The Best and the Worst Legislators 1995
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Finally the House struck back. Unaware that one of his bills had reached the top of the calendar, Corte had to be summoned by the Speaker over the microphone. “Frank!” shouted a member. “Frank!” came another shout. Other members took up the chant: “Frank!” “Frank!” As the chorus gained new volunteers, the shouts became more nasal, until they began to sound like “Honk! Honk!” A goose: That’s about the nicest way to describe Frank Corte this session.
Dumb and Dumber
Michael Galloway and Drew Nixon
Michael Galloway—Republican, The Woodlands, 30. Drew Nixon—Republican, Carthage, 35. Was the hottest debate in the Senate this session over (a) tort reform, (b) concealed handguns, or (c) affirmative action? None of the above. The real question on everyone’s mind was, Which of the two freshman senators from East Texas is worse: Galloway, the political novice who upset Senate legend Carl Parker, or Nixon, whose campaign last fall was dogged by his 1993 arrest for illegally carrying a handgun in his car? No one expects first-year lawmakers to shine, but these two were dimmer than Jim Carrey.
Galloway made a name for himself even before the session started when he perused a lobbyist’s check at a fundraiser and said, “That’s a little light.” No sooner had the Senate started working than he committed the unpardonable sin of voting against a Republican colleague’s local bill. That earned him a heated lecture on senatorial courtesy, but to no avail; a few weeks later, he did it again.
No matter what the issue, he was utterly clueless. When an Environmental Protection Agency official testified before the committee about air pollution, Galloway asked, “What does it do to you? I mean, at what level do you die?” On another occasion, a colleague asked Galloway to explain one of his own amendments but mercifully withdrew the question after Galloway shuffled papers for so long that it was apparent he didn’t know the answer.
He had no more influence on the course of events in the Senate than a speck of dust in the path of a bowling ball. He passed only one bill of any significance—dismantling the Lamar University system and putting the school into a system with other regional colleges—and it was almost too much for him. He couldn’t answer questions in committee, even softballs such as whether Lamar had any programs that had been singled out for excellence. Advised to ask Lieutenant Governor Bullock for help in passing the bill, Galloway did so; meanwhile, he resisted Bullock’s overtures to vote for judicial reform. If it ever occurred to him that there might be a connection, he didn’t let on. Finally, Galloway proudly told Bullock that he had changed his mind about judicial reform after talking to Texas Supreme Court chief justice Tom Phillips. Great, said Bullock. Go see the chief justice when you want to get your Lamar bill passed. Says a fellow senator: “He’s not even coachable.”
Nixon’s problem was not ignorance; it was arrogance. He toyed with gubernatorial appointees as if they were Power Rangers. On one occasion he invoked senatorial privilege to block the confirmation of an appointment to the Trinity River Authority. Uh-oh. The unfortunate appointee was a constituent of House honcho Allen Hightower, who thought Nixon had told him that confirmation wasn’t a problem. Hightower is the wrong guy to offend, and he quickly gave Nixon a lesson in hardball. Only a contrite Nixon apology—and his approval of the nominee—saved his entire legislative program from certain death in the House. In another episode, Nixon, a certified public accountant, invited three IRS agents to a hearing at which he questioned three nominees to the Sabine River Authority at length about the agency’s expenses and accounting practices—and then didn’t object to their confirmation. Suffice it to say that other senators did not look kindly upon having the feds in the Capitol, where they just might get ideas about other things to investigate. And we don’t mean who’s dumb and who’s dumber.
Decline of the West
Mike Krusee
Republican, Round Rock, 36. He never smiles. Mike Krusee mopes around the House floor, certain that he is watching Western civilization collapse before his very eyes. He bears the weight of the world on his shoulders and blames the Democrats for putting it there. Krusee is the truest of the true believers, someone who believes that there are only two ways to look at any issue: his way and the wrong way.
In floor debate he can get so sharp and intense that the atmosphere of civility fails. Speaking in favor of a bill limiting Austin’s annexation powers (Krusee is one of the House’s most ardent Austin bashers), he was so vituperative in his attacks on the city’s officials that gasps and hisses were audible on the House floor. During the welfare reform debate, Krusee led the fight against a Democratic amendment that was acceptable to the bill’s Republican sponsor. “Mr. Krusee,” said the sponsor, “I respect you for your view, but let me also tell you that it’s a very harsh one and it does not make the state of Texas any better.”
Later in the debate Krusee offered an amendment to prohibit unwed teenage mothers age fifteen and younger from receiving any welfare benefits. “Illegitimacy is the single most important problem of our time,” he said. “It is more important than crime, more important than drugs, more important than poverty, more important than illiteracy or homelessness, because it drives everything else…. The family as we have known it throughout Western civilization has collapsed." But then some Republican colleagues began whispering in his ear that his amendment would cause more abortions, and suddenly Krusee gave up rather than force Republicans to choose between abortion and welfare reform. “I couldn’t do that to the Republicans, the people I love,” he said in an interview. “If I could have done it to the Democrats, I gladly would.”
He looked more morose than ever, and for a moment it was easy to empathize with him: He had made an eloquent plea for a cause he considered to be of the utmost importance—and no one had listened to him. But moments later he demonstrated why no one listens to him: He tried to change the name of the Lone Star Card, which is used by welfare recipients, to the Government Assistance Card. Accused by an opponent of “just trying to stomp people,” Krusee said, “The lone star is the symbol of our state. It stands for independence and self-reliance. It doesn’t belong on a welfare card.”
Who cares? If Mike Krusee truly believes that he future of the country depends on preventing illegitimate births, then he should be turning heaven and earth to do something about it. He should be looking for any allies he can get, including Democrats. He should forget about purely symbolic gestures and concentrate on what’s important. If you want to be a fireman, you’ve got to know the difference between a campfire and a forest fire.
Bad Report Card
John Whitmire
Democrat, Dallas, 45. Every grade-school teacher knows the type: the little boy who would do so much better in class if he weren’t so impetuous and desperate for attention. That’s Senator John Whitmire. When he buckles down and studies, as he did on last session’s prison reform bill, he makes the honor roll. But when he disrupts the class and makes messes that others have to clean up, as he did this year, he ends up in the principal’s office.
And what a mess he made of his attack on the state’s program to comply with the federal Clean Air Act. Discovering from radio talk shows that the program—which would test auto emissions in Houston, Dallas, the Golden Triangle, and El Paso—was unpopular, Whitmire called for a ninety-day moratorium and pooh-poohed fears of losing federal funds or getting sued by the testing company, Tejas Testing Technology. But enough lawmakers were worried about litigation that the Legislature decided to lend Tejas $8.8 million until Whitmire came up with a better testing program. He couldn’t. He watched helplessly during a chaotic debate as senators exempted their districts from his bill and then voted to extend the moratorium to two years. “We’ve come full circle,” said an incredulous Lieutenant Governor Bullock. “We got nowhere fast.” Finally the Legislature tossed the ball to the governor; in the meantime, Texas faces the possibility of federal sanctions and Tejas has initiated legal action against the state for $150 million.
Another mess: Whitmire’s revisions of the new penal code, which he helped write in 1993. This session, his bill carried a whopping initial price tag of $600 million for housing more prisoners. When House Members balked at the cost, Whitmire pulled an adolescent stunt: He got a Republican colleague to let him distribute, on her stationary, a letter written by GOP state chairman Tom Pauken criticizing a key House member for holding up the bill. The charge turned out to be erroneous. Though the colleague issued a letter of apology, the House member was furious, and progress on the bill stalled until peacemakers intervened.
His problem is a fatal combination of ambition and rashness. His eagerness to grab a popular issue has inspired rumors that he is interested in running for attorney general or mayor of Houston. But he acts first and thinks later—if at all. As the session drew to a close, he did it again. As chairman of the Criminal Justice Committee, Whitmire had to pare the cost of a bill that had already been approved by his panel. Rather than go through the proper procedures, Whitmire took telephone proxies from his committee- a no-no in every parliamentary body that has ever existed. When a colleague questioned him about the tactic, Whitmire blew up. “I think you question the integrity of me and this body and all of us who operate this way,” he snapped. Send that kid back to the principal.
Oily Doyley
Doyle Willis
Democrat, Fort Worth, 86. The kind of legislator who could turn Pollyanna into a cynic. His idea of family values is using his position to give things of value to his own family.
My Library
