June 1984
The Man in the Black Hat
By mastering the mysterious ways of South Texas, Clinton Manges has built an empire, amassed political influence, declared war on the state establishment—and left bitter enemies in his wake.
Part One
South of the Nueces River lies a strange and opaque Texas. Nature designed it as part of Mexico, and for a time so did man; the Nueces, not the Rio Grande, was the border under Mexican sovereignty. To cross the Nueces is to enter a land that does not easily yield its secrets. Drive through any other part of Texas, and you can see at once how the land is being used: farming, ranching, timber speculation, rural settlement, oil. In South Texas nothing is obvious. There is only the brush, mesquite and catclaw and huisache, that closes over the land like a ground fog. A few feet above it, from the top of a rise, once can see everything – but once can see nothing. The brush obscures roads, houses, cattle, pump jacks, everything but the horizon and the ocean of brush. South Texas is a land of not two but three cultures, Anglo and Mexican and hybrid, where a man can thrive only if he understands the imperatives of all three. This is a land of high fences and locked gates and few roads, where a man can disappear when he wants to and reemerge when he wants to. This is a land of empires, a land where the few have always dominated the many, a land where a man can live by rules that apply nowhere else. A man like Clinton Manges.
“That’s the ball game,” said Clinton Manges as the football spun toward the ground, its journey through the goalposts complete. Even though the San Antonio Gunslingers, Manges’ franchise in the United States Football League, had just clinched an all-too-rare victory, his tone was analytical rather than celebratory. If there is anything Clinton Manges’ life demonstrates it is that his time is better spent planning for the next battle than savoring the last victory. He had watched the first half of the game from the sideline, the bald spot in the middle of his hair exposed to the sun that was shining with one-hundred-degree ferocity. Although the Gunslingers scored three time, Manges spent the entire time engrossed in conversation, seldom looking at the field and never unfolding his arms for so much as a single clap.
The San Antonio Gunslingers are the most visible element of one of Texas’ least visible empires. Clinton Manges owns more than 150,000 acres deep in the South Texas brush country, but his most important holdings are beyond the capacity of man to see: mineral rights in the depths of the earth and fealties in the souls of Texas politicians. His mystique and money have combined to make him the most powerful – and most controversial – behind-the-scenes figure in current Texas politics.
No one else has so much influence. The attorney general, Jim Mattox, comes to hunt at Manges’ ranch. So does the land commissioner, Gary Mauro. The comptroller, Bob Bullock, is an old friend who last year allowed his official license plates to bedeck Manges’ car.
No one else is so brazen about acquiring that influence. In 1982 Manges spent more than $1 million on political contributions, much of which went to candidates for offices directly concerned with the fate of his empire. It is no accident that the ascendancy of Clinton Manges has paralleled the ascendancy of the liberal wing of the Texas Democratic party. Manges has helped fund that rise with large contributions to Mattox, Mauro, Bullock, agriculture commissioner Jim Hightower, and assorted judges and legislators.
No one else has benefited so much from influence. Last year the Texas Supreme Court took Manges’ side in a long-running dispute with the Guerra family of Starr County – and the decisive vote was cast by a newly elected justice who had received more than $100,000 in contributions from a group funded almost entirely by Manges. That might have been a record for the most money ever contributed to a Texas Supreme Court candidate by a litigant, except that twice as much Manges went to another candidate, who lost.
No one else has chosen such ambitious targets for his influence. Recently Manges took on the third-largest company in America, suing Mobil Oil for $1 billion in a highly publicized lawsuit. Early this year, after the intervention of Jim Mattox forced Mobil to bargain with Manges, the giant oil company relinquished its lease on 64,000 acres of Manges’ land.
But it is more than influence that makes Clinton Manges important. It is the kind of man who has this influence. This is a man who, when questioned by a lawyer about why he wanted a particular property interest, answered, “Why do you want your car?” (think, now, why do you want your car?) and then continued, “Because, by God, it’s an asset.” This is a man who has achieved power and influence despite compiling a dossier that would make pariahs of others.
Here is why Clinton Manges belongs in a black hat: He is a convicted felon.
He has corrupted a judge.
He has manipulated two banks.
He has resisted paying his taxes.
He has resisted paying his bills.
He has resisted repaying his loans.
He has resisted paying his lawyers.
He has written hot checks to the state.
He has feuded with friends and business associates.
There are places where a past of that sort isn’t a barrier to political power (Louisiana comes to mind), but before Clinton Manges, Texas wasn’t one of them.
At halftime of the Gunslingers’ game Manges moved upstairs to the owner’s box, an unadorned section of the press level with two rows of folding wooden seats. On this Sunday afternoon, the day after the Democratic primary, the Manges box had the look of a political boiler room — and, lacking air conditioning, the temperature as well. Manges stood near a door in the back, greeting local politicos as they came and went: a school board member, a state senator, a campaign strategist, and others of that ilk. Finally he plunked down on the steps at the end of the first row to watch the climax of the game. He wore what is practically his uniform: beltless slacks and a white polo shirt, with “Gunslingers” emblazoned on the right and “Clinton Manges” in a crescent above it. (On non-game days he favors Countess Mara polo shirts, which have the initials “CM” prominently displayed.) The deep creases of a man who has known too much dirt, wind, and hard times surrounded his eyes. Except for the gold jewelry – a Rolex watch, a bracelet, a horseshoe rung studded with diamonds – he seemed to suggest a pit bulldog, a compact but formidable creature who hunkered rather than sat, with muscular forearms and, as his conversation made clear, the instinct to fight and the instinct to survive.
He talked about one of his favorite subjects, the Texas establishment, which he regards as his archenemy and which, he believes, regards him likewise because of contributions to candidates it doesn’t own. In his mind the establishment is the reason for his black-hat image. “Every big bank has a big law firm sitting in it and a portfolio full of oil company stocks,” he said bitterly. “That’s why there’s all this controversy about me.”
A sudden outburst of cheering interrupted him. Improbably, the Gunslingers had scored a last-second touchdown to win by a larger margin than expected. The team on the field had taken on the personality of their owner. They are anathema to the San Antonio establishment, which fought Manges’ stadium expansion because of noise and pollution. The Gunslingers aren’t very good at winning in the traditional ways. But like Clinton Manges, they are experts at beating the odds. In their first eleven games, they exceeded the expectations of the odds-makers nine times.
The noise subsided for the last time. “The oil companies take seven eighths of a man’s oil and give him ten thousand dollars bonus,” Manges went on. “They’re just stealing his oil. They had control of the courts. The landowner didn’t have the money to fight and hold out in the courts. They have just raped this country.”
Clinton Manges was one landowner who did have the money. But he has won his influence as much with his rhetoric as with money. Relaxing with their host after a day of hunting at Manges’ ranch, his guests are likely to hear him inveigh against the oil companies, banks, insurance companies, and big law firms that are the underpinnings of the old Texas establishment. “I’m going to bring them all down,” he has vowed before such gatherings, as he recounts how the establishment has kept ordinary people from getting a fair hearing in the Legislature and a fair trial in the courts. It sells, too. Mattox says of Manges’ view of Texas political history, “That is the gospel, and it’s the absolute truth.”
