The Ten Best and The Ten Worst Legislators
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The average member would have been banished to the back benches, if not by his enemies, then by his friends eager to keep him quarantined. But Bryant had the intelligence and ability to recover, and in the session’s critical final weeks he reemerged as a force—perhaps the force—to be reckoned with.
Realized he was too outgunned to kill business-backed legislation outright; instead shot to maim. Limited the higher ceiling on interest rates to two years’ duration; attached the same time limit to a proposal giving manufacturers of defective products protection against consumer lawsuits. Took a much-criticized bill allowing auto dealers to charge a $25 documents fee and made it more palatable to consumers with a tough disclosure amendment.
Even managed one unqualified triumph: led the successful assault on a loan shark bill authorizing a 300 per cent increase in interest rates on small loans. Functioned as the House apiarist for the Senate’s Killer Bees, marshaling forces against a separate presidential primary and putting the House on record against it while the Bees were in flight.
As the sun set on the last day of the session, the scene on the House floor was almost predictable. There was Bryant, looking red-faced and permanently sad, like someone too long in mourning, maneuvering virtually alone to block adoption of the appropriations bill. And there, clustered around the Speaker’s podium, was fully a third of the House, trying to figure out what to do about him.
Ronald Coleman, 37, liberal Democrat, El Paso. The best all-around member of the Legislature this session. His virtues are straight from a civics textbook: intelligence, industry, independence, fairness, vision, courage, and—a bonus that must have come as a surprise even to Coleman—influence.
As a member of the Gang of Four and one of just eight members to vote against the reelection of Speaker Billy Clayton, he should have been a lonely leper; instead was responsible for the state’s first equitable school finance bill. Persuaded a House committee to substitute his bill, which gave more state money to poor districts and less to rich districts, for a Clayton-backed version that would have done the reverse; then somehow managed to sell the idea to, in order, Clayton, his team, the House, and a House-Senate conference committee. On a list of unlikely achievements, a team outsider passing the most important legislation of the session has to rank alongside Idi Amin rising to become commander of the South African army.
Before the school finance battle, played his usual role as a fly attacking the flyswatter. Handed Clayton forces their first drubbing of the session by getting the House to chop (in the name of fiscal responsibility) more than half of an arguably inflated emergency appropriation for the Railroad Commission; also squelched an attempt to give the Animal Health Commission emergency funds to provide a niche for a Clayton crony. And what did Clayton’s team think of all this? Said one loyalist: “He’s as good as any member on the floor. I wish we had a hundred and fifty like him.”
One of the most effective members of the House in floor debate. Speaks in a rasping tenor voice capable of emotion or unrelenting logic as the moment demands, then distractingly puffs on a thin cigar while his adversary struggles to answer. Put up a memorable fight against a Clayton-backed bill to eliminate the public interest advocate at the Department of Water Resources; his tough questioning so exposed the sponsor’s ignorance that Clayton offered to help Coleman’s one pet bill if Coleman would just lay off.
Not as visible on the floor after winning the school finance battle, perhaps because he didn’t want to endanger what he’d accomplished. That makes him the rarest of all creatures in the Texas political menagerie: a liberal who knows how to win.
Bob Davis, 37, Republican, Irving. Comeback of the year: moved from Ten Worst to Ten Best in just one session, and did it without changing very much. Still one of the Legislature’s most capable members—capable of anything.
The big difference: he switched committee chairmanships, giving up Insurance for Ways and Means, and in the process traded the concerns of one industry for the concerns of the entire state. The move helped Davis shed his image of being beholden to the lobby—though cynics suggested the only real difference was that instead of being beholden to just one, he was now beholden to many. They referred, no doubt, to the controversial tax breaks handed out to corporate farms and timber operators in House Bill 1060, the Tax Relief Act. But in fact HB 1060 was less a Davis bill than a committee bill, the type of consensus product that’s common in Congress but rarely seen in the Texas Legislature; Davis helped shape the final bill and skillfully and defended it on the floor, tax breaks and all. When John Bryant won a preliminary vote to remove timber companies, Davis made one of his now-look-members-this-just-isn’t-good public-policy speeches and turned the vote around. It was Davis at his best.
Davis at his worst still surfaced now and then—most notably when he used a parliamentary ploy to adjourn his committee before they could vote for a bill he opposed. But he later helped pass the same bill with a good amendment—a sign that he has finally learned to draw his sword without throwing away the scabbard.
A presence everywhere: Clayton’s most realistic advisor about what could be sold to the membership, the best in the House on the rules, a devastating opponent on the microphone, and a bulwark in conference committee, where he made certain that House views prevailed on tax reform.
But in the end, what best defines Davis is not his skill but his passion for combat. On the wildest night of the session, after Davis helped break a liberal walkout and two bills he cherished passed the House in bitter floor fights, he stood at the back of the chamber, tie askew, collar open, exulting in the sheer fun of the game. A concerned colleague, remembering that Davis had suffered a heart attack between sessions, came over to inquire about his health. “My pulse rate is up to a hundred and sixteen,” he gloated, “and I haven’t had such fun in years.”
Lloyd Doggett, 32, liberal Democrat, Austin. Leader of the Senate brigade whose determined efforts to sandbag a flood of anticonsumer bills led a disgruntled Bill Hobby to refer to them as the Killer Bees. As a tactician, rivaled Clausewitz. Knew he’d be fighting a defensive battle, so made his opponents struggle for every inch of ground he gave up. His main weapons: filibusters, threats of filibusters, and—in desperation—fleeing the battleground. A selection from Doggett’s primer on legislative warfare:
Principle: the House, with 150 members, is less susceptible to lobby saturation than the Senate, with 31 members. Strategy: use the press to make bills you oppose unpalatable to fair-minded House members. Execution: mount a well-publicized filibuster against a bill weakening the Consumer Protection Act, referring to the proposal as the Consumer Destruction Act. Result: the House sponsor admits the bill needs improvement and includes amendments Doggett could never have passed in the Senate.
Understood perfectly the rhythm of the 140-day session—too relaxed in the beginning and too frantic in the end—and turned it to his advantage. His white tennis shoes became the most celebrated symbol of the session; their presence on his desk warned of his readiness to stand on his feet filibustering for hours. Early in the session the mere sight of them was enough to persuade restless senators to adjourn rather than sit through the night. Later, when a filibuster would mean certain death for the noncontroversial bills stacked up waiting for the Senate runway to clear, Doggett could win in the negotiating room what he had lost on the floor: for example, his last-night threat to talk to death the State Bar’s Sunset bill forced bar lobbyists to accept additional nonlawyers on their board of directors.
Superb at using the power of reviewing gubernatorial appointees: paved the way for the first Senate rejection of a Clements nominee by forcing potential judge Monk Edwards to admit he assumed there was money in an envelope he delivered to then Governor Preston Smith on behalf of Gulf Oil. Rid the state of nefarious bureaucrat Hugh Yantis by invoking senatorial courtesy.
Not a member of the Senate club—oldtimers occasionally slight him by not holding hearings on his bills—and succeeds mainly through hard work and attention to detail; never parties, never relaxes with lobbyists, reads during every spare moment—even in committee meetings. A Texas politician of the modern mold—a pure technician, earnest, a bit dour, like an aging choirboy. Works seven days a week and expects his staff to do the same; once went to his Capitol office on Christmas afternoon and was infuriated to find the building locked.
Jerry, “Nub” Donaldson, 36, conservative Democrat, Gatesville. The House counterpart to emerging Senate panjandrum Bill Meier. Like Meier, was the lead water carrier for the business lobby on his side of the Capitol; unlike Meier, managed not to come out all wet.
In a session dominated by complex, controversial issues, Donaldson handled three of the session’s most contentious bills—raising the interest rate ceiling on home mortgages, giving the Public Utility Commission exclusive authority to set local electric rates, and authorizing auto dealers to charge a $25 documents fee—and passed them all. Accomplished this feat mainly through absolute mastery of the subject matter; as was once said of former New York Governor Al Smith, he “can make statistics sit up, beg, roll over, and bark.” One faltering answer to an enemy question could have aroused the herd instinct of the House to a stampede against him, but Donaldson’s competence kept his votes in line.
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