It's Rick Perry's Party Now
Whatever happens on November 7, the lieutenant governor will be the most powerful Republican in Texas. The trouble is, few voters know him—and he's yet to prove he's ready for prime time.
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Perry had the kind of personality that can take you a long way in the House. "It's not like Rick to try to outshine people, to try to impress people," says Ric Williamson. "It's not the nature of a boy raised in the country." Veteran lobbyist Rusty Kelley, who grew up just eleven miles from Haskell, says, "We people from West Texas won't tell you what we know. If you think we are not that bright, we won't dissuade you from that theory."
But behind the scenes, Perry was getting an education in politics. He attended off-the-record coaching sessions on parliamentary rules and other legislative arts given by one of the Capitol's most knowledgeable hands—Bob Johnson, or "Big Daddy," as he was known to his devotees. Johnson, a former House parliamentarian turned lobbyist, gave Perry and friends a post-graduate course in the legislative process over lunch in his office. In another time, Perry would have been poised to move into a major committee chairmanship, but Gib Lewis was in the middle of a five-term run as Speaker and there was little turnover among his chief lieutenants. Passed over for a leadership role in 1989, Perry realized his House career had peaked. Simultaneously, he and Williamson began discussing their growing disaffection with the Democratic party. The pit bulls had lost their budget-cutting battle in a showdown with the Senate. More often than not, the two lawmakers voted with their Republican colleagues.
Perry sensed the political winds shifting in Texas. For a rural conservative like himself, there was no hope of moving up to statewide office in the Democratic party. The Republicans, on the other hand, offered opportunity for advancement. They were also aggressively wooing converts. Some time in 1989, Perry was invited to the home of a Dallas couple, where, he recalls, he got one-on-one proselytizing from an intense young man with a famous name: George W. Bush. "He asked me to join the Republican party," Perry recalls. It was the first conversation the two men had ever had.
In the fall, Perry announced he was switching parties. Soon afterward, he declared his candidacy for agriculture commissioner in 1990. His target was incumbent Democrat Jim Hightower, a wisecracking populist who had amassed a devoted following for his work on behalf of farmworkers but had alienated traditional rural interests like the Texas Farm Bureau. Perry cast Hightower as a far-out left-winger, even linking him to Jane Fonda in one press release. Although Democrat Ann Richards won the governor's race, Perry pulled off an upset of Hightower, aided by Hightower's own lackluster campaign. While Hightower advocated issues like pesticide regulation, Perry viewed his mission as having less to do with policy and more to do with promoting agriculture. His tenure was notable mainly for a flap he got into with the Farm Bureau, his onetime supporters, over his endorsement of home equity loans and other differences. After two terms, he announced for lieutenant governor in 1997 when Bullock said that he would not seek reelection. The opposition was an old Aggie buddy, state comptroller John Sharp. The onetime college friends became locked in a bitter battle, with Sharp getting the Farm Bureau endorsement. In the final days, Perry gained the advantage with the help of a $1 million loan from one of his major backers, San Antonio doctor and businessman Jim Leininger, a well-known conservative Republican and a backer of vouchers for private schools.
The Leininger loan, says Kelly Fero, Sharp's communications director, "gave Perry increased visibility at exactly the time people were making up their minds. Some people would argue that he's been repaying the loan ever since." That gibe is a reference to Perry's effort to pass vouchers (an issue Perry had embraced in the campaign) in the 1999 legislative session. He cajoled, twisted arms, and made deals for the bill, reportedly giving Senator Mike Moncrief, a Democrat from Fort Worth, a coveted spot on the budget conference committee in exchange for Moncrief's support for vouchers. Nonetheless, the bill died after an ailing state senator hospitalized in San Antonio who was a crucial vote against the measure asked Perry not to pass the bill in his absence, and Perry, to his credit, agreed.
Other Austin politicos may have been surprised that Perry defeated Sharp, but not Perry. Democratic senator Rodney Ellis from Houston recalls getting a phone call from Perry one month before the election, asking if he could stop by and visit. Ellis, an active Sharp supporter, says he postponed the visit three times, but when the meeting finally occurred, Perry told him, "I know you are on the other side. I know there are some things that have been said that are partisan. But I think I'm gonna win, and I've been told you are someone I need a relationship with." And, Ellis adds, Perry said the partisanship would end the day after the election.
The day after the election Perry called Ellis again and invited him to meet with him in Austin. What Ellis supposed would be fifteen minutes of polite chitchat turned into an hour-long discussion: "We talked about our families and issues that are important to him and me. He talked about tax cuts and vouchers. I talked about tax cuts for working people and the Hope scholarship program. We got off to a good start."
Early in the session, Perry demonstrated his willingness to wield power by stripping two Democrats of their committee chairmanships (Ellis kept his) and removing members with other chairmanships from the powerful Finance Committee, thereby creating vacancies for his own friends and allies. While some senators in both parties protested, one of the GOP chairs who lost his seat on Finance, David Sibley of Waco, observes, "The Legislature is a shark tank. Every now and then you've got to kill one just to show you won't be trifled with."
The defining moment of Perry's first session presiding over the Senate came on May 14, 1999, the last day, under Senate rules, for bills to emerge from committee. In serious jeopardy was a hate crimes bill sponsored by Ellis in response to the racially motivated dragging death of James Byrd, Jr., in Jasper the previous summer. Republicans opposed the harsher penalties proposed for crimes targeting racial and religious groups, as well as homosexuals. Ellis' bill was stuck in committee, and a group of Democratic senators were threatening to shut down all Senate business with a filibuster to protest its demise. Summoning Ellis to meet with leading Republican senators in his office, Perry began hours of shuttle diplomacy. In the end he failed to produce a compromise, but the discussions allowed emotions to vent and goodwill ultimately to prevail.
Once again Perry had profited from the gift of low expectations. He finished the session with positive reviews from lawmakers, lobbyists, and the press. Even Democrats who lost power under the Perry administration credited him with an evenhanded touch. In a conversation after the Laredo speech, the area's senator, Democrat Judith Zaffirini, said that Perry had worked hard for issues important to her constituents like increased infrastructure funding for the border area. Once riled because Perry had cut her duties as the chairman of the Health and Human Services Committee in half (she got human services; a Republican senator got health), she now says, "We get along fine. He's been accessible."
It has been a long climb for Rick Perry, from outdoor plumbing and home-sewn underwear as a child to one step from the governor's mansion—a background that is almost unthinkable for an urban state governor in the twenty-first century. For the moment, he can do nothing but wait. His immediate fate depends upon what happens to George W. Bush. Perry has made his intention clear to run for governor in 2002, either as the incumbent (if Bush wins) or for the open seat (if Bush serves out his term). His aggressive pursuit of donations has yielded $5 million for his campaign account as of late June. His campaign has planned events this autumn in Houston, Dallas, and Austin. "I'm preparing," Perry says. "I believe in being prepared."In the legislative session that begins in January, he will be under serious scrutiny for the first time in his political life. Bush's three sessions passed without a crisis, but Perry's timing might not be so fortuitous; the former pit bull could be faced with a budget crunch. The minefield of redistricting also awaits, which means that partisan warfare could break out at any time as Republicans try to get solid majorities in both houses and Democrats try to hold on to what they have. Whether he is governor or lieutenant governor, Perry is likely to have a simple legislative program led by improvements in higher-education, an area that was neglected during the Bush years.
Two major obstacles now await Perry. One is the potential challenge from Kay Bailey Hutchison. Many Republicans hope desperately to avoid a GOP primary bloodbath in 2002 between their two most popular officeholders after George W. Bush. But if Perry stumbles during the legislative session and is seen as vulnerable to a Democratic challenge in the governor's race, Hutchison's entry into the primary would be better received. The other obstacle to a smooth session for Perry is a less-than-cordial relationship with Democratic House Speaker Pete Laney. The chilliness dates back to the Speaker's race of 1992, when Perry—then the agriculture commissioner—supported Jim Rudd, his old pit bull chairman, against Laney. Likewise, Perry has sometimes irked Laney by campaigning for Republicans running for state representative, because each Republican elected threatens Laney's base of support in a House where Democrats have a precarious 78-72 majority.
Perry attributes his support for Rudd to loyalty. It is a common thread in his political life; his committee appointments as lieutenant governor rewarded GOP senators who had strongly supported him with chairmanships. On the plane ride home from Laredo, he talked frankly about how his loyalty has sometimes cost him politically, the enmity of Laney being the prime example.
"I've paid a price," he says. It's true: He is regarded as the most partisan of all the GOP statewide officials. But, Perry explains, after switching parties, he felt he needed to establish credibility with his new teammates, so he agreed to help with campaigns. "I had a dilemma," he says. "A lot of people were saying, 'Will you help us?'" To Perry, each invitation was a loyalty test, and he wasn't about to fail. His chief political rival, Hutchison, never had to face that problem. "Kay didn't have to prove any loyalty. She's there. I wasn't."
Perry insists that he has tempered his partisan activities since becoming lieutenant governor because the role requires him to work with Democrats. "I was a lot more partisan as ag commissioner," he says. "In an election, I work hard for my side. After the votes are counted, I say, 'We had an election, now let's go work together.'"
Suddenly he finds the perfect metaphor and leans forward in his seat. "It's like higher education," he says. "In the Capitol, I'm for everybody. On Thanksgiving Day, I'm gonna be for the Aggies."
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