Less Is Mauro
Sagging polls, empty coffers, Democratic defections: It seems like it couldn’t get any worse for gubernatorial candidate Garry Mauro. So why is he having the time of his life?
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Communications director Joe Cutbirth, a former reporter for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, works the phones, feeding stories to the media. For Step 2 of the Mauro plan (attack Bush on the issues), the campaign has identified education, health care, crime, and taxes as issues that resonate with Texans, and now it is impossible to persuade Mauro to talk about anything else. Cutbirth explains that he has indoctrinated Mauro with his theory of the blue and red marbles. Blue marbles are the talking points in “Texas Families First,” everything that Mauro would like the media to report. Red marbles are scandal, controversy, Claytie Williams’ rape joke—everything that the media would like to report. The idea is to fill up reporters’ jars with only blue marbles. Mauro does an admirable job, relentlessly steering every conversation back to the same subjects. His template seems to be Bush’s 1994 victory over Ann Richards, a race that he continually refers to, when Bush steadily gained ground by stubbornly hammering at his issues.
The perfect occasion for Mauro to jump all over Bush presents itself after the governor announces a scheme to end the social promotion of schoolchildren by flunking those who can’t pass the TAAS test. The idea has obvious costs, and Bush is caught unprepared as Cutbirth and the Mauro campaign go to work. BUSH SCHOOL PLAN TO COST $13 BILLION, MAURO SAYS reads a typical headline. Political insiders start talking about how expertly Mauro has handled the situation. Mauro himself says gleefully, “I’ve got him right where I want him.” But the next poll shows Bush with the backing of 67 percent of the registered voters.
SEVERAL WEEKS AFTER THE PRIMARY, Mauro dines at the Texarkana Country Club with Judge Ed Miller—a man often credited with being the prime mover behind all politics in this part of Texas. Sam Attlesey of the Dallas Morning News teases Judge Miller about his seeming omnipotence. “To quote James Reston,” replies Miller, “‘Power is an illusion.’ If people think you have it, you do. If they think you don’t, you don’t.” The comment serves as an inadvertent gloss on Mauro’s dilemma—to convince the public that he is potent enough to win, when everyone has decided that he is not. Even Miller, a longtime supporter, is openly skeptical of his chances. “You’ve got a shot,” Miller says, “but if I was a betting man, which I’m not, I wouldn’t put $100,000 on you to win.” For a second, Mauro looks slightly peeved. “You wouldn’t bet on me?” he asks with exaggerated shock.
When even your friends are so candid, you know you still have work to do. It’s time for Step 3 in the campaign plan. Mauro realizes he will never convince political insiders that he can beat Bush; instead he has to make an end run around the political establishment. Doing so requires visiting as many radio stations, courthouse squares, and coffee shops as humanly possible. The next morning Mauro puts on a navy suit, white shirt, red polka-dot silk tie, belt with a brass Lone Star buckle, and nubby black ostrich-skin boots, and heads for KTOY, a black radio station in Texarkana. Stimulated by caffeine, the sincere desire to right the world, and a competitive urge to squash Bush, he sprints through his main issues. From there, we move to KKYR (“kicker”), where C&W reigns, and then KZRB, another black station. A deejay asks him about a proposal that eleven-year-olds should be eligible for capital punishment. “That’s ridiculous,” says Mauro. “They don’t do anything at that age that justifies the death penalty. I want to be tough on juveniles, but to talk about the death penalty for eleven-year-olds is seriously stupid.” (No softie when it comes to capital punishment, Mauro later questions Bush’s halting of the execution of Henry Lee Lucas, whose conviction was based upon dubious evidence.)
At the Bowie County courthouse, Mauro dispenses his blue marbles: “You can’t raise a family on what we’re paying teachers!” Later he drops a red one into the mix. “In Austin, most people think George Bush is running for president,” he says at the Adline Study Club. “The voters of Texas want a full-time governor!” (MAURO SAYS BUSH WON’T BE DEVOTED: POSSIBLE PRESIDENTIAL BID CALLED DISTRACTION reads the headline in the next day’s Morning News.)
After several more dusty squares and a town meeting in Texarkana, I slump into my seat on the plane. Mauro, perky as ever, is still going strong. I ask how he sustains his animated bearing through the long days, particularly when his efforts seem futile. Mauro looks at me as if I just don’t get it. “I’m running for governor of Texas!” he shoots back. “That’s the greatest job in the world! For somebody of my background to get the chance—I don’t need to do anything to get myself excited. I am excited! I believe all that stuff I’m saying. And I don’t believe the polls. The numbers just don’t matter right now.” No matter what his chances, it’s clear that he is living out his greatest ambition. His soul is no longer crimped by the fetters of stifled hopes. That newfound freedom works on his system like an aphrodisiac.
Mauro may face overwhelming odds, but he’s a pro at campaigns. He finds every weakness that Bush has and exploits it. In April he dips into his meager campaign chest to throw a political ad on TV, springing Step 4 on his rival much earlier than expected, forcing Bush to respond with ads of his own. Mauro’s target is Bush’s 1995 veto of the Patient Protection Act. “If you are a member of an HMO or managed-care health plan like I am, you know that it’s almost impossible to choose your own doctor,” he tells viewers. “Governor George Bush has never had to pick a doctor from an HMO list—yet he vetoed your right to choose your own doctor. . . . To choose your own doctor, you need to choose a new governor.” It is a bold ploy: Candidates aren’t supposed to buy expensive air time until the fall, when voters will pay more attention to politics. The ads are eye-catching and persuasive; more important, they are a sign of real chutzpah and may convince some voters that there is something interesting happening in the governor’s race after all.
Even by mid-summer, however, Austin insiders remain incredulous at the idea of a Democratic victory. The labyrinthine throng of lobbyists and political operatives that surrounds the Capitol starts to redefine what it means to succeed in this race. At barbecues and cocktail parties, they speculate over Mauro’s true motives and what a respectable showing would be. As they see it, Mauro may be happy to get as much as 45 percent of the vote. That outcome would greatly impair Bush’s momentum toward the White House and would also robe Mauro in the kind of bona fides that could set him up for an influential career as a Washington lobbyist. From this perspective, Mauro can’t lose, even if the other guy wins.
The only outcome Mauro will discuss is triumph in conventional terms. The race, he says, is about fulfilling a lifelong ambition. His friends believe him. “This has been his dream,” says Judith Dale. “He wants to be governor of Texas.” When I consider whether Mauro can by some miracle win over the public, however, my mind returns to a night in February, when he celebrated his fiftieth birthday at a series of fundraisers. Hillary Clinton flew in for the events. In Dallas and Fort Worth she enchanted fans, but things didn’t go so well in Austin, where she was interrupted by a heckler protesting the Clinton administration’s threat to bomb Iraq. I finally spotted him: long, greasy hair and a leather jacket. “We don’t want your phony war, Hillary!” he screamed. A jolt of alarmed interest ran through the well-heeled crowd.
At last a quick-witted politician saved the moment by out-heckling the heckler: “Somebody come help this man! He’s going to have a heart attack! Medic! Medic! Medic!” That politician was a natural leader who grasped the situation, seized the spotlight, magnetized the crowed, and defused the danger with humor and aplomb. And it was Ann Richards, not Garry Mauro.
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