Who Is The Real Reformer?

ERIC DRAPER/POOL/AP
There was much finger-pointing during the Republican debate Tuesday

The harder George W. Bush campaigns these days, the twangier he gets. "What I'm 'a do," he said last week, jutting his jaw in South Carolina, "is remind people about my record--remind people that I'm comin' with a record from outside Washington." But it is a measure of the trouble Bush is in that when he started doing that--unveiling a new slogan, A REFORMER WITH RESULTS--he was trying to climb inside the knight's armor already worn by John McCain. And going after McCain for "passing the plate to lobbyists and special interests" is an odd choice for Bush, the $67 million candidate who refuses to abide by federal fund-raising limits. So by the time Bush hit Newberry, S.C., and started stringing all his favorite phrases into one--"A reformer with results is a conservative who has had compassionate results in the state of Texas"--even some of his supporters had to chuckle. It sounded like prattle, message without meaning--the kind of thing his father would say.

But Bush really does see himself as a reformer. Not on campaign finance--that's just a pose--but on all the other issues he talked about last week: welfare and tort reform, taxes and education. And he really does have a record of reform on those issues, though his results have been mixed. On matters he cares about, Bush has displayed a clear vision and a knack for getting down in the policy weeds that is wholly at odds with his featherweight image. But on other crucial matters--poverty and hunger, the death penalty, gun violence, health insurance for the poor, pollution--Bush has shown little willingness to lead or even think deeply. And sometimes the policies he puts into place are more beneficial to his wealthy campaign contributors than to the people of Texas.

It is, as Bush likes to say, a conservative record--one that assumes that what's good for business is good for Texas--but it is also a substantial one, worthy of more attention than it has received. The Governor's aides hope that by emphasizing the record now, Bush can transform his image from greenhorn and dilettante to Man of Accomplishment. It's late, but they have a shot, because Bush himself is transformed when he talks about Texas; he becomes more relaxed and self-assured than when he's wandering the fields of national policy. During an interview with TIME last month, Bush clearly relished debating his record. Slouching on his bus in a blue satin warmup jacket, he was sharp, combative and a bit relieved to be talking about things he knows inside out. He could tell stories about the leader he believes himself to be: the guy whose magnetism and wit got things done in Austin, and got all those now jittery Republican leaders on board his campaign long before anyone had heard of McCain's Straight Talk Express.

"People say the Texas Governor is a weak position," said Bush, propping his boots on a chair. "Only a weak person makes it a weak position." In fact, the Texas state constitution of 1876 made it weak in order to prevent Reconstruction-era carpetbaggers from wielding too much influence. "The Governor has no power," says Texas house speaker Pete Laney, "except what the legislature gives him or he takes with the force of his own personality." A 1997 study by the University of North Carolina ranked the powers of the office 49th out of the 50 governorships--which makes Texas "a perfectly good training ground for the [weak] Executive power of the presidency," says Bruce Buchanan, professor of government at the University of Texas. As with the President, the Governor's success depends on his use of the bully pulpit and his relationships with legislators. "Bush recognized that," says Laney, "so he wanted to work with us from the get-go."

Bush ran for Governor in 1994 on four reform issues: welfare, public schools, the juvenile-justice system and "frivolous" civil lawsuits. He chose them carefully--all were popular in Texas--but getting them done was no sure thing. To improve his odds, he cultivated relationships with the two Democrats who could make him a success--Laney, a West Texas cotton farmer who controls the house; and Bob Bullock, the profane, driven, endlessly colorful Lieutenant Governor who ran the senate and was the most powerful pol in Texas until shortly before he died last year. The three men would meet for breakfast every Wednesday--first at the Governor's mansion and then, because the food there wasn't greasy enough for Bullock, on his or Laney's turf. Laney remembers giving Bush one simple piece of advice: "You work with us, we'll help make you a good Governor." Before long, Bullock would be calling Bush "the best I've ever seen."

Bush tried to bond with every lawmaker in Texas. By the time he took office, in January 1995, he had met with nearly all the 181 members of the legislature--"the lege," which convenes every other year--asking about their issues, trying to understand their minds and motives: a solid month of virtuoso schmoozing. "For Bush, everything is personal," says Terral Smith, his legislative chief. "He needs to have the personal relationship before the issue comes up." He dropped in unannounced on legislators, gave them nicknames and bear hugs and backslaps, went to pancake dinners and football games in their districts. He wasn't just making nice. He was reminding them that he had a mandate and meant to use it. One lawmaker calls this "a velvet hammer. It's a guy thing."