The Ten Best and The Ten Worst Legislators
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Bill Coody, Democrat, Weatherford.
What’s this? Bill Coody (rhymes with “grody,” which before this session accurately described his reputation) on the Ten Best list? Did the printer get mixed up? No, and neither did we. True, Coody is a rogue who reeks of old-style politics. But it just so happens that Bill Coody, of all people, did more good for the people of Texas than any other member of the Legislature, and if that doesn’t qualify someone for the Ten Best, what does?
Like an old tree that had done nothing for years, Coody finally burst into bloom. The cause of this totally unexpected flowering was his escape from the seedy Liquor Regulation Committee. Switched to the chairmanship of the Financial Institutions Committee and proceeded to astonish colleagues, lobbyists, and perhaps even himself by declaring war on banks. The result: Visa and MasterCard interest rates that will be among the lowest in the country, saving Texans millions of dollars.
Brilliantly irascible, profoundly, profane. Called bankers “greedy bastards,” and “loan sharks with college degrees and three-piece suits.” In a private meeting with three bankers, interrupted their explanation of graphs showing that banks were losing money on credit cards by turning to a colleague and saying, “They actually think I care about their problems.” When the bankers tried to repeat their case for public consumption, Coody broke in with “I could hardly sleep last night thinking you had lost that money.”
This is not exactly material for the how-the-legislature-works pamphlets that tour guides hand out to Capitol visitors. But there are rare times when such tactics are exactly what’s called for-and this was one of them. The banks, used to getting their way, needed to have it drummed into them that the Legislature wasn’t going to roll over and play dead for them this time; Coody’s very orneriness made the point better than a more conciliatory approach would have. His antics drew press coverage that put interest rates on the front pages all acrossTexas and drove the haughty banks to the conference table. The legislature might have voted for lower interest rates anyway, but not without a bloody floor fight that would have forced members to choose between consumers and an awesomely powerful lobby. Coody spared his colleagues that agony; by the time his bill reached the floor, it was a done deal. One of the best in floor debate; has the cunning of an old boar that knows every path and hiding place in the hicket. Rooted out one of the sneakiest ploys of the session: after a six-hour debate over trucking deregulation, caught Charlie Evans of Hurst trying to slip a controversial amendment past a weary House. Evans said it was innocuous; Coody knew it wasn’t. A master of more moods than a house cat; knows when to be belligerent and when to be shamelessly charming. Adopted the latter tactic to accomplish the near impossible feat of killing a state agency by stripping it of its budget in floor debate (the victim was an energy advisory council that, sad Coody, “couldn’t find a quart of oil in an Exxon station”) –and used the money to fund a pork-barrel amendment to the appropriations bill. Rather than boring the House with long-winded justifications, Coody simply said, “Members, we don’t need this agency, but I need the million bucks.” It was outrageous but effective- an epitaph for Coody’s entire session.
Ray Farabee, Democrat, Wichita Falls.
The refutation of former U.S. Speaker Thomas Reed’s observation that a statesman is a politician who is dead. The most respected member of the Legislature: carries the best bills, runs the most important committee, and has the longest vision, though the competition in this category is limited. Not a technician to equal Bob McFarland or a master compromiser to equal Kent Caperton, but has a higher role- to define, by example, what a senator is supposed to be.
A case in point: his handling of a bill that, depending on your point of view, either protected struggling offshore oil operations from annexation by greedy coastal cities or protected greedy offshore oil operations from annexation by struggling coastal cities. Senate regulars, whose frequent pastime is the inspection of Farabee’s feet for evidence of clay, hinted that he had sold out to Big Oil in furtherance of his suspected ambition to seek statewide office. Some sellout. By the time his bill reached the floor, Farabee had already cast the tiebreaking vote in his State Affairs Committee to keep alive an unrelated bill Big Oil was sworn to kill. Then he agreed to a compromise on the annexation bill despite having the votes to run over the opposition. “If I were in a fight to the death at the Alamo, I wouldn’t want Farabee as my second in command,” griped one observer. “He’d be out cutting deals with Santa Anna.” But the Senate got the message: consensus over confrontation.
Involved in everything, though not always visibly. One of the few senators who will work just as hard for a bill that doesn’t bear his name as for one that does. Farabee’s own achievements bore the same low-profile but high–import stamp: the first major revision of the mental health code in 25 years, three prison reform bills, and a constitutional amendment to allow garnishment of wages for child support. Once again the Senate got the message: substance over show.
Reached his peak- as usual, without advance fanfare or ensuing glory-in the final negotiations over the state budget. Sat aloof from the usual haggling, hoarding his chips for a raise in Texas’ paltry welfare spending (forty-ninth in the nation). Up against tradition, which dictated putting off welfare until the very last-when, not coincidentally, there is never any money left; also up against unsympathetic colleagues eager to claim dwindling dollars for their own purposes. Farabee pounced at exactly the right time in exactly the right way, slipping welfare into a package that incorporated all the loose ends, including the solution to an impasse over state employee raises. This time the whole Legislature got the message.
Jay Gibson, Democrat, Odessa.
The closest thing to a hero the 68th Legislature produced. Did the best job on the most thankless task against the longest odds and the strongest opposition-and not only won but won for the best reasons: he worked hard, he fought clean, and he was right.
As chairman of a budget subcommittee, Gibson tackled the session’s Mission Impossible: cut the higher education budget enough to avoid a tax bill, without doing harm to the state’s colleges and universities. Among the obstacles were (1) his immediate superior, House Appropriations czar Bill Presnal of Bryan, whose primary mission in life is to claim in the name of Texas A&M every loose penny in the state treasury; (2) the Senate, which was determined to protect politically potent UT and A&M from the knife at the expense of smaller- and less influential-schools; and (3) the University of Texas, which adamantly refused to accept any cuts and vowed to defy Gibson to the death. It didn’t look like a fair fight, especially since in two previous terms Gibson, by his own admission, had done little more than have a good time. But the job made the man.
Came up with a novel way of minimizing the pain, telling schools how much to cut and letting them decide for themselves what to sacrifice-a handsoff approach that was anathema to senior budget writers, who have been known to dictate details as small as the color of car paint. Went eyeball to eyeball in conference committee against grizzled Senate veterans who resisted his upstart notions with the ferocity of Pharaoh resisting Moses.
Not understanding his approach, the Senate at first accused him of overspending; he immediately produced a handout proving that his budget spent less than theirs. Then they argued that the two budgets were irreconcilable; he disarmed them with country-boy explanations like “I just said, ‘assuming you have to die, where do you want to be shot?’” Never lost his temper or his sense of when to fight and when to yield. Slowly but relentlessly, like grass pushing up through concrete, broke through the Senate’s resistance.
With each imperiled small-college program snatched from the Senate guillotine, it became apparent that the smaller schools were getting a fair shake for the first time in years—and that oil-rich UT and A&M would have to shoulder their share of the cuts. A&M surrendered gracefully, but UT began dropping nukes, sending the chairman of the Board of Regents to Odessa to get influential alums to encourage Gibson to see the light. It didn’t work. On the climactic day, Gibson and the Senate had a stare-down over his insistence that the UT medical schools ante up millions from their dubiously accumulated discretionary funds, and the Senate blinked. The final package was a total victory for Gibson, including a fledgling desert-study program at Sul Ross State that he had been battling to save since day one; when it was salvaged, the crowded room erupted in cheers.
Within a week Gibson won the budget battle, solved an acrimonious dispute between Odessa and Midland, and received, in the Legislature’s closing hours, a humanitarian award from the Black Caucus. On the final night of the session, while revelry was going on all around him, Gibson stood quietly off to one side, tie loosened, subdued and reflective, with the air of someone who had proved himself to himself. A playboy no more, he was a player now.
Gerald Hill, Democrat, Austin
In baseball, when a pitcher’s fastball is swifter than it looks, he is called sneaky fast. In the Legislature, when a player is swifter than he looks, he’s called Gerald Hill.
A mild-mannered, low-profile kind of guy who speaks softly and carries a small stick—or so it seems. “He’s not really a bill passer,” said a House committee chairman, but when the House totted up the scorecard, lo, Gerald Hill’s name led all the rest. Had more bills set on the regular calendar than any other member; passed legislation taking on political heavies like the Gabler textbook fanatics (Hill’s bill gives textbooks supporters a chance to answer their critics) and South Texas nabob Clint Manges (Hill limited the size of campaign contributions in judicial races after Manges contributed $340,000 to one supreme court candidate last year).
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