened my political, management, and communications skills. Marriage and family had broadened my perspective. And Dad was now out of politics. My initial disappointment at his loss gave way to a sense of liberation. I could lay out my policies without having to defend his. I wouldn’t have to worry that my decisions would disrupt his presidency. I was free to run on my own.

  I wasn’t the only one in the family who reached that conclusion. In the spring of 1993, Jeb told me he was seriously considering running for governor of Florida. In an ironic way, Dad’s defeat was responsible for both our opportunities. What had first seemed like the sad end to a great story now looked like the unlikely beginning of two new careers. Had Dad won in 1992, I doubt I would have run for office in 1994, and I almost certainly would not have become president.

  The big question was how to get involved. I asked for advice from a close friend, political strategist Karl Rove. I first met Karl in 1973, when Dad was chairman of the Republican National Committee and Karl was the head of the College Republicans. I assumed he would be another one of the campus politician types who had turned me off at Yale. I soon recognized that Karl was different. He wasn’t smug or self-righteous, and he sure wasn’t the typical suave campaign operator. Karl was like a political mad scientist—intellectual, funny, and overflowing with energy and ideas.

  With Karl Rove, my political mad scientist. White House/Eric Draper

  Nobody I know has read or absorbed more history than Karl. I say that with confidence because I’ve tried to keep up. A few years ago, Karl and I squared off in a book reading contest. I jumped out to an early lead. Then Karl accused me of gaining an unfair advantage by selecting shorter works. From that point forward, we measured not only the number of books read, but also their page count and total lateral area. By the end of the year, my friend had dusted me in all categories.***

  Karl didn’t just amass knowledge, he used it. He had studied William McKinley’s 1896 election strategy. In 1999, he suggested that I organize a similar front-porch campaign. It turned out to be a wise and effective approach. I regretted not working with Karl during my congressional run in 1978. I never made that mistake again.

  In 1993, Karl and I both saw a political opportunity. The conventional wisdom was that Texas Governor Ann Richards was guaranteed reelection the next November. Texas’s first woman governor since the 1930s, Ann Richards was a political pioneer. She had a large following among national Democrats and, many believed, a chance to be president or vice president someday.

  Everyone said the governor was popular, but Karl and I didn’t think she had actually accomplished much. Karl told me his analysis showed that many Texans—even some Democrats—would be open to a candidate with a serious program to improve the state. That was exactly what I had in mind.

  In a spring 1993 special election, Governor Richards placed a school funding measure on the ballot. Derisively dubbed “Robin Hood,” her plan redistributed money from rich districts to poor ones. The voters defeated it by a healthy margin. As Laura and I watched election returns that night, we listened to an interview by Ann Richards. She was frustrated by the defeat of the school funding measure and said sarcastically, “We are all, boy, eagerly awaiting any suggestions and ideas that are realistic.”

  I turned to Laura and said, “I have a suggestion. I might run for governor.” She looked at me like I was crazy. “Are you joking?” she asked. I told her I was serious. “But we have such a great life,” she said. “You’re right,” I replied. We were very comfortable in Dallas. I loved my job with the Rangers. Our girls were thriving. Yet I had the political bug again, and we both knew it.

  When I brought up the governor’s race, I always heard the same thing: “Ann Richards sure is popular.” I asked some of Dad’s former political strategists for advice. They politely suggested that I wait a few years. When I made up my mind that I was running, Mother’s response was to the point: “George,” she said, “you can’t win.”

  The good ne
ws was that the Republican field was wide open. Nobody wanted to challenge Richards, so I could immediately turn my attention to the general election. I took a methodical approach, laying out a specific, optimistic vision for the state. I focused on four policy issues: education, juvenile justice, welfare reform, and tort reform.

  We assembled a skilled and able campaign team.**** I made two particularly important hires. First was Joe Allbaugh, an imposing six-foot-four man with a flattop and the bearing of a drill sergeant, who had served as chief of staff to Oklahoma Governor Henry Bellmon. I brought Joe in to run the campaign, and he did a superb job of managing the organization.

  We also hired a new communications director, Karen Hughes. I had first met Karen at the state party convention in 1990. “I will be briefing you on your duties,” she said crisply. She then delivered my marching orders. There was no doubt this woman was in charge. When she told me her father was a two-star general, it made perfect sense.

  With Karen Hughes, my indispensable counselor from Texas. Wite House/Paul Morse

  I stayed in touch with Karen after the convention. She had a warm, outgoing personality and a great laugh. As a former TV correspondent, she knew the media and how to turn a phrase. It was a good sign when she came to hear my announcement speech in the fall of 1993. She was easy to spot because her son Robert was sitting on her shoulders. Karen was my kind of person—one who put family first. The day she signed on with the campaign was one of the best of my political career.

  As my campaign started to generate excitement, the national news media got interested. Reporters knew my hothead reputation, and there was a running discussion about when I would finally explode. Ann Richards did her best to set me off. She called me “some jerk” and “shrub,” but I refused to spark. Most people failed to understand that there was a big difference between Dad’s campaigns and mine. As the son of the candidate, I would get emotional and defend George Bush at all costs. As the candidate myself, I understood that I had to be measured and disciplined. Voters don’t want a leader who flails in anger and coarsens the tone of the debate. The best rebuttal to the barbs was to win the election.

  In mid-October, Ann Richards and I met for our one televised debate. I had studied the briefing books and practiced during mock debates. A week before the big night, I imposed an advice blackout. I had witnessed some of Dad’s debate preps. I knew the candidate could easily get overwhelmed with last-minute suggestions. My favorite old chestnut was “Just be yourself.” No kidding. I ordered that all debate advice be filtered through Karen. If she thought it was essential, she would pass it on. Otherwise, I was keeping my mind clear and focused.

  On debate night, Karen and I were in the elevator when Ann Richards entered. I shook her hand and said, “Good luck, Governor.” In her toughest growl, she said, “This is going to be rough on you, boy.”

  It was the classic head game. But its effect was opposite to what she intended. If the governor was trying to scare me, I figured she must feel insecure. I gave her a big smile, and the debate went fine. I had seen enough politics to know you can’t really win a debate. You can only lose by saying something stupid or looking tired or nervous. In this case, I was neither tired nor nervous. I made my case confidently and avoided any major gaffes.

  As usual, the final weeks brought some surprises. Ross Perot weighed in on the race, endorsing Ann Richards. It didn’t bother me. I’ve always thought that endorsements in politics are overrated. They rarely help, and sometimes they hurt. I told a reporter, “She can have Ross Perot. I’ll take Nolan Ryan and Barbara Bush.” I didn’t add that Mother still didn’t think I could win.

  When the results came in on election night, I was elated. We had pulled off what the Dallas Morning News called “once unthinkable.” The New York Times deemed it “a stunning upset.” Dad called me at the Austin Marriott, where my supporters had congregated. “Congratulations, George, on a great win,” he said, “but it looks like Jeb is going to lose.”

  I felt bad for my brother, who had worked so hard and deserved to win. But nothing could dim the thrill I felt as I went to the Marriott ballroom to deliver my victory speech.

  Inauguration Day was January 17, 1995. As I was getting ready in the hotel room before the ceremony, Mother handed me an envelope. It contained a pair of cufflinks and a letter from Dad:

  Dear George,

  These cufflinks are my most treasured possession. They were given to me by Mum and Dad on June 9, that day in 1943 when I got my Navy wings at Corpus Christi. I want you to have them now; for, in a sense, though you won your Air Force wings flying those jets, you are again “getting your wings” as you take the oath of office as our Governor.

  He wrote about how proud he was, and how I could always count on his and Mother’s love. He concluded:

  You have given us more than we ever could have deserved. You have sacrificed for us. You have given us your unwavering loyalty and devotion. Now it is our turn.

  Mother helping me put on the cufflinks from Dad. Dallas Morning News/David Woo

  Dad is not the kind of guy who would say something like that in person. The handwritten note was his style, and his words meant a lot. That morning I felt a powerful connection to the family tradition of service that I was now continuing in my own way.

  As governor, I didn’t need time to plan my agenda. I had spent the last year telling everyone exactly what I wanted to accomplish. I have always believed that a campaign platform is not just something you use to get elected. It is a blueprint for what you do in office.

  I had another reason to move fast. In Texas, the legislature meets only 140 days of every two years. My goal was to get all four of my policy initiatives through both houses in the first session.

  To make that happen, I needed good relations with the legislature. That started with the lieutenant governor, who serves as president of the state senate, seats committees, and decides on the flow of bills. The lieutenant governor is elected separately from the governor, meaning it is possible for the two top officials to be from opposite parties—as Lieutenant Governor Bob Bullock and I were.

  Bullock was a legend in Texas politics. He had served in the powerful post of state comptroller for sixteen years before his election as lieutenant governor in 1990. He ran the senate with a very strong hand. And he had former employees and friends embedded in agencies throughout the government, which allowed him to stay well informed. Bullock had the potential to make my life miserable. On the other hand, if I could persuade him to work with me, he would be an invaluable ally.

  With Bob Bullock, my unlikely Democratic partner in Austin. Associated Press/Harry Cabluck

  A few weeks before the election, Joe Allbaugh had suggested that I meet secretly with Bullock. I slipped away on a quiet afternoon and flew to Austin. Bullock’s wife, Jan, opened the door. She is a pretty woman with a warm smile. Then Bullock emerged. He was a wiry man with a weathered look. He had been married five times to four women. Jan was his last wife and the love of his life. He had married her only once. At one time, Bullock had been a heavy drinker. In a famous story, he got drunk and fired his gun into a public urinal. He smoked incessantly, despite the fact that he had lost part of one lung. This was a man who had lived life the hard way. He stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Bullock. Come on in.”

  He took me into his study. The place looked like a research library. He had stacks of documents, reports, and data. Bullock dropped a huge file on the desk in front of me and said, “Here is a report on juvenile justice.” He knew my campaign was based partially on juvenile justice reform and suggested I think about some of his ideas. Then he banged down similar reports for education and welfare reform. We talked for three or four hours. Bullock supported Ann Richards, but he made it clear he would work with me if I won.

  The other key legislative player was the speaker of the house, Pete Laney. Like me, Pete came from West Texas. He was a cotton farmer from Hale Center, a rural town between Lubbock and Amarillo that I had
visited in my 1978 campaign. Pete was a low-key guy. While Bullock tended to show his cards—and occasionally throw the whole deck at you—Laney kept his hand close to his vest. He was a Democrat with allies on both sides of the aisle.

  Shortly after I took office, Pete, Bob, and I agreed to have a weekly breakfast. At first, the meals were a chance to swap stories and help me learn about the legislature. As bills started to wind their way through the system, the breakfasts became important strategy meetings. A couple of months into the session, Bullock had moved a number of important bills through the senate. Most of them were still waiting in the house.

  Bullock wanted action, and he let Laney know it. As I ate my breakfast of pancakes, bacon, and coffee, Pete calmly told the lieutenant governor the bills would get done. Bullock was simmering. Before long, he boiled over. He looked straight at me and yelled, “Governor, I am going to f—— you. I am going to make you look like a fool.”

  I thought for a moment, stood up, walked toward Bullock, and said, “If you are going to f—— me, you better give me a kiss first.” I playfully hugged him, but he wriggled away and charged out of the room. Laney and I just laughed. We both understood Bullock’s tirade was not aimed at me. It was his way of telling Laney it was time to get his bills out of the house.

  Whether Bullock’s message had an impact on Laney, I’ll never know. But with all three of us pushing hard, legislation on education, juvenile justice, and welfare reform started moving quickly. The most complicated item on the agenda was tort reform. Reining in junk lawsuits was crucial to stopping jobs from leaving the state. But there was strong opposition from the trial lawyers’ bar, which was influential and well funded. I had an ally in David Sibley, a Republican state senator from Waco and the committee chairman who oversaw the issue.

  One night early in the session, I invited David over for dinner. We had just started to eat when he got a phone call from Bullock. I listened as a one-way conversation unfolded. David alternated between nodding and staring in stone-faced silence as the lieutenant governor unloaded. Then he said, “He is sitting right here. Would you like to speak to him?” Bullock wanted to have a word. I took the phone.