Decision Points Read online

  “Why are you blocking tort reform? I thought you were going to be okay. But no, you’re a s—— governor.” Bullock fired off a couple of f-bombs and hung up. David knew what had happened. He had seen it before and wasn’t sure how I would respond. I laughed and laughed hard. Bullock was tough and earthy, but I had a feeling this would be a passing storm.

  Once David realized that I would tolerate the blast, we turned to the tort reform bill. The main difference of opinion was on the size of the cap on punitive damages. I wanted a $500,000 cap; Bullock wanted $1,000,000. David told me that if he could get agreement on this legislation, the other five tort bills that were part of the reform package would move quickly. He suggested a compromise: How about a bill with a $750,000 threshold? No question that would improve the system. I agreed.

  David called and told Bullock about the deal. This call was shorter, but once again ended with Sibley passing the phone to me. “Governor Bush,” Bullock started in his formal way, “you’re going to be one helluva governor. Good night.”

  In 1996, Laura surprised me with a fiftieth birthday party at the Governor’s Mansion. She invited family and friends from Midland, Houston, and Dallas; classmates from Andover, Yale, and Harvard; and political folks from Austin, including Bullock and Laney. Laura wasn’t the only one with a surprise in store. As the sun set, the toasts began. Bullock headed to the microphone. “Happy birthday,” he said with a smile. “You are one helluva governor.” He went on, “And Governor Bush, you will be the next president of the United States.”

  Bullock’s prediction shocked me. I had been governor for only eighteen months. President Clinton was still in his first term. I had barely thought about my reelection in 1998. And here was Bullock bringing up 2000. I didn’t take him too seriously; Bullock was always trying to provoke. But his comment inspired an interesting thought. Ten years earlier, I had been celebrating my fortieth birthday drunk at The Broadmoor. Now I was being toasted on the lawn of the Texas Governor’s Mansion as the next president. This had been quite a decade.

  Meanwhile, there was an actual presidential campaign going on. The Republican Party had nominated Senator Bob Dole, a World War II hero who had built a distinguished legislative record. I admired Senator Dole. I thought he would make a good president, and I campaigned hard for him in Texas. But I worried that our party had not recognized the generational politics lesson of 1992: Once voters had elected a president from the Baby Boomer generation, they were not likely to reach back. Sure enough, Senator Dole carried Texas, but President Clinton won reelection.

  I went into 1998 feeling confident about my record. I had delivered on each of the four priorities I had laid out in my first gubernatorial campaign. We had also passed the largest tax cut in the history of Texas and made it easier for children in foster care to be adopted by loving families. Many of these laws were sponsored and supported by Democrats. I was honored when Bob Bullock, who had supported Democratic candidates for almost a half century, publicly endorsed my reelection. I was also a little surprised. Bullock was the godfather of one of my opponent’s children.

  I was determined not to take anything for granted, and I campaigned hard. On election night, I received more than 68 percent of the vote, including 49 percent of Hispanics, 27 percent of African Americans, and 70 percent of independents. I was the first Texas governor elected to consecutive four-year terms.

  I also had my eye on another race that night. Jeb became governor of Florida by a convincing margin. I went to his inauguration in January 1999, making us the first pair of brothers to serve at the same time as governors since Nelson and Win Rockefeller more than a quarter century earlier. It was a wonderful moment for our family. It was also a time to think about the future. And I had a big question on my mind.

  Running for president was a decision that evolved over time. Many urged me to run—some for the sake of the country, others because they hoped to ride the race to glory. I often heard the same comment: “You can win this race. You can be president.” I was flattered by the confidence. But my decision would not turn on whether others thought I could win. After all, everyone told me I could never beat Ann Richards. The key question was whether I felt the call to run.

  As I pondered the decision, there was a dilemma. Because of the size and complexity of a presidential campaign, you have to start planning early, even if you are not sure whether you want to run. I authorized Karl to start preparing paperwork and recruiting a network of people who would raise money and tend to the grassroots political operation. Once the process started, it created a sense of inevitability. In October 1998, I told Washington Post columnist David Broder that I felt like “a cork in a raging river.” When I won reelection the next month, the rapids grew even stronger.

  I was determined not to get swept away. If I was going to get into the race, I wanted it to be for the right reasons. I can’t pinpoint exactly when I made up my mind, but there were moments of clarity along the way. One came during my second inauguration as governor. The morning of the ceremony, we attended a service at First United Methodist Church in downtown Austin. Laura and I had invited Reverend Mark Craig, our friend and pastor from Dallas, to deliver the sermon.

  I tried hard to focus on the inauguration, but I couldn’t. As we walked into the church, I told Mother I had been struggling with the decision of whether or not to run for president.

  “George,” she said, “get over it. Make up your mind, and move on.” It was good advice, but not too helpful at the time.

  Then Mark Craig struck. In his sermon, he spoke about the Book of Exodus, when God calls Moses to action. Moses’ first response was disbelief: “Who am I, that I should go to Pharaoh and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?” He had every excuse in the book. He hadn’t led a perfect life; he wasn’t sure if people would follow him; he couldn’t even speak that clearly. That sounded a little familiar.

  Mark described God’s reassurance that Moses would have the power to perform the task he had been called to do. Then Mark summoned the congregation to action. He declared that the country was starving for moral and ethical leadership. Like Moses, he concluded, “We have the opportunity, each and every one of us, to do the right thing, and for the right reason.”

  I wondered if this was the answer to my question. There were no mysterious voices whispering in my ears, just Mark Craig’s high-pitched Texas twang coming from the pulpit. Then Mother leaned forward from her seat at the other end of the pew. She caught my eye and mouthed, “He is talking to you.”

  After the service, I felt different. The pressure evaporated. I felt a sense of calm.

  Laura and I had been discussing the presidential race for eighteen months. She was my sounding board as I talked through the pros and cons. She didn’t try to argue me out of the race, nor did she attempt to steer me in. She listened patiently and offered her opinions. I think she always sensed that I would run. As she put it, politics was the family business. Her goal was to make sure I made my decision for the right reasons, not because others were pushing me to run.

  If she had objected, she would have told me so, and I would not have run. While she worried about the pressure I would feel as president, she shared my hopes for the country and had confidence I could lead. One night she just smiled at me and said, “I’m in.”

  Breaking the news to our daughters was more difficult. Barbara and Jenna were seventeen years old, with independent streaks that reminded me a lot of their dad. From the very beginning they had asked me not to run—sometimes joking, sometimes serious, often at the top of their lungs. One of their favorite lines was, “Dad, you’re going to lose. You’re not as cool as you think you are.” Other times they asked, “Why do you want to ruin our lives?”

  Those were tough words for a father to hear. I don’t know if our daughters really thought I would lose, but I did know they did not want to give up their semi-private lives. One evening I asked Jenna to come out on the back porch of the Governor’s Mansion. It was a beautiful Texa
s night, and the two of us sat and talked for a while. I told her, “I know you think that I’m ruining your life by running for president. But actually, your mom and I are living our lives—just like we raised you and Barbara to do.”

  She told me she had never thought of it that way. The notion of living life to the fullest appealed to her, just as it always had to me. She was not thrilled. But from that point on, I think she and Barbara understood.

  Looking back on it a decade later, our daughters appreciated the opportunities that came with the presidency. They traveled with us on international trips, met fascinating and inspirational people like Václav Havel and Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, and learned about public service. Ultimately, Laura and I probably saw Barbara and Jenna more during the presidency than we would have if we had stayed in Texas.

  One of our favorite places to spend time with the girls was Camp David. One weekend in the summer of 2007, Laura and I invited Jenna and her boyfriend, Henry Hager, a fine young man from Virginia she’d met on the 2004 campaign. At dinner Friday night, Henry mentioned that he’d like to talk to me the next day. “I’ll be available at three o’clock in the presidential cabin,” I said.

  Henry arrived at the appointed time, clearly well prepared. “Mr. President, I love your daughter,” he said, and then began a touching speech. After a couple of minutes, I cut him off. “Henry, the answer is yes, you’ve got my permission,” I said. “Now let’s go get Laura.” The look on his face said, “Wait, I’m not done with my talking points!”

  Laura was as thrilled as I was. Wisely, Henry also asked Barbara’s permission. A few weeks later, at Acadia National Park in Maine, he proposed to Jenna. They were married at our ranch in Crawford in May 2008. We had an altar carved out of Texas limestone set on a peninsula in our lake, and our family friend Kirbyjon Caldwell—a wonderful pastor from Houston—officiated at a sunset ceremony. The bride was stunning. Laura and Barbara were radiant. It was one of the joys of my life to walk sweet Jenna down the aisle. After my eight years in the presidency, our family had emerged not only stronger, but bigger, too.

  Walking Jenna down the aisle. White House/Shealah Craighead

  After I announced my candidacy in Iowa in June 1999, Laura and I went to Maine to visit Mother and Dad. I gave them an update on the campaign. Then the four of us walked out onto the lawn together. At our back was the beautiful Atlantic Ocean. In front of us was a large group of photographers. Mother got off one of her classic one-liners. She looked at the press corps and asked, “Where were you in ’92?”

  I laughed. I was amazed by this wonderful woman. She was responsible for so much good in my life. I turned to Dad. My mind went back to my early days spent looking at pictures of him in scrapbooks. Like those old photos, his face was worn. But his spirit was still strong. I told the press what I had known for a lifetime: It was a huge advantage to be the son of George and Barbara Bush. What a journey we had shared. Seven years earlier, Dad’s final campaign had ended in defeat. Now I was standing proudly at his side, with a chance to become the forty-third president of the United States.

  When I got back to Texas, my first stop was Bob and Jan Bullock’s house. The years of abuse had taken their toll, and Bob’s body was giving out. His skin was losing its color, he was bedridden, and he was wearing an oxygen mask. I gave him a gentle hug. He lifted his mask and picked up a copy of Newsweek from his bedside table. My photo was on the cover.

  “How come you didn’t smile?” he said. I laughed. It was vintage Bullock.

  Then he caught me by surprise. “Governor,” he said, “will you eulogize me at my funeral?”

  He slipped his oxygen mask back on and closed his eyes. I told him about my visit to Iowa and my announcement speech at the barbecue. I’m not sure he heard a word I said. After our extraordinary run together, my unlikely friend and I would both be moving on.

  *Don Evans was the campaign chairman; Joe O’Neill was the treasurer; Robert McCleskey handled the accounting.

  **I am particularly grateful to Commissioner Peter Ueberroth, American League President Bobby Brown, and Jerry Reinsdorf of the Chicago White Sox for their help in navigating the buying process.

  ***The final tally was 110 to 95 in books, 40,347 to 37,343 in pages, and 2,275,297 to 2,032,083 in total square inches.

  ****The team included my friend Jim Francis as chairman; Don Evans as finance director; Karl Rove as the top strategist; Stanford-educated lawyer Vance McMahon as policy director; former Texas Association of School Boards official Margaret LaMontagne as political director; Dan Bartlett, a recent University of Texas graduate, on the communications team; and Israel Hernandez, a hardworking UT grad who took pressure off Laura and me, as traveling aide.

  ick’s face was hard to read. He betrayed no emotion. He stared at the cows grazing under the broiling sun at our ranch in Crawford, Texas.

  It was July 3, 2000. Ten weeks earlier, after securing the Republican presidential nomination, I had sent campaign manager Joe Allbaugh to visit Dick Cheney in Dallas. I asked him to find answers to two questions. First, was Dick interested in being a candidate for vice president? If not, was he willing to help me find a running mate?

  Dick told Joe he was happy with his life and finished with politics. But he would be willing to lead the VP search committee.

  As I expected, Dick did a meticulous, thorough job. In our first meeting, I laid out my top criteria for a running mate. I wanted someone with whom I was comfortable, someone willing to serve as part of a team, someone with the Washington experience that I lacked, and, most important, someone prepared to serve as president at any moment. Dick recruited a small team of lawyers and discreetly gathered reams of paperwork on potential candidates. By the time he came to see me at the ranch in July, we had narrowed the list to nine people. But in my mind, there was always a tenth.

  After a relaxed lunch with Laura, Dick and I walked into the yard behind our old wooden ranch house. I listened patiently as Dick talked me through the search committee’s final report. Then I looked him in the eye and said, “Dick, I’ve made up my mind.”

  As a small business owner, baseball executive, governor, and front-row observer of Dad’s White House, I learned the importance of properly structuring and staffing an organization. The people you choose to surround you determine the quality of advice you receive and the way your goals are implemented. Over eight years as president, my personnel decisions raised some of the most complex and sensitive questions that reached the Oval Office: how to assemble a cohesive team, when to reshuffle an organization, how to manage disputes, how to distinguish among qualified candidates, and how to deliver bad news to good people.

  I started each personnel decision by defining the job description and the criteria for the ideal candidate. I directed a wide search and considered a diverse range of options. For major appointments, I interviewed candidates face to face. I used my time to gauge character and personality. I was looking for integrity, competence, selflessness, and an ability to handle pressure. I always liked people with a sense of humor, a sign of modesty and self-awareness.

  My goal was to assemble a team of talented people whose experience and skills complemented each other’s and to whom I felt comfortable delegating. I wanted people who agreed on the direction of the administration but felt free to express differences on any issue. An important part of my job was to create a culture that encouraged teamwork and fostered loyalty—not to me, but to the country and our ideals.

  I am proud of the many honorable, talented, hardworking people who served in my administration. We had low turnover, little infighting, and close cooperation through some of the most challenging times in our nation’s history. I will always be grateful for their dedicated service.

  I didn’t get every personnel decision right. Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher once said, “I usually make up my mind about a man in ten seconds, and I very rarely change it.” I didn’t operate quite that fast, but I’ve always been able to read people. For the most
part, this was an advantage. But there were times when I was too loyal or too slow to change. I misjudged how some selections would be perceived. Sometimes I flat out picked the wrong person for the job. Personnel decisions were among my first decisions as president—and my most important.

  A president’s first major personnel decision comes before taking office. The vice presidential selection provides voters with a window into a candidate’s decision-making style. It reveals how careful and thorough he or she will be. And it signals a potential president’s priorities for the country.

  By the time I clinched the Republican nomination in March 2000, I knew quite a bit about vice presidents. I had followed the selection process closely when Dad was discussed as a possible running mate for Richard Nixon in 1968 and Gerald Ford in 1976. I had watched him serve eight years at President Reagan’s side. I had observed his relationship with Dan Quayle. And I remembered the vice presidential horror story of my youth, when Democratic nominee George McGovern picked Tom Eagleton to be his running mate, only to learn later that Eagleton had suffered several nervous breakdowns and undergone electroshock therapy.

  I was determined not to repeat that mistake, which was one reason I chose someone as careful and deliberate as Dick Cheney to run the vetting process. By early summer, we were focused on the finalists. Four were current or former governors: Lamar Alexander of Tennessee, Tom Ridge of Pennsylvania, Frank Keating of Oklahoma, and John Engler of Michigan. The other five were current or former senators: Jack Danforth of Missouri, Jon Kyl of Arizona, Chuck Hagel of Nebraska, and Bill Frist and Fred Thompson of Tennessee.