for governor.”
I could see the political wisdom of this, but my own feeling was that protecting after-school was worth the risk. Losing federal funding would do great damage to a lot of kids. I said to myself, “Let’s not pay attention to politics in this case.”
So we went to Washington in early March to make our case. Our first stop was to see Congressman Bill Young, the powerful Florida Republican who chaired the Appropriations Committee. I’d become good friends with him and his wife, Beverly, because their passion was helping wounded veterans at places like Walter Reed Army Medical Center and Bethesda Naval Hospital. They’d gotten me involved in visiting the hospitals regularly. There were never any cameras or press for these occasions; I went because I loved seeing the young veterans and entertaining them and thanking them for their great work.
When Bonnie and I got to Bill’s office, he was laughing. “Before you say anything, let me tell you a story,” he said. Beverly had come to him the minute she heard about the president’s budget proposal. “What’s the story with the four hundred million that Bush cut out for after-school?” she asked.
Bill said to her, “Well, we’re going to have a debate.”
“Hell no! You are not going to have a debate about this. I’m telling you right now, that money’s back in, do you hear me?”
So Bill assured us that he would do everything he could on our behalf.
Our next stop was Bill Thomas, the Republican congressman from Bakersfield, California, who was the chairman of the House Committee on Ways and Means. He was legendary in Congress for his brains and hot temper. Bonnie and I sat down with him and his top aide and had just begun to chat when he said, “You know, this is our first time meeting, and I don’t know if you want to bullshit for a little while or just get down to it.”
I smiled and said, “Let’s get down to it.”
“I know you’re here to get the money back for after-school,” he said. “That’s done, in. Let’s talk about the recall.”
Then he launched into an analysis about why the Gray Davis recall movement was a phenomenal opportunity for me. “In a normal election, you have to raise at least sixty million dollars,” he said. “Then you have to run in the primary, and since you are such a moderate, you might not even get the nomination, because in Republican primaries it’s mostly the hard-core conservatives who come out to vote.
“But in a recall situation,
I’d assumed that a recall would be just like a normal election. “Let’s back up,” he said and then proceeded to explain how the process worked under California law. If enough voters petition for a recall, the state is required to hold an election within eighty days. The ballot consists of two questions. First, should the governor be recalled? That is a simple yes-or-no choice. Second, if the governor does get recalled, who should replace him? To answer that, the voter chooses one name from a list of citizens who have qualified as candidates. Getting on the list was easy, Thomas explained. Instead of spending millions on a primary, you need to collect only sixty-five signatures and pay a $3,500 fee to enter your name as a candidate. “Of course, that means it’ll be a crowded race,” he said. “It’ll be a madhouse! But the more crowded it gets, the more you have the advantage. Everybody knows you.”
He said he would back me if I ran. But the thing I had to do right now was to step in and be willing to put up a couple of million dollars to collect the necessary signatures to qualify the recall petition. Almost nine hundred thousand signatures were needed under the law, and right now the recall petition was circulating on much too small a scale.
Running for governor of California was not on my list of goals for 2003, of course, but I was fascinated and promised the chairman I’d give it careful thought. Instinctively, though, I knew the strategy he was recommending was wrong for me. If I were to lead the recall, it would seem brazen and disrespectful. After all, we’d just had an election, and Gray Davis had won it fair and square. I could have tried to run against him, but I had to make
Just as the congressmen had promised Bonnie and me, after-school funding was restored as the budget made its way through Congress. And the After-School Summit, held in Washington in early June, produced an important breakthrough. When organizers from around the country pooled their experience, we discovered that after-school programs that included academic as well as physical activities were by far the most effective. From then on, homework help became a key element in the after-school world.
The White House was my final stop while I was in Washington for the summit. Like many of the people who’d worked for the first President Bush, I wasn’t close to his son, but the governor situation in California made me want to touch base with his senior domestic advisor, Karl Rove. I did this because, to everybody’s amazement, the prospect of a recall election that fall suddenly seemed very real. The Gray Davis recall campaign had been energized by Congressman Darrell Issa, a wealthy San Diego Republican who had his eye on becoming governor himself. In May he’d decided to pump almost $2 million of his own money into advertising and signature gathering, which pushed the campaign into high gear. Now it had more than three hundred thousand signatures, while the governor’s popularity continued to sink.
Rove greeted me in the reception area on the second floor of the West Wing and led me to his office, just above the president’s study. We talked for a half hour about the California economy, the Special Olympics, and helping with President Bush’s reelection in 2004. Then I said, “Let me ask you, what do you think will happen with the recall? Issa just put in two million dollars, and the signature gathering is gaining momentum.” I pretended to be innocent. “You’re the master behind getting Bush elected. What is your take on the whole thing?”
“It will never happen,” Rove said. “There will be no recall election. Plus, if there were to be one, I don’t think anyone can unseat Gray Davis.” Before I could ask a question or express my surprise, he went on. “As a matter of fact, we’re already focused on 2006.” Then he stood and said, “Come with me.” He led me down the stairs to the first floor, where, almost like they had choreographed it, Condoleezza Rice came walking toward us from down the hall.
“I have someone here who is interested in running for governor,” Rove said to me, “and I wanted you to meet her because this is our candidate for 2006. You should get to know each other.” He said it smilingly, but it was the kind of smile that meant “Arnold, shit in your pants because this woman is going to trample all over you. There won’t be a recall, the governorship will be up for grabs in 2006, and when 2006 comes,
How could Rove have been so wrong? He was a political genius, and he dismissed me! And he dismissed the recall! I understood why Condi was getting the nod. She’s intellectual, she’s Stanford, she’s the National Security Advisor. I’d heard that story before about 2006. At a Rod Paige education dinner, Maria and I were sitting with a group of Republicans, and a woman turned to me and said, “We’ve gotten the signal from the White House to go with Condi.” So I was aware.
By the time I got home, I told this as a funny story, but at the moment it happened, it stung. “What an asshole,” I thought. But I reminded myself right away, “Actually, this is good! This is one of those situations where someone dismisses you, and you come from behind and surprise the shit out of them.” I never argued with people who underestimated me. If the accent and the muscles and the movies made people think I was stupid, it worked to my advantage.
I didn’t sign any movie contracts that summer. If the governorship really became a possibility, this time I wanted to keep my options open. As the recall movement continued to gain momentum, I kept in touch with my advisors and broadcast to the public that I shared the sentiment behind it. “Our elected leaders will either act decisively, or we will act in their place,” I told the audience at a celebration of the twenty-fifth anniversary of Proposition 13.
I didn’t exactly say I wanted to be governor, but I couldn’t resist leading off my remarks that night with a joke about Gray Davis. “This is really embarrassing,” I said. “I just forgot the name of our state governor. But I know that you will help me recall him.” It got a good laugh. I sent another smoke signal about running by telling the
